“Good luck!” Artemisia called after the departing carriage. “Knock ‘em dead! And don’t forget to write!”

Marianne shot Artemisia a strange look at her language, but didn’t say anything.

Oops. The language is pretty casual despite the realistic setting – probably because the author couldn’t be bothered to go to the effort – but more modern or slangy terms are still weird, it seems.

Only the duchess had turned up to see Hansel off. Christopher and Emile had come by before Artemisia for a quick goodbye before heading out for the day, but the duke had not shown his face at all. Hansel seemed unbothered, but Artemisia had noticed his eyes flitting about, as if Hesperus might come rushing down the front steps to wish him goodbye.

Artemisia hadn’t wanted to ask in front of him, but now Hansel’s carriage was trundling down the road to the main gates of the estate, she turned to Marianne. “Where’s father? Is he busy?”

Marianne gave Artemisia a startled look. “You know that – ah, no, you do not.”

“What?” Artemisia asked. “What do I not know?”

Marianne raised a hand to her forehead, looking very stressed all of a sudden. “Please don’t ask me to explain right this moment, dear. You’ll understand soon.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I have duties to attend to. I’ll see you at dinner, Arte.” Marianne hurried into the manor, escaping before Artemisia had the chance to call after her.

What in the world does she mean by that?

Artemisia sighed frustratedly, before wandering a little way down the driveway. It wasn’t as warm as it was yesterday, and some clouds building in the distance suggested rain later, but if she went inside she would have little to do but sit in her room and think, or attempt one of the activities that the original Artemisia had excelled at.

I might as well enjoy the solitude whilst I can get it. Elise dogs my every step most of the time.

This part of the gardens was mostly gravel paths around hedges and flowerbeds, with the odd carefully placed ornamental tree. With the summer finishing, the bulk of the flowers had gone to seed, but the odd late bloomer still flourished.

Artemisia was admiring some delicate blue flowers when she heard gravel crunch underfoot.

It was one of the gardeners, a middle-aged man dressed in plain brown clothes. “My lady,” he said, putting down his tools and bowing.

“Please, ignore me,” Artemisia said with a wave of her hand. “I’m only looking around. Treat me as if I’m not here.”

“Oh, but I could never do that, my lady,” the man said, looking uncomfortable. “It would be terribly rude of me. I’ll come back later, once you’ve seen your fill of the garden.”

“Ah, no, I’ll go!” Artemisia fluttered her hands about and hurried off. “Sorry for getting in your way!”

The gardener stared after her, flabbergasted.

Argh! I failed at acting like a lady again… damn! Embarrassed, Artemisia fled deeper into the gardens, beyond the carefully curated flowerbeds and into the wilder parts… or the parts designed to look wild, more like.

She slowed down on a winding path below tall deciduous trees, spreading oaks and elms creating a thick shadow.

“I can’t do this…” Artemisia looked down, curling her hands into fists.

I’ve got no idea how to act, how to behave, how to carry myself! How am I supposed to pretend to be this person I don’t understand at all! All the transmigrated leads always seem to adapt without much trouble, but I just can’t get the hang of it.

I feel so out of place… I want to go home.

Despite her distress, Artemisia couldn’t bring herself to cry. She’d never been the sort to cry easily, or at least the person she’d been before hadn’t, and it had carried over into her new self.

Who am I, even? I’m not who I was, and I’m not Artemisia, even though I kind of am now… this is all so confusing.

Artemisia kept walking so she didn’t curl up into a little ball, not looking ahead, but down at her shoes, following the path. They were delicate little slip-ons, not really designed for tramping about like this. And she knew Elise wouldn’t say anything about it when she got back in, only look at them and bite her lip, too scared of the original Artemisia to chastise her.

I thought I had begun to adapt, but it seems not. Hah! What a failure of a female lead am I. Such a small issue sends me spiralling into anxiety.

Suddenly, she stepped out of the shadow and into the light. Without realising it, she’d left the forested area and entered a clearing, a small lake in the centre. The surface rippled in a light wind, but she could imagine when it was still, the lake would act as a perfect mirror to the sky above.

This must be the eastern edge of the grounds, and this the lake where they went to watch the meteor shower. It’s definitely a scenic spot, and the lights from the house would be obscured… not that light pollution really exists in this era – they don’t even have electricity yet.

It must be absolutely incredible for stargazing. I haven’t been outside at night, but I’ll have to remedy that. I wonder what the constellations will look like. Probably not the same, since this is a fictional world, but there could be some similarities.

The thought of the stars occupied Artemisia’s thoughts as she circled the lake and by the time she had completed a circuit, her dark mood had somewhat cleared.

Looks like all I needed was a distraction.

She took a deep sigh and made a determined expression.

I’ve got this. I’ve got to make the most with what I’ve got. I’ve got the amnesia as an excuse for acting strange, and I’ve mentioned before that I’m “on a mission of self discovery”.

Artemisia chuckled. What I need to do right now is learn. Learn as much as I can.

Re-energised, Artemisia started on her way back to the house, intending to ply a certain person for as much information as possible. After all, she’d already offered her services.

The next few days passed in a blur of study. Artemisia’s target had been surprisingly eager to help… almost too eager.

“Not that spoon, the other one!” scolded Emile, rapping Artemisia’s hand.

Artemisia winced apologetically and put down the offending spoon. When she had burst into Emile’s room and asked her to assist her in “recovering” the skills of a noble lady, Emile had taken no convincing. In fact, she’d jumped at the chance, and to Artemisia’s delight, she was a brilliant – if not rather strict – teacher.

Artemisia had thrown herself into the rules of noble society, enjoying the chance to put aside her worries for a time.

Today, they were working on table etiquette, and Artemisia’s mind was a-whirl with new information.

There are just so many utensils, and so many of them look almost identical! There’s a soup spoon, a dessert spoon, steak knives, butter knives, other types of knives…

“You know, you’re doing extremely well,” Emile said, apparently noticing Artemisia’s despondent expression. “You might only be revising what you’ve already learnt, but still, I never thought we could have covered so much in such a short time.”

Artemisia tucked a stray curl behind her ear, feeling unreasonably pleased by Emile’s compliment. I’m a full grown adult, I shouldn’t be so easily flattered.

“So, this little scalloped one is the sugar spoon?” she asked, holding up the spoon in question.

“Correct. What’s this one?” Emile pointed to a similarly shaped one.

“Oh, that’s–” Artemisia was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a servant.

“What is it?” Emile asked, tapping her fingers on her arm.

“Excuse me, but the duke has requested the presence of Lady Artemisia in his study.”