Dear Diary,

I must confess, for though I am a woman, and of lowly rank for a woman of my era, I am wealthy by comparison to many who suffer the drought of a dry marriage bed.  But the journey was not an easy one, indeed, the road to my freedom is riddled with potholes and steep embankments, at times seeming to careen from my control all together.  Yet even the dangers excited my blood. I always suspected I was an unlikely breed for a woman cast headlong into a deceptive era, where on the outside there was a polished veneer of social propriety and beneath the wood crawled every vile and retched atrocity.  I marvel now how it is that I survived.  Nevertheless, I have always been untamed, and perhaps that is what, in the end, saved me.

I came to the good Robert and Virginia Archibald quite young by today's standards.  For more than a decade in their service, I garnered much more than a plate of food and a bed in which to lay my head.  It is my life, my tales of growing up, a journal penning my becoming a woman in every sense of the word.

Not all are stellar in memory as they once were, but others stir a remembrance that is yet able to warm as well as a good brandy.

Not only was it improper, by standards set by the men of my time, for a woman to partake in pleasure of a social nature, it was forbidden as a house servant to speak of such trysts.  Oh, accepted so it is, that in private, we women are expected to enjoy those moments of passion created for purpose of marriage, but before then, what?  God help me, why is it only men that are the only passionate beings on earth?  Or is it what the society at the time wanted us to believe?

Most would consider me of spinster age, at the time of these writings.  At seventeen, I was unmarried and betrothed to no man.  It speaks well I suppose, of my headstrong behavior, that by choice I remain alone.  However, it is not for lack of suitors, or one or two that graciously offered to make me a respectable wife.

I venture to say that my heart was tainted, willing to partake of the sinful fruit of impropriety, but unsatisfied with the taste of most men I'd met. Though I captured glimpses of my imaginary lover, in the eyes of many, it would take years and an unusual twist of the fates to find a lover that would challenge and accept me for the passionate woman that I am.

I admit I am a slave to my own passion, a bit rebellious, and so reminded by a distraught aunt and a most horridly strict keeper of the orphanage where I spent a short time.

I am keenly aware of the power of my sexuality and unafraid to confess that more times than not, my preference is for the strength of a man's hands upon me, giving me pleasure, instead of pleasure derived of my own hand.  Either achieves the desired purpose, but I so love the scent of a man's skin.

October 1873

I do not hold dear the notion of romantic lovers as are found in poetry and prose of the idyllic authors of my day.  Romance I sat aside as nothing more than a youthful fancy.

However, the passion my Francois offers is intensely bright and I fear I am no  better off than a moth to a flame.

My heart stood still as I rounded the hedge, my simple lantern in hand, I found him there, by his great, dark steed.  His look of wicked lust made my peach weep with desire.

My gaze darted into the inky darkness, afraid that Mr. Coven may yet be wandering the grounds as he often does.  "Pardon, m'lord, but are you quite certain, we won't be found out?"  I knew clearly that it was against regulation, but the thought of his hands on me, drove my concerns to the limit.

"I have made every arrangement, mademoiselle, come, lets not waste any time."  He held out his hand to me and I took it allowing him to draw me to his powerful chest.

"Where do you plan to take me, m'lord?" I whispered, tracing my finger boldly down the front of his shirt, stopping with a demure look at his waistband of his breeches.

His grin grew wide.  "As many places as I can imagine my sweet flower."