Ladies, we assemble today to forge ourselves into women of ironclad poise and unyielding spirit. Society demands we glide through life with elegance, yet beneath our skirts beats a heart fierce and wild. This manual lays bare the rules of etiquette, the steel of attitude, and the sly art of taming those heated urges—along with the practicalities of bathing and the revelry of play. Radical? Perhaps, but a lady thrives by bending the world to her will, not breaking beneath it.

We scorn the notion that a lady exists only to be seen and not heard. She commands rooms with a glance, cuts through nonsense with a word, and wrestles her own nature into submission. Her polish masks a rebel soul, one that smokes if she damn well pleases—more on that later. Let us plunge into this fiery creed, step by bold step.

Five pillars rise before us: etiquette to dazzle, attitude to conquer, restraint to master urges, cleanliness to renew, and play to defy the dour. Each demands sweat and swagger, from the tilt of your hat to the scrub of your skin. Examples—sharp, real, and raw—will light your way. Gird yourselves, for this is no timid stroll.

First, we tackle the etiquette that turns heads without a shout. A lady’s manners carve her place in the world. She wields them like a blade, precise and fearless. Here we go.

Etiquettes That Slash Through

Society sizes a lady up by how she moves through it. She sits ramrod straight at the tea table, knees locked, sipping her Earl Grey without a slurp—spill a drop, and Mrs. Harrow’s eyebrow arches like a guillotine. Her “please” and “thank you” ring crisp, even to the grocer’s boy who fumbles her change. Elbows stay off the table, or she risks Aunt Edith’s lecture on “heathen ways.”

Politeness doubles as her armor. She nods to the milkman, though he stinks of curdled cream, and declines Mr. Percy’s dance with a cool “I’m weary tonight.” Hesitation breeds chaos—say it and mean it, or they’ll trample you. Last week, Miss Clara dodged a bore by claiming a sudden chill; he sulked, but she twirled free.

"Who's Your Beau?"

Talk sharpens her edge. She asks Widow Green about her prize roses, steering clear of her own triumphs—bragging’s for mules. Gossip swirls when Mrs. Lyle’s husband staggers home drunk, but she bites her tongue; loose lips sink ships. At the church bazaar, she deflected a nosy “Who’s your beau?” with “Oh, the vicar’s sermon was splendid, wasn’t it?”

Public proves her mettle. She strides down High Street, parasol up, ignoring the butcher’s whistle—let him gawk, she’s no slab of meat. Crowds part when she glides into the haberdashery, calm as a queen. Fall in the mud? She laughs it off, brushes her hem, and buys ribbon anyway.

Attitudes That Forge a Titan

Character fuels a lady’s fire. She waits for the grocer to weigh her flour, lips sealed, though he dawdles like a slug—fretting’s for fools. Problems loom, like when the roof leaks; she grabs a bucket, not a whine. Serenity cloaks her, even as the neighbor’s dog yaps through her nap.

Humility keeps her grounded. She shrugs off Mrs. Tate’s “What a lovely frock!” with “It’s old, but it serves.” Pride tempts her when she wins the pie contest, but she credits the recipe, not her hands. Quiet steel outshines loud bells every time.

Courage flares in her veins. She stares down Mr. Gibbs’s sneer about “women’s place” with “I place myself where I please.” Duty bids her host the sewing circle, though she’d rather nap; she pours tea anyway. Silence stings sharper than shouts—let them squirm.

Flexibility bends her to the wind. She swaps her silk gloves for cotton when the wash needs doing—no fuss. Old ways die hard, but she buys a newfangled vacuum when the broom snaps. Stubbornness cracks; she doesn’t.

Taming the Wild Within

Nature lights a fire in every lady’s belly. She feels it flare when the postman lingers, broad shoulders stretching his jacket. Denial’s a lie—control’s the game. She buries it deep, cool as ice.

Work douses the heat. She kneads dough till her arms ache, or scrubs the hearth black when Mr. Darcy’s smirk dances in her head. Last Tuesday, a flush hit her mid-sewing; she stabbed the needle harder and finished a hem. Idle fingers wander—keep them busy.

Friends snuff the spark. She drags Miss Polly to the park, chattering about hat trims till the ache fades. Alone, she’d stew over the blacksmith’s grin; with Polly, she laughs at geese instead. Company’s a leash on the beast.

Purpose kills the flicker. She recalls her mother’s “Mind your name,” and the heat shrinks—honor trumps a romp. Friday, the vicar’s son brushed her arm; she recited Psalms till it passed. Higher callings crush low cravings.

Scrubbing the Lady Clean

Cleanliness renews her daily. She fills the tin bath with scalding water, steam curling like a dare—cold’s for cowards. Soap—harsh lye, not perfumed fluff—scours her arms till they glow red. Miss Jane tried lavender once; it left her itching, lesson learned.

Routine rules the rite. She dunks her hair in vinegar rinse, yanking tangles with a bone comb—no whining, though it stings. Feet soak in salt, scrubbed with a pumice till calluses flake; last month, a splinter festered, so she digs deeper now. Towels rough as burlap dry her, no dainty patting.

Privacy locks it tight. She bolts the door, lest her male cousin barge in like last summer—his blush still haunts her. Nakedness stays hers alone; she hums hymns to drown the creaking house. Solitude guards her ritual.

Economy stretches the bath. She saves the water for laundry, gray but warm—waste insults thrift. Sunday, she boiled extra for her stockings; Monday, they gleamed. Every drop counts, or she’s no lady at all.

Two Ladies at Play

Ladies revel in pairs, defiance in their glee. She grabs Miss Ruth, and they race bicycles down the lane, skirts hiked, laughing at Farmer Brown’s gape. Cards slap the table—gin rummy, stakes a penny—till midnight; Ruth’s bluff lost her a shilling once. Play snarls at propriety’s chains.

Mischief spices it up. They sneak to the orchard, pilfer apples, and crunch them under the moon—caught once, they blamed foxes. Last June, they swam the creek, petticoats sodden, giggling at the parson’s shock. Rules bend when they conspire.

Camaraderie fuels the romp. She bets Ruth can’t climb the oak; Ruth scrapes her knee but crows from the top. Together, they mock Mrs. Finch’s sermons over tea—alone, it’s dull. Sisterhood turns games to gold.

Freedom crowns their sport. They dodge the “shoulds”—no sewing, no simpering—and steal hours for their own. Saturday, they danced in the barn, boots stomping, till the rooster woke. Play’s their rebellion, pure and loud.

Does a Lady Smoke?

Tradition screeches no, but a lady decides her own damn code. She lights a cigarette if she wants—let Mrs. Pimm choke on her pearls. Smoke curls from her lips after supper, bold as a man’s; last week, she puffed at the fair, and jaws dropped. Freedom trumps frowns.

Discretion tempers the act. She smokes behind the shed, not on the porch—nosy Widow Crane needn’t know. A tin hides her stash; Polly caught her once, grinned, and joined. Subtlety keeps the hounds at bay.

Consequence weighs her choice. She coughs less with one a day—overdo it, and her throat rasps like a saw. Father smoked till his lungs gave out; she minds the line. Rebellion bows to reason, barely.

Style seals it. She holds the cigarette like a queen’s scepter, exhaling slow—none of that frantic puffing. At the dance, she lit one, leaned on the fence, and outshone the prim. If she smokes, she owns it.

A Lady’s Fierce Reign

Ladies, we’ve carved a path through etiquette, attitude, urges, baths, play, and smoke. Each thread braids a woman who rules her world, not a doll on a shelf. Society gawks, clucks, or cheers—she strides on, chin up. Her life roars with grit and grace.

Manners arm her, spirit steels her, restraint reins her, soap scours her, games free her, and a cigarette dares her. She stumbles—spits a curse, burns the toast, sneaks a second smoke—but rights herself, fiercer each time. Flaws forge her, not fell her. Go claim your throne, queens of your own making.