[Anne Bromley [Crystal-lee]]

A leather bound book with the initials A.B. guilded on its cover rests in the top drawer of the writing desk in Anne's study.

[Anne Bromley [Crystal-lee]]

Anne sat perched upon a plush deep emerald green chair in her study, a piece of fine paper laid out before her - the ink staining its surface in loops and swirls as she wrote.

She was dressed in slender legged black striped breeches and a double breasted waist coat over a white shirt and black vest.

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The Seventh of April, 1811.

Another Sunday service has passed and somehow it all seems less cold than it has been. As usual I am fixed with hardened glances from most members of the ton but somehow I fear it less. If I could only stress to them that it could as well have been their names in the Tatler in place of mine. But this is an entirely hypothetical and useless thought.

Bea accepted an invitation on my behalf to the young Lady Julianne's debut and I was not so quick as to decline. I know I cannot face a room full of my peers who at one time respected me and held me in high regard and have now tossed me to the wolves - so to speak. I have verbally declined attending but I shall send my card around to Raulings House this afternoon, or by tomorrow certainly.

I have asked the Countess of Carrington to sit for my latest marble sculpture. I have not received an answer but I do hope it is a positive one when it comes. There is something I find so intriguing about her but I've not quite been able to see exactly what it is. Perhaps I feel as though I can look upon her as an equal for she has suffered a similar fate to mine. And she is so much younger. If anything I am very glad this hadn't happened to me earlier. I know it shall pass - that eventually it shall fade from remembrance with the latest scandal and I shall be welcomed back - but I can't know when. And though I don't rely on the ton for my happiness, it is all I've known.

If the Countess declines my offer I shall sculpt the Duchess of Cornwall for she has already asked to be my subject on several accounts and she is quite lovely. My only hesitation is that I simply don't see the inner life that one requires in works like this.

Either way I am most certain that the exhibition at the Royal Academy in the summer season shall do a world of good for me and my work. I am anxious for the opening and yet I've not even started the piece.

~A
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[Anne Bromley [Crystal-lee]]

Anne put down the last of her correspondence and tucked it neatly in a small box of letters on top of her desk. She drew her hard covered journal towards her and flipped it open to the next blank page, pressing her quill tip to the paper.

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The Eighth of April, 1811

What a day this has been! I almost do not know where to begin. Evening last, the Countess of Carrington called. She has received permission to sit for the bust I am to create and has agreed to do so. I was so thrilled that early this morning I went and saw Andrew Andrews. He has agreed to go to Tuscany for me - to Carrara and acquire a large block of white marble. The whitest anyone has seen in London, I dare say.

It was that errand that drew me to Madame Lambert's shop this morning where I ran in to the Marquess of Emerson, Blake Pritchard. He was very kind and very chivalrous in his defense of a lady's honor. If the rumors are true - then he is one of the world's greatest courtiers I've yet to encounter. He was entirely pleasant and went so far as to offer me his first dance at Almack's on Wednesday. Yes indeed, I have been obliged to attend though I had initially decided against it. I am actually looking forward to it now - far more than I ever thought I would.

David Boyd, my dear friend, has sent two letters around today. He has asked me to dine at his home with several close friends and I am very eager to attend this as well. I have let Beatrice know and she is also quite happy to be there although she will have to leave early for her performance this evening.

I am also attending the theatre after our supper at David's and I wonder if I might convince him to come with me. I am sure Beatrice will do the convincing if I am not up to it. She is always quite good at getting her way.

What a day, indeed.

~A
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[Anne Bromley [Crystal-lee]]

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The Ninth of April, 1811

My mind is spinning so quickly out of control, I fear it is barely stoppable. I have had an evening like no other and this morning, I am uncertain whether it is satisfaction I feel or regret.

I met up with the Marquess of Emerson, Blake Pritchard, at the theatre, evening last. Beatrice's current play was wonderful and her performance absolutely dead on as usual. It was quite dramatic and had many people talking, in a very good way, about her talents. It was difficult, however, to keep my thoughts specifically on my sister - with the Marquess as a welcome distraction.

I blush hotly at the cheeks to even write this. I am not certain what it is that has drawn me to the Marquess. I wonder if it is perhaps his attitude towards me. He is so kind and caring. He notices everything. He escorted me to my box, and sat with me for the duration of the show. He was so kind to offer me a carriage ride afterwards to Vauxhall Gardens. He kissed me there. A Marquess, handsome and sought after - kissed me. And he did not stop kissing me until we were interrupted by another pair, out for a morning walk.

My heart was beating so fast in my chest I feared it taking flight entirely. We returned to Beaconsfell and he came inside. I do not know why I asked him. Is it not strange that I feel I must lie, even to the pages of my diary - a diary that I alone shall read? I do know why I asked him. I asked him because I wanted him. And I wanted him in many ways than I know he wanted me.

To my surprise, Beatrice was there. She had stopped by, concerned when I had not greeted her after the show in her dressing room as promised. She saw Blake. Dear me, she saw him - and she spoke to him. They had words, of that I am certain. Beatrice came to me and told me that she would not force me to agree with her, but that she would have no part in seeing me ruined by a man ' like him'.

But dear Beatrice... I am already ruined. I see no further down may I fall.

I invited Blake to my room then. The Marquess even entered my bedchamber. I knew what I was going to do and I still, prepared to do it. When he was there, I felt different somehow. I saw something in his eyes. He was so kind, so convincing that I had every right to make the decision. He gave me too many opportunities to withdraw my invitation. I knew that he wanted our friendship more than he wanted me as a man wants a woman.

I know now, that when he looks at me - like the others do - he sees a woman in men's clothing - an artist with rough hands. He does not see a woman, screaming and begging to let reason be shown to the front cobbles. He went away, simply - quietly. His invitations, still stand. I declined the morning carriage ride. It seems rather silly now that we have shared each other in rather intimate ways - despite not making use of our opportunity.

It angers me that I see something in him. I see something in his eyes that seems to tell me he feels the way I do. It is as if there is no other way he can feel when we were together. But perhaps, I have overlooked that he is Elise's guardian. And one good favor for a ward might be all he was willing to do.

It was after all only one evening.

I feel that I must decide before too late this evening if I am to attend Almack's tomorrow. My name has appeared in print yet again this morning, Lucille has quietly told me. There was no doubt it would appear next to the Marquess' after his public displays of kindness towards me. This season will be a prosperous one for Blake and I should not think so selfishly to be blind to the mark I put on his name.

I have several hours to decide. I only wish I could convince myself that I had reason.

~A
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[Anne Bromley [Crystal-lee]]

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The Tenth of April, 1811.

This night, I attended Almack's on the Marquess of Emerson's promised arm and I was much obliged to him for his brief companionship. He was kind as was his mother too, to be so open towards me and to have made me feel welcome on this interesting attempt at self-courage.

I have failed.

After the dance was over, I thanked the Marquess for his kindness and exited the ballroom. Then I climbed the steps into my waiting carriage and did not look back as it rolled away from the evening festivities, drawing me back to my safe haven - to my home.

It is a pity that Beatrice's dress was only visible for a small time and on a frame as thin as my own - which did little to show off its loveliness. I am certain she will have use for it soon.

I do hope I have managed to keep out of the Tatler, and I imagine I was successful. For amongst the lovely debutantes, I was a mere rusted copper in a pocket of King's silver - and I was grateful for minimal attention. I do not feel I can return to Almack's again, and I feel it best that I devote the season to my sculpture which will become my earth, my water, my air.

I do not imagine I shall hear much from the Marquess again after his good deed at bringing me out with him. I believe him to be a good man, and I believe he was kind - as kind as he dared be in allowing me to feel as though I was company worth keeping. I will respect him for his favour and I will respect him for his kindness.

That day was vivid and unexpected. An anomaly in the gentle cadence of my life and although I am grateful for its existence, I understand it to be exactly as it was - fleeting.

Life, is as it should be. I am, as I should be.

~A
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[Anne Bromley [Crystal-lee]]

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The Fourteenth of April, 1811.

I have not written in days because I have not had much to recount. It is as simple as that. Or perhaps that is what I wish to be true and which is not true in the slightest manner of truths.

I have not seen the Marquess of Emerson but for a brief carriage ride since the evening at Almack's. We made no plans to meet again, and I am not certain if he will ever again call upon me. What is more, I am almost certain that this should not bother me in the slightest. But, what is certain and what is, have never been distinctions in my life.

I have been to the gallery and met some individuals of interest, though I had only stumbled upon them and had been awkward in their presence. I have notably declined two invitations to separate soirees, including that of the Emerson's. I sent my apologies quite late and I know I was wrong in doing so but I could not do it this evening.

I could not attend, not knowing she would be there.

She sent a package this morning to me. There has been nothing, no word for months perhaps even a year - then today, a package. A fob-watch, neat, slender and feminine. She knows me too well.

It sits not inches from this page, still in the paper it came in resting in its box. I know it is polite to return word that I have received it, but I find my quill stills on the page and the ink blotches and stains and never does form a single letter.

Why is it I can speak so freely here and never anywhere else?

Am I destined to share my love, my life and my every being with leather, paper and marble?

Am I but the product of my work?

~A
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