Dearest Journal,

We have just arrived home and I can not sleep for the thoughts echoing through my mind in the early hours of this morning.

This evening was awful. Mr. Lecuyer’s opinions differ so greatly from my own. He scolded me in one second for something than praised me in the very next breathe for the very same. I can not make of him, what he expects of me.

I admit I was much more excited to see a letter waiting for me when I returned then to have attended the ball at all. While Mr. Lukeson, our dear friend, was in attendance I was not able to speak with him, so close was the leash Mr. Lecuyer kept upon me. His letter, thus, was a welcome balm to my poor bruised soul.

I could not help but watch him at the ball, how happy he seemed with other ladies, while I, myself, was in such miserable company. I had so hoped to slip away to speak with him, maybe even a dance, but it was not to be. How horrible I felt seeing him with those other ladies, how I longed to be the one in his strong arms. Am I such a bad friend to envy him his own courtships? Am I a friend at all? For all I can see in our letters now, are feelings much deeper than those I thought there. I am foolish for these notions, but I can not keep them from spilling from my pen. Before I lose my nerve I shall endeavor to explain to him. If only to keep my thoughts from spinning and keeping me awake all night long.