1784, 14 August

Returned again to my home away from home, Sorrentina in Italy, after a brief trip to see Father who was on business at Marseilles but has now set his course for England. I had so hoped to find Father in better circumstances than last I saw him and I did. Unfortunately, those circumstances were those of his host in France, not his own. He tells me that the Burney family's financial circumstances are no more secure than when last we met face to face. He is grateful to have a daughter more than capable of tending to her own needs. He certainly has changed his opinion of a woman publishing her own words in her own name! Amazing how one's sense of propriety can shift to fit one's personal advantage.

Having returned to the port of Sorrentina half dead with exhaustion, wind-blown, and starving, I proceeded swiftly to my rooms at the villa. There, I was saddened to learn that my friend, Losagne, is no longer among the visitors here, having set sail some time ago for France! I wonder if she passed through Marseilles as she headed for her own home and if I missed the opportunity for learning news of what has happened here since my own departure following the quarantine. I suppose I will have to seek out Lady Fandango or Lady Foxglove (who is hopefully still secreting that lovely silver flask in her skirts) to find what they have to reveal of happenings during my absence.

In spite of her own absence, Lorsagne has managed to lift my spirits after a long journey. Upon my return to my rooms, I found that she has made me a gift of a most lovely and bright sounding hand crafted harpsichord! Leave it to Lorsagne to remember that I once played for her! That was so many years ago. Of course, I could not even wait to remove my hat before taking my place on the piano bench and beiginning to play one of the few pieces I have committed to memory, one of those simple sonatinas from the late Mr. Scarlatti.

The housekeeper here noticed my return immediately and sent one of the maids with a tray of cheese and bread and fruit. There is nothing to compare with the summer fruits of Italy! I am told another maid is soon to arrive with a bath for my pleasure and hygienic redemption. I assure you that is a joy one never learns to anticipate dully, as if it were a small trifle. A warm sweet scented bath is a gift from heaven on high, never to be taken for granted.

I sit and write now, thinking I should record the details of my journey and the discussions with Father. I believe I should also report on the circumstances of my meeting with that French soldier. But now I hear a maid in my outer room and must commit myself to bliss in the form of a warm bath. Of course, it will take some effort, leaving behind the grime of the journey, but, somehow, I will manage as one must.