26th March, 1888
Dear Diary,
I have been thinking more about my future recently. If I am to become a debutante - and of course I am, whatever Zipporah thinks she is making of herself by throwing away her opportunities when she is young - I must be careful. For one: I must work on my confidence, and ladylike manners. I am always talking too much or not at all, and never even know what to say, whatever they teach us in etiquette! Why must writing be so much easier, when I can hem and haw over every word until I sound delightfully witty if I want? And say something to my face, and it's a wonder I get out anything more than Gobbledegook at all. If I were a debutante now, I might have weekly nightmares of all the things I should have said.
So I must work on that. And secondly: the boy problem. The Divination incident with Mr. Carmichael got me thinking. Of course, it would be a dream to marry a rich heir, but I do not have the ambition of a Slytherin, and cannot expect that. But if I am to marry well, regardless, it will not do to get caught up under any mistletoe! Nor to kiss someone of my own free will, I'll be outed as some kind of hussy! It would also be silly of me to pin all my hopes upon a boy my own age, who must inevitably establish himself first, so I would do better to scour Witch Weekly for potential husbands to meet in a year or so at the Coming Out Ball.
...Or so I thought, that I must wait until I am allowed to attend the ball next year. But all along there has been the perfect potential husband right under my nose! Mr. Skeeter, of course!
He is of my own class and could not fault me for lacking in charisma, since he has so little of his own. That sounds mean, I know, but there is plenty to like about him too - he is sincere and earnest and utterly knowledgeable, not to mention tall and lean and he must have wonderful arms, the way he can carry the largest plant pots and heft around compost even without magic! Not that the smell of compost is one I expect to find as my personal Amortentia at any point, but as a herbologist, he must know all about flowers and their meanings. Our house could be filled to the brim with flowers, and I would have the loveliest garden as well to sit and have tea and cake in.
Of course, this means I must resolve to make an impression on Professor Skeeter before it is too late, and to plan to take Herbology to NEWT level so that I have time enough to woo him.
How I shall do that is quite another matter, of course. I shall have to sleep on it.
Love, Jemima
