Dear Diary

[Beatrice Browne]

Dear Diary

September 25, 1880

Oh the most exciting thing has happened to me! I went out with Mr. Marlowe as his date to a ball for this or that reason, I can't be bothered to recall what the function was for. I was dressed in my best gown of blue, made of silk with a large bustle and small train. I wore the sapphire encrusted hair comb that Mr. Marlowe gifted to me last year as well. I was forced in that matter. But I digress. While dancing with Mr. Marlowe, a gentleman asked to cut in to our dance. Circumstances of decorum dictated that Mr. Marlowe allow this, though it was plain to see that he was loathe to give me up to the arms of another man. I, however, was glad to be out of Mr. Marlowe's arms.

The man introduced himself as Mr. Sampson Browne. He told me that he was sorry that the man (referring to Mr. Marlowe) had been bothering me. I giggled slightly at this! He thought he was saving me from being cordial to a stranger! I did not inform him that I had been courting this man for over two years, fighting it all the way. I found that I did not think to speak of Mr. Marlowe at all. I simply thanked him for saving me from such droll company. We danced only one song, but the song was rather long. He danced quite well, didn't step on my feet once like Mr. Marlowe had a habit of dong.

He was so handsome, too. I could tell he was quite a few years my senior, but I care not for his age. He was kind to me and treated me as a woman should be treated. I enjoyed the reprieve from Mr. Marlowe, but it was not to last. When the song ended, Mr. Marlowe returned to my side. He spoke of the nerve of that man, daring to break up a dance between he and myself. I just giggled quietly at this. He took a tone with me that he had never taken with me before, and I knew then for sure that his fancy for me had long since passed and that I was nothing more than a prize to be had.

Oh how I wish my circumstances were different. I fear Mr. Marlowe is approaching the day when he asks for my hand in marriage. I do not want to become Mrs. Marlowe. I do not want to be left under his wing. For I doubt he will be so forgiving of me for leading him on for two years. Sometimes I think of fleeing. Running away and not looking back. But I've no money of my own. No way to care for myself, so it is an idle fancy; a pointless dream.