White Iris Bronnley

Bronnley.
That sounds a bit like the Brontë sisters, like Emily, Charlotte, and "Wuthering Heights," like Victorian, dusty England with its gloomy, strict gray, center-parted, the dresses raven black.
It sounds like scents that one does not want to smell like, not as a child of today's time.
So I thought in the first contact, and I still thought so when "White Iris" came to me, which is surely younger than "Jane Eyre," even if one cannot know for sure.

White is "White Iris," very white - but not piercingly white and radiant, not a direct look into the sunlight, not harsh, sterile, and strict like the protocol at court once was.
Bright and clear like a young morning, the air still cool and silky from the not very long night - dew pearls in the grasses, on the feet that stand in the blades, naked and bare, just escaped from the land of slumber.
A light mist hovers over grass and green, tingling in the hairs on the arms, raising them, dispelling the tiredness.
Somewhere in the tree hang oranges, deep golden ripe in dense, dark green - no sweet-sour, no juice, no orange jam, just firm fruit, the skin slightly bruised.
A hint of metal - perhaps the knife still, the blade silver-bright and so very sharp.
Or are they the flowers, the blue, long, yellow-flamed ones, standing tall like little spears in the dark bed?
Moments later - velvety clean skin, soaped, creamed, a hint of powder here and there.
I think of orange cream - not for the tongue, for the skin, finely porous light, like butterfly wings of lemon.
Very fine, very feminine, very bright, very pure.
Center-parted - that may be true.
But perhaps "Jane Eyre" is not so far from our time after all?