I watch Miss Walker; she is very attractive, more than I had first thought, but she seems to be ashamed of her attractiveness, and in feeling so, she decreases it. She holds herself well enough, but she is one of those whose size you cannot determine. She could be my height, but she seems small. As if apologising for taking up as much space as God created her to take up.

As I sit here in my usual black clothing, which I chose to wear some twenty years ago and have rarely wavered from since, I see that we are opposites in some ways and alike in others. Alike in how we may feel about each other, assuming the kiss is anything to go by and that the signals I am now reading are correct. Alike in that we are independent and have our own means of wealth, and alike in that neither of us has need nor, I believe, the desire to marry a man – but we are opposite in every other way. Today, with her dress so pale, we are like ebony and ivory. Precious Miss Walker, ‘of fragile body and mind’ as she was described to me by our mutual friend Mrs Priestley. Fragile mind, as if it should break open any moment and what would be released? Brains or butterflies? I have seen inside a brain and am in awe of its construction; how such an ugly mass can create us as individuals and, in turn, allow us to create and see beauty around us. Beauty that Miss Walker possesses.

I wonder what she sees when she looks at me? Does she look down on Gentleman Jack, as I am called by those who disrespect me? Perhaps I am actually flattered by the name, that I should become enough of a man in their eyes to be in need of a name to explain it. Has she even heard this name, I wonder? I bet her nosy aunt would be ashamed to be associated with Gentleman Jack. But if she were, she would not have visited again surely? They cannot know of it. It is a shame we both share the same Christian name of Anne. It will be strange if we become close that we will call each other by our own names, the only difference being that my Anne has an ‘e’. But for now, as society dictates, she will remain Miss Walker to me, and I Miss Lister to her.

I think I shall take the name Gentleman Jack as mine. Privately, as we sit listening to our aunts talk nonsense, we catch each other’s eyes again and I imagine her naked on top of me as I lie in my bed, her hair loose and free from its curls. She looks at me and whispers, my Gentleman Jack, and then leans down to press her lips hard against mine.