O jornal

A Duke’s funeral, one would presume, should be a sombre and sober occasion. The laying-to-rest of our late Duke Donovan Summer, however, proved such presumptions flawed — Twillford society, by and large, evinced a festive comportment more typically reserved for audiences of circus shows.

Certainly, none of the young ladies in attendance appeared particularly grieved at the loss of Duke Donovan. Although eyes were dutifully dabbed, and sighs were solemnly soughed, the maidenly contingent seemed much more preoccupied with the deceased’s handsome heir.

Duke Hassan Summer is, after all, now conspicuously in want of a Duchess.

Suffice to say, he shan’t suffer any dearth of applications for that role. Before his uncle’s coffin had even reached the soil, the new Duke found himself positively beset with young ladies.

Foremost amongst the aspirants was Prudence Mortimer, who arrived garbed in the most outrageous [a cor que você mais usou no vestido de Flamboyant Funeral] dress. While she undoubtedly drew the Duke’s notice, it is unclear if her flagrant flouting of decorum won her any measure of his affection. Certainly, his relations were far from impressed by Miss Prudence’s antics.

A fine sporting performance is a marvellous sight to behold, while a poor one nonetheless supplies bountiful amusement. Therefore, the annual Twillford Woman’s Sporting Day Contest consistently provides cause for good cheer\: if one does not witness a feat of athletic brilliance, one is at least assured the pleasure of a spectacular failure.

This year’s field did not disappoint. While there was, admittedly, a surplus of middling performers, the contest also boasted unexpected jewels of both bravura and ineptitude.

Who would have credited it? It transpires that Prudence Mortimer is a near-unparalleled sportswoman. More commonly witnessed partaking in social teas and extolling the virtues of upright posture, if Miss Prudence’s participation came as a surprise, her aptitude proved an outright shock. Where has the lady developed her seemingly indefatigable endurance? From whence came her lithe strength and agility?

Observing Miss Prudence, many an enraptured lady found themselves in sudden need of a silk fan — as though the heat of her exertions were transmitted by an intangible conduit. A most curious phenomenon.

However, when it seemed all but certain that Miss Prudence would win the day, a mysterious new competitor entered the field. Bearing the unusual name of ‘Adora Thimblethread’ and gorgeously dressed for the occasion, the young woman moved with singular focus and determination as she decimated the competition. What a vision of well-dressed athleticism!

Against such fierce competitors, poor Alice Wren stood little chance of prevailing. Swiftly, it became apparent that Miss Alice was not made for speed, stamina, or strength. One might hazard that she was instead made, primarily, for tripping over minor obstacles and taking fright at loud noises.

One would think the sister of a duke might partake of less controversial occupations, but Lady Priya Summer never ceases to eschew convention. Her latest exhibition of paintings was unveiled at the Twillford Gallery this week, and is sure to affirm her burgeoning reputation as a pioneer of the floralescent movement…and as a disreputable woman within mannered society.

Truth be told, there is something rather febrile in the Lady’s brushstrokes, an unmistakeable and volatile passion present even in the smallest details. One cannot imagine any future husband would approve of such public indiscretion; such wanton expression of feeling verges upon the indecent.

Nevertheless, one must admire—nay envy—the loveliness of the Lady’s eveningwear. Lady Priya arrived in a truly resplendent dress, appearing like the figure from a romantic ballad in her [a cor que você mais usou no vestido de Exhibition Opening] [o tipo de tecido que você mais usou no vestido de Exhibition Opening], and prompting wistful sighs from jealous onlookers.

The exhibition proved well-attended too, as if full half the town suddenly fancied themselves veritable connoisseurs of the arts.

Industry and commerce are scarcely one’s favourite objects of conversation, both involving, one would assume, an unseemly abundance of tiresome mathematics. Nevertheless, the boisterous bustle of trade at this month’s Market Fair proved surprisingly invigorating.

A great variety of foodstuffs were available for sampling and sale. Many a stall featured a youth sporting a dolorous expression and a tray of cut fruits. Here, one might be provisioned with a dear little fork, and permitted to nibble upon a slice of strawberry or a segment of satsuma. Delightful! A great inducement to shop! One approves most heartily of this new practice.

One would further assert that no stall at the fair was better provisioned than that belonging to Fiona Trussard. While Mrs Fiona is new to Twillford, one ardently hopes she never departs. Her turnips are to die for, her cabbages beyond compare.

She is also to be commended for her bold instinct for fashion. Truly, who would have thought to promote one’s wares with one’s own dress? These modern promotional methodologies are most ingenious. Mrs Fiona’s dress looked every part as delectable as her vegetables.

It is well understood by learnéd minds that moderate physical exertion is of tremendous import to the balancing of the bodily humours. Thus, it is only proper that a healthy lady might be permitted to partake of a stimulating stroll.

It likewise follows that a pleasant environ can only enhance the benefits of such exercise. The breathing of good vapours, and the imbuement of lovely sights and sounds, is certain to have a restorative influence, brightening the eyes and lifting the spirits. As such, the re-opening of the Twillford Hedge Maze last week is indubitably a cause for celebration.

But stranger things were afoot than Miss Alice. Dorothy Parker, Twillford’s ardent birder, was sighted in the most curious of dresses — she seemed, by her attire and posture, to be intent on imitating shrubbery.

Ah, springtime! The promise of blooming flowers, frolicking lambs, and burgeoning romance. Is there any better season for gossip? One thinks not!

And oh, the Spring Fete! After a long winter and a dearth of parties, one is left near giddy from the sheer abundance of glamour and delight. All the ladies turn out in their fresh gowns, glittering and gay, and infect the very air with good cheer.

However, the jewel of the evening was undoubtedly Marie Laroche. Her dress was marvellous, and the very essence of springtime romantic grace. None could take their eyes off the young lady; a palpable hush fell over the hall when she walked through the doors.

If his stupefied expression at the sight of Miss Marie was any indication, one might be led to suspect that Duke Hassan shan’t remain unattached for very much longer…

One is given to understand that people may possess varied proclivities, but, for the life of one, one cannot comprehend an obsession with domestic animals that would result in a Pet Show.

Does one wish to gaze upon another dreary terrier, or saturnine budgerigar, or quiversome rabbit? No. No, one does not care one jot for such beasts. They BORE one. One is not even permitted to pet them!

What, one asks, is the point of a pet show without any petting?

However, as one has obligingly already stated, people possess varied proclivities, and some, doubtless, appreciate the opportunity to sit within a small hall and smell the animals.

Surely no one in Twillford has failed to hear the news, but one is nevertheless compelled to proclaim it — the Duke has finally wed his Duchess!

Undoubtedly, the proposal came as the most exciting revelation of the season. The town had been abuzz with rumours for weeks, but the confirmation of Duke Hassan’s engagement to Marie Laroche produced a heretofore unrivalled fracas.

This wedding, it was agreed, would be surpassingly spectacular. The décor, the food, the fashion? Many a lady grew overwhelmed at the mere imagining of such glorious splendour.

And yet the real event still surpassed all expectations. Miss Marie’s wedding dress was radiant. Resplendent! Remarkable! Words fail one, but the [a cor que você mais usou no vestido de Marie's Wedding] gown was quite possibly the finest article of clothing one has ever had the privilege to look upon. Miss Marie herself appeared the very picture of regal grace, and Duke Hassan bore the mildly baffled expression of a man encountering his own personal miracle.

That is, at least until the arrival of Prudence Mortimer.

While it cannot be said that Miss Prudence ever possessed an aversion to scandal, her arrival at the wedding beggared the question of whether she had, in fact, lost her mind entirely. Bad enough to show her face in such an obvious state of ill-humour and bitter animosity—all knew she coveted the Duke’s hand for herself—but to comport herself in such an outrageous dress? Beyond the pale!

Her disgraceful appearance dragged the Mortimer name into the mud of disrepute. Did she think to tempt the Duke at the very altar with her salacious display? Thankfully, Lady Priya acted swiftly, and removed the recalcitrant hussy from the ceremony afore either the Duke or his bride witnessed any rude antics.

One can only imagine that is the last we shall see of Prudence Mortimer in polite company! Good riddance, one says.

In the search of print-worthy truths, one is frequently required to go to unusual lengths and partake of unconventional methods. Thus, one might, for example, find oneself crouched within a thorn bush in the middle of the night, peering between the leaves to observe the attendees of a stargazing party.

One is saying, in brief, that such an exercise is very cold, dim, and unpleasant, and entirely too full of insects (some of which bite one!) and one trusts that one’s reader greatly appreciates all that one does for the sake of acquiring interesting gossip for their gentle perusal.

While it is challenging to observe the finer points of dress and decorum under such conditions, one did see a great deal of activity upon the darkened hillside.

Shortly thereafter, Lady Vivian Duskbourne passed by one’s bush. A dreadfully frightening sight! While the lady certainly wore a becoming dress, she possessed a most fearsome energy and a mien that betokened imminent violence. One stayed very still and very quiet until one was very sure that Lady Vivian had departed.

After such a shock, one contemplated departing for home. (One had already suffered enough, one thought.) But as one was on the verge of committing to such a course, Prudence Mortimer happened by. As Miss Prudence is inevitably one’s surest source of scandal, one was persuaded to remain embushed.

Miss Prudence took a short, solitary stroll, and then sat upon a flat rock just below the summit of the hill. She seemed immensely melancholy…as well a disreputable hussy should! One can report that her posture was not remotely up to standard.

One was once again on the verge of departing (for watching Miss Prudence sit was less engaging than one had hoped, and one was also quite sure that something unwholesome had crawled into one’s shoe) when one sighted Lady Priya Summer climbing the hill.

Poor Lady Priya did not notice Miss Prudence until she was almost upon the wretch. After Miss Prudence’s behaviour at the Duke’s wedding, one would have assumed Lady Priya would want nothing to do with such a person. Thus one was rather surprised when the good Lady joined Miss Prudence upon her flat rock. The pair spoke for a very long time, but one could not hear their correspondence from one’s vantage.

All one can report is that, when Miss Prudence finally left the rock, Lady Priya appeared tremendously hurt.

What could be more romantic, more thrilling, more glamorous, than a masquerade? A costumed soiree permits the free expression of one’s creativity, grants permission for a degree of extravagance and whimsy ill-suited to the more humdrum party.

That is why, one believes, the Summer Ball is the most wonderful night of the social calendar.

It is of no import that the masks of the revellers do little to conceal their identities. A painted beak or horn cannot obscure, for example, Miss Rita’s distinctive freckling or Mr Benjamin’s telltale odour. However, so long as participants are willing to pretend at ignorance, the magic of the game endures.

Forgive one, then, for the laying aside of this cherished pretence, but one must—one simply must!—write of the gown of Miss Alice Wren.

In the past, one has dwelt on Miss Alice’s various ineptitudes, primarily those of a physical nature. And yet, at the Ball, she exhibited no trace of clumsiness, no sign of uncertainty, confusion, or apprehension. Miss Alice, instead, exuded a self-assurance and poise that commanded the attention of the entire room. Her raven-themed costume was every part as glossy and darkly magnificent as one might have hoped. Certainly, it was the most gorgeous dress of any lady in attendance.

Further, Miss Alice seemed so content within herself, so enviably confident and unapologetic. One is divided between describing her demeanour as fearless or simply…settled.

Regardless, it attracted many admirers that evening. One ventures that this new confidence shall win Miss Alice a plenitude of friends, and one finds oneself unexpectedly pleased on her behalf.

To the delight of all and sundry, one can confirm that Edith Swan has returned from her artistic hiatus! Just this week, she graced the Twillford stage, putting on an unforgettable performance that thrilled existing supporters and newcomers alike.

Forsooth, no one sings like our dear Edith! She commanded the theatre as Queen Portia, enflaming the spirits of her rapt audience. Such passion, such zeal! One felt that one needed to hold fast to one’s seat, or risk being swept away by such a tour de force.

And such a costume! One might have wept. The [a cor que você mais usou no vestido de Another Encore] gown must have been conjured from a dream. Where does Mrs Edith find such dresses?

From the rising of the curtain until the final encore, the audience simply adored her. None seemed more glad of her success, however, than Fiona Trussard and Dorothy Parker, who, one is given to understand, are Mrs Edith’s dearest friends.

For months, the air of the town has swirled with fearful rumours regarding the mysterious disappearance of Princess Sophie Vasar. A week past, such speculation was finally put to rest — the royal palace joyfully pronounced that the Princess had been found unharmed, and that her ascendance to the throne would proceed unimpeded.

One was relieved to hear of this news, and thrilled for the opportunity to attend the coronation of Hemstitch’s new monarch. In truth, one knows little of the young ruler. Her public appearances have been few, and, as per royal tradition, Princess Sophie has always remained masked and veiled before her polity. Is it any surprise, then, for her to be the object of intense curiosity?

Well, one still has not beheld her face, but in every other respect, one finds Princess Sophie worthy of her new throne. Her coronation was both stately and spectacular, and the Princess addressed those in attendance with a profound, articulate, and compassionate intelligence. One would vouch that she shall not be found wanting, nor disappoint her people.

It goes without saying that her dress was magnificent. Description shall do it no justice; her vestments seemed almost to possess a mystical power. The Princess veritably glowed as she was crowned Queen.

While most could not hope to hold a candle before such radiance, Marie Laroche — Twillford’s new Duchess and renowned diplomat — certainly made a valiant showing. One was pleased to see her in attendance with her husband. Our Diplomat Duchess has a refinement and style that few can aspire to emulate, and which shall be sorely missed as she ventures forth to represent the nation’s interests in Cambric. One hopes she shall not remain abroad too long.

One did note, in passing, the strange absence of the Duke’s sister. Lady Priya Summer would ordinarily be expected to attend such an important event, and one wonders what may afflict her.

One finds oneself dwelling, in recent days, on the joy of a kept secret. One’s reader might think, “why, is this not antithetical to one’s habitual purpose, when one’s writing fearlessly seeks to illuminate and uncover?” To which one might humbly rejoin that one can contain multitudes.

Besides which, what thrill does gossip possess if it is known by all? A happy secret, a private covenant, transforms one into a link within a chain — enjoins one to a small and precious community of fellow confidence-holders. One is made rarefied by privileged knowledge, and lessened by its disclosure.

So, contrary to one’s nature, one shall not be careless with this particular secret.

One will only say—with the utmost circumspection!—that one has been given cause to regret one’s unkind treatment of Miss Prudence Mortimer. One wishes her to know that one is sorry for one’s harsh words, and gladdened of her newfound happiness. One trusts her days shall henceforth be garlanded with flowers.

One is likewise pleased to hear of the much-improved spirits of the town’s finest painter, Lady Priya Summer. One hopes that she perceives the number of residents who worried after her health, and understands that Twillford is dimmed in the absence of her colour and light. One trusts that her nights shall henceforth be illuminated by starshine.

One shall stay one’s pen here, and wish one’s reader well until the delivery of our next dispatch. Until then, may we all celebrate the flowers and the stars, and the small secret miracles that blossom unseen around us.