“Honestly, you would think they would have more important topics to write about than what gown I wore to what ball, who I danced with, and whether or not my dance card was full.”

“Now you have a taste of what my life has been like since childhood, living in the full glare of public scrutiny. It is why I make a point of always being perfectly turned out. One never knows who is watching.”

“Well, I’m not used to it and frankly don’t welcome the attention. At home in Dalkeith my only audience is a herd of cud-chewing cows.”

Louise giggled. “I’m not sure the gentlemen of the press would welcome the comparison.”

“Seriously, though, I have had scarce a moment to myself since I came to town. I have to change my toilette for every engagement, sometimes three or four times a day, and the Season doesn’t even start properly until after Easter.”

“I know you’re dreading it, M., but I wish I could have a proper debut. I would have loved to have my own coming-out ball, but the queen refused point-blank to consider opening the ballroom at Buckingham Palace.”

“Oh, Lou.” Margaret reached across the table to touch her friend’s hand in sympathy, thus committing two social gaffes at once. “Is there no sign of Her Majesty casting off her mourning?”

“Quite the contrary.” Louse contemplated the thin slice of bread and butter on her plate, then decided against taking a bite, instead helping Margaret to a second piece of cake. “Almost every single day since Papa died, Mama tells us that she longs to join him. We live on tenterhooks, for almost everything we say makes her weep—honestly, Margaret, you’d think that laughing was a cardinal sin. And when the queen is not wishing she were dead, I swear she is determined to make everyone around her die of boredom. Were it not for my sculpture lessons with Mary Thornycroft, I think I would go quite mad. I feel sorry for Mama, truly I do, but she is such tedious company, and she seems quite oblivious to the fact that Lenchen and I are no longer children but young women.”

“Goodness yes, your sister Helena is older than me.”

“She’s almost nineteen.” Louise pushed her own tea-cup to one side and picked up her sketchbook, idly flicking through the pages. “Last month we were invited to a fancy dress ball at Claremont. Lenchen and I were so excited, until we found out it was a children’s ball, and Arthur was to attend with us. We made the best of it. I wore a gown in the French style from Louis Quinze. White silk looped over pink and white satin petticoats. Naturellement, I designed it myself.”

“Naturally,” Margaret agreed. “And naturally, you were the belle of the ball.”