Sylvie stood on the terrace, amidst carefree conversations and clinking crystal her breath catching as Lady Isadora approached. Isadora's fierce pride and her crimson-painted lips dared anyone to question her audacity and resist her enduring allure. Her silver-streaked hair, once cropped in defiance of tradition, now cascaded in waves over her still shapely shoulders, framing a resolute face that proclaimed defiance of convention. Her bobbed hair, a daring snip against Victorian norms, had been part of the flapper manifesto—a declaration that femininity need not be confined. Pearls grace her throat, and lace drapes her well-rounded form—a vision of timeless beauty. Time had traced gentle lines around her mouth and eyes, the imprints of carefree laughter. But it is her deep emerald green eyes that hold the true magic—the kind that defies conventions. Once accented with kohl, they still sparkle with mischief, combining both enduring mystery and comfortable familiarity.

"You're growing up fast, my dear", her godmother observes with a wry smile.

Sylvie's cheeks flush at the open inspection, and she stammers, "Oh, um, thank you, Isadora". The weight of impending adulthood lies upon her shoulders as she steels herself for what lies ahead.

"Ah, my dear Sylvie", Lady Isadora replies, her voice a velvet whisper. "Your perfect pose and that dress! Blossom pink and stardust with the legacy of your ancestors woven into every thread."

"Balance", Lady Isadora murmurs, her gaze drifting to Sylvie's silver locket—the portrait of their grandmother. "Legacy isn't static; it's a mosaic—a daring arrangement of choices. Your grandmother was a rebel too. She wore this locket to secret meetings and whispered forbidden words. Tradition and rebellion—they danced within her."

And so, Sylvie receives Lady Isadora's congratulations, followed by whispered wisdom that echoes the rhythm of a rebel's heartbeat. Sylvie stands at the crossroads of tradition and possibility, and Lady Isadora's assurance carries the weight of their shared history.
"Sylvie", she states, her voice steady, "what lies ahead may be both thrilling and terrifying. But fear not, my dear. Sir George and I will be by your side, your steadfast companions as you confront your destiny."

Isadora's words cut through the air like a well-sharpened blade. She fixes her gaze on Sylvie, her eyes—once vibrant with rebellion—now holding a steely resolve.

"My dear", Isadora says, "you're about to meet a man—your future husband, the next Lord Trevelver, carefully chosen by your parents. He carries their approval, but parental approval doesn't warm a bed or quicken a heart. The decision is yours, and we will be there to ensure that it is respected."

Sylvie's dark brown eyes widen as Lady Isadora's touch—a fleeting brush against her cheek—evokes memories of their midnight conversations. In those quiet hours, they delved into art, music, poetry, philosophy, love, courage, and defiance, navigating the delicate balance between tradition and rebellion.

Sylvie nods, and her godmother extends a hand, brushing a lock of her chestnut-brown hair. The shining strands yield to Isadora's gentle touch, and her fingers trace the curve of Sylvie's cheek, mapping the contours of fading girlhood.

"Remember this, my dear", Isadora whispers, her emerald eyes crinkling at the corners. "You are both the canvas and the artist. Paint your story boldly, for the world awaits your strokes. And when you catch a glimpse of your reflection, see not just the girl you are but the woman you will become—the matchless creation of past, present, and future."

And so, in that solemn moment, in the twilight, Sylvie stands—an enchanting blend of youth and maturity poised between her past as a carefree girl and her future as a woman bearing great responsibilities. Isadora's promise—a silent pact—binds them both.

I see Bachmann are going to release the MK1 Pullman brake coach again, only from the collectors club, but at least the price will diminish

Sylvie, adorned in blush-pink attire, cast an enchanting spell upon all who beheld her. The Chelsea townhouse, steeped in refined elegance, played host to one of the Trevelver family's regular dinner soirées.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the well-dressed guests assembled on the townhouse's charming terrace. Here, amidst lush landscaping and a meticulously manicured lawn, pre-dinner drinks flowed among whispered secrets. The air carried the scent of blooming flowers, and the gentle rustle of leaves lent an air of tranquillity.

Yet, behind the laughter and clinking glasses, there was an undercurrent of anticipation. However, most guests remained blissfully unaware, their attention drawn to the flicker of candlelight and the promise of culinary delights to come. Little did they know that this evening held more than fine wines and spirits and gastronomic pleasures. Within these walls, a new yet ages-old alliance would be forged, vows exchanged, and destinies subtly altered—delicate negotiations set against a backdrop of elegance.

And so, Sylvie glides through the crowd, her presence both beguiling and enigmatic. Rose-pink against the twilight, she embodies the essence of the evening, its purpose veiled in sophistication. The first to greet Sylvie are her godparents, Lady Isadora Hawthorne, Lord Trevelver's unmarried younger sister, followed by Sir George Widgeon III, who both have a key role to play.

Quote from: njee20 on May 01, 2024, 08:44:43 PMIt does appear, from the outside at least, that some of their decisions are a little odd. They announced the TPE and SWT 350/450s about 6 years ago, and neither has yet been released, despite being just a re-livery (they tenuously call the 450 a new tooling because they need to fill the holes left by the pantograph, not the well, but the actual 1mm screw holes).

I don't know if it effects the 450, but certainly for the TPE 350/4s I think there's a retooling for a slightly different window arrangement in at least one of the coaches. Still doesn't really explain the huge price...

The final adjustments are made. As Lady Trevelver fastens each button, she imparts more whispered wisdom—the kind only mothers and their daughters understand. Sylvie, her only daughter, stands before her. Lady Trevelver admires the modest silhouette of the specially commissioned satin gown with its soft, fluttering sleeves. The bodice moulds perfectly to Sylvie's youthful figure, while the skirt flares gently, pooling around her ankles. Layers of tulle and silk create an ethereal effect. The gown's pièce de résistance lies in its back—a low, V-shaped cut that judiciously reveals just enough of her daughter's pale, flawless skin. A row of tiny silk-covered buttons trails down to the small of Sylvie's back, completing the enchanting ensemble.

Sylvie delicately slips her hands into the elbow-length pink satin gloves her mother has provided. Later, as she prepares to sit down for dinner, she will follow proper glove etiquette and gracefully remove them. The lightweight fabric matches her gown perfectly, adding an air of sophistication. Suddenly, the nervous teenager feels transformed—a young lady poised for her debut in adult company.

Sylvie's long, wavy dark-brown hair falls loose. Lady Trevelver brushes it gently, creating soft waves that frame Sylvie's bright-eyed face like a cascade of chestnut silk. Next, her mother pins a single pink rose behind her daughter's right ear—a symbol of blooming youth. An antique silver locket passed down from Sylvie's grandmother, the Dowager Trevelver, rests against her throat—a secret talisman.

The antique silver locket, containing her grandmother's portrait, confers connection, protection, and expression, encouraging Sylvie to speak her truth, share her emotions openly, and connect with others authentically. When she wears it, she feels her grandmother's comforting presence—a gentle whisper of wisdom, infusing her with ancestral energy and confidence.

For comfort and ease of movement, her mother had selected a pretty pair of pale pink ballet flats—dainty, practical, and chosen for comfort. Standing before the mirror, for the final inspection, Sylvie straightens her posture, chin lifted, eyes focused. Lady Trevelver adjusts the satin sash at her daughter's waist. Leaning in, lips brushing Sylvie's ear, she imparts timeless advice: "Grace is not just in how you move but in how you make others feel".

Sylvie stands poised, a vision in blossom pink—a delicate echo of the 1950s melodies softly radiating from the HMV radiogram. The young naval officer awaits below, but in this gown, Sylvie transcends adolescence. She embodies the Trevelver legacy, woven into every seam of her garments and etched into the very cells of her transforming body.

As she descends the grand staircase of the family's townhouse, her heart steadies. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow, illuminating the anticipation in the eyes of awaiting guests. Behind her, Lady Trevelver—meticulous and proud—assures herself of every detail. All is prepared for her daughter, a radiant embodiment of youth and promise, poised to claim her rightful place in the world.

Sylvie then recalls her thoughts as, waiting alone for Eli's return, she had pondered the Trevelver legacy, intricately woven through generations of formidable women in an unbroken line. It is more than a bloodline; it is a sacred thread tracing back to the last queen-priestess of Atlantis. As the lost land's spiritual guides, they not only held positions of power and authority but also left their powerful legacy in the Trevelver females' blood.

Her duty transcends mere titles. As the future Lady Trevelver, she stands at the helm of the 'Karadow'—an enclave of strength and sisterhood where mutual love and shared values intertwine like ancient roots.

Yet, alongside her, there must always be a Lord Trevelver—a martial guardian, steadfast and devoted. Some years the Lady's senior, he stands ready to replace the previous Lord whose partner then steps gracefully into the role of the Dowager Trevelver, as her grandmother had done—a legacy of grace and resilience. Thus, the Trevelver lineage continues across the generations.

She wonders, as she sits in the warmly lit room, fingers tracing the delicate embroidery around the neck of her silken dressing gown, how much of her fate was orchestrated by her parents but, especially, her mother, Lady Trevelver—the elegant matriarch—whose dark eyes hold centuries of inherited wisdom and power. And her father—the silent strength, the sheathed sword at her mother's side. Did they alone weave the threads that tied her heart to Jeremy Corentyn Cador?

Sylvie recalls her mother's meticulous preparations for her first dinner party eight years ago. In the soft glow of her mother's Chelsea boudoir, Sylvie stands before a full-length mirror—on the threshold between girlhood and womanhood. Her heart flutters like a captured butterfly, its wings brushing against anticipation.

The year is 1954, and early summer wraps the Trevelver's townhouse in warmth and light. That evening, Sylvie's parents will organise an introduction—a delicate dance of expectation. The twenty-year-old man awaits—her future consort. The elegant Chelsea townhouse, a three-story, stately residence with a classic Georgian façade, is a canvas awaiting the brushstroke of destiny.

Beaming with happiness, Lady Trevelver opens the box lying on the double bed and removes the designer gown from its tissue paper revealing a vision in blossom pink. The silhouette, delicate and poised, balances innocence and grace. The neckline is modest—a gentle scoop that frames Sylvie's collarbones. The bodice, adorned with subtle lace, moulds to her chest, hinting at the promise of womanhood.

The fabric is a dream—a soft, shimmering silk that catches every nuance of light. As Sylvie moves, her mother confides that the pink silk will rustle like petals in a secret garden. Tissue paper discarded, her daughter gasps with delight as her mother, dark eyes twinkling, explains that this hue evokes spring blossoms and youthful exuberance.

Tiny seed pearls and silver thread intertwine, tracing delicate floral patterns along the subtly curved bodice and flowing skirt. Lady Trevelver leans closer, her voice a hushed confidante.

"Each stitch", she murmurs, "holds a secret—a legacy woven through generations of Trevelver women". The seamstress, guided by tradition, added more than mere embellishments. She sewed tiny star-shaped sequins—subtle constellations that catch the eye when Sylvie twirls.

And there, in the gentle sway of rose-coloured silk, dreams unfurl. The sequins, provided by Mademoiselle Élise, represent wishes yet unspoken, desires yet to be realised—a celestial promise stitched into Sylvie's gown.

Long, sheer sleeves cascade to Sylvie's wrists, their ethereal fabric ending in delicate lace cuffs. These sleeves, like gossamer veils, will conceal her youthful vulnerability, yet their transparency hints at the woman she will soon become. The lace whispers of elegance, a promise stitched into every thread. Sylvie is readied to face her future—a delicate dance of innocence and anticipation.

A satin sash, perfectly matching the pink gown, cinches Sylvie's waist. Tied in the back with a bow, it adds a touch of elegance. The skirt flares gently, pooling around her ankles—a cascade of silk and tulle.

Layers of delicate fabric create an ethereal effect, as if Sylvie walks through a dream. And when she moves, the hem brushes the polished parquet floor, leaving behind a trail of stardust—a whispered promise of enchantment.

With customary care, Sylvie's mother had selected her daughter's pale pink undergarments to ensure her daughter's comfort and confidence throughout the evening, beginning with a soft, lightweight petticoat in the same shade as the gown. As Sylvie slips into the delicate layers, she learns its secret: subtle volume. The petticoat, carefully chosen, lends gentle fullness to Sylvie's skirt. It enhances her silhouette without overpowering her youthful figure, providing both elegance and ease.

Above, a simple silk chemise—sleeveless and comfortable—skims Sylvie's skin, a delicate barrier between her body and the outer layers of elegance. Underneath, a carefully crafted satin bralette cradles her curves. Its soft form provides gentle support, allowing her natural shape to breathe.

Her mother adjusts the straps with practised hands—a perfect fit. In this intimate moment, she whispers advice on posture, femininity, and the allure of hidden details. And so, Sylvie wears not only fabric but also the legacy of generations—a delicate dance of comfort and grace.

Below, high-waisted matching satin panties edged with white lace, also made to order, provide her mother assures her daughter, modesty and comfort, even under the most voluminous skirts. Lady Trevelver then bends down to fit a delicate garter belt, also in blush pink, around Sylvie's slim flat waist to hold up her silk stockings. The elastic straps are adorned with tiny satin bows. Her mother then patiently demonstrates the art of attaching stockings to garter belts, an act that feels both practical and sensuous.

Finally, fine silk stockings in a soft, ethereal shade that matches the dawn caress Sylvie's legs as she rolls them on, securing them with a satin ribbon. They feel luxurious against her skin, marking her transition from girl to woman.

Quote from: Bealman on May 02, 2024, 11:34:19 PMAlright, traitor, then 

They have more fun than 'Faithfuls'

Quote from: Newportnobby on May 02, 2024, 12:10:43 PMThe 3 steamers crying out for re-tooling are the V2, Crab and 94xx and I'd take one of each for sure. I have the black V2 from the set but the front bogie seems to have a mind of its own and the motor growls a lot. In fact, I do ask visitors "Have you seen my Growler?"

I agree Mick, any of these 3 would be great to have, and perhaps a new tooling of their King as nobody has has a proper go at it so far, as for the summer announcements there is nothing there for me

Regards,

alex

Alright, traitor, then 

I concur with @Roy L S above. A retooled Crab would be great. I too remember the original Poole model. I never acquired one, but a club member did, and it was greatly admired.