Dearest Diary,
I have missed you this past year. We have not had the pleasure of conversing as we once did, and I deem it a tragedy in many ways. For I have neglected to tell you of the potential suitors with whom I have dined in and out, and begged a dance or two. There have not been more than a handful, and yet not a one has peaked my future interest, or perhaps vice versa. It is of little consequence in the world that I am presently unwed, and yet I have yet to pass a year without it weighing upon me heavily at one moment or another. Nay, I have yet to pass a day where it does not concern me to some end.
I do not wish to be downhearted on the topic, for I have much to commend the day. But I cannot make you to believe that I am not also bothered by it at this present moment, this present hour. I ask you, dear Diary, to ignore it. Put away any knowledge of my candor on the topic and rejoice with me over the pleasant sounds of the rain falling on the grounds of the Ashford place, and upon the gardens. Let us pretend that such sounds are not that of sorrow. That they are sounds of refreshment, and of life. Perhaps with such pleasantries we might imagine a world in which maidenhood is also to our advantage. For I'm convinced such a world exists, and I aim to find it on the morrow!
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