There is a pleasant kind of fatigue produced by the fruitful efforts of a busy day. Such have been my last few days at home in Saint Saturnin. I have visited the nearest inhabitants, heard disputations, settled debts with creditors and merchants, paid my servants, and made provisions for the harvest season while I am away.
Only a month now until I journey north to Paris. The staymaker came yesterday and fitted me for two pairs of stays, which once completed will be sent ahead so that my gowns may be fitted off of them. I have sent an inquiry to the lingerie shop as it seems to me that my most recent order ought to be completed by now. We will see what answer they give.
Thierry, sadly, had to journey home to visit his father, who remains in poor health. No word on any of the commissions he has been working towards, but we both have hope that soon one will be offered; he for pride (as no man wants to be kept by his wife, like a lover) and I so that our marriage may at last be considered.
Settled into my bed, with my desk upon my lap, flowers from my own garden perfuming the air, and a low fire dwindling drowsily, I feel the contentment that only home can provide. I lack for few things that may constitute a general happiness in life. I only hope that I may always have the meand to bring such pleasure to those within my domain.
Why do people ever wish to leave home for larger cities?
1 week ago