1784, 16 August

Rocca Sorrentina, Italy

Dearest Hetty,

I know I should have written immediately upon my return from Marseilles, where I saw father, who was in surprisingly good spirits for one who might be somewhat humbled by circumstances. (I always forget until I see him in society that he is not just our Papa but also a charming man of the world.)

I'd have written immediately upon my arrival here but was distracted by the marvelous gift of a harpsichord from my dear friend, Lorsagne. You remember me mentioning her, don't you? Unfortunately, the woman herself was not present here upon my return. She has set upon a journey of her own. I know she needs to check on family and business holdings in France. I suspect she may also have set out to acquire a gift for the newest resident of this small island.

Have I mentioned the new babe birthed recently by a young woman who succumbed sadly to the fever for which we were all quarantined? You may recall that I wrote of the woman and the mysterious circumstances of her arrival here the very day the fever forced us all into our homes. I am told she was of Rome and that the father of her child has not stepped forward to claim the babe, though it is painfully clear who the father is. (I will never understand a man who chooses his own convenience over the needs of his own child.) My understanding is that a local physician and his wife have stepped forward to raise the child as their ward. I believe Losagne is to be the godmother.

Of course, none of that explains why I have been so slow in sending word to you that I am back in Italy and doing well, nor does it tell you what you want to know about M. Lt. Badeau. I'll get to describing that encounter shortly.

The reason I have been slow in writing is that I am quiet profoundly exhausted. The journey was tiring, that is sure, and the weeks of quarantine preceding my trip were less thanrestful. But neither of those are what have caused the current depletion of my energies. I have been kept up nights by the noisy, vocal, recreations of someone in a neighboring room here in the villa. I have not met everyone who is a guest here, but I have heard this one quite exuberantly called Davy. I try not to imagine what might have so pleased the young woman who cried out his name. Repeatedly. In the middle of the night. I just wish she would whisper it instead so that I can get some sleep. On the other hand, this unknown Davy and his women (yes, there are several) might give me ideas for my next novel. Perhaps Mr. Dodsley would be more interested in that than he was in Evelina! I know, you must think me awful for having any of these thoughts. Please forgive your lonely sister her poor behavior.

The other situation that is weighing on my mind and causing me a bit of dis-ease is that I came across a young woman on the boat from Marseilles. She is of India and seeking employment. She has begged to be my lady's maid. You know how I feel about servants and are also aware that there is not money to spare. But this young woman touched me so. She is bright and wants to better her English. I worry that one such as her might be thrown to the wolves, so to speak -- possibly the very same wolf that wrecked that poor girl from Rome I wrote of above. I would hate to see another young woman destroyed for want of opportunity. I am considering my options and will be sure to let you know what I decide.

Now to say what I can of my encounter with M. Lt. Badeau, Henri. He was in Marseilles, as his letter said he would be, staying at a small hotel with some of his comrades in arms. Of course, I did not tell father I was meeting a gentleman when I made excuse for my absence on the afternoon of 10 August. Nonetheless, Father found out. Henri and I were walking in the park when father passed us on his way to see M. Jean Charles about a violin. It was a bit tense, but, charmer that Father can be, he greeted us as if he had expected to see me there on the arm of a handsome soldier.

Henri was, of course, unaware that Father might not approve of our meeting so there was no discomfit on his side. That fell all to me and I fear I was as jittery as a startled colt. Henri took my nerves to mean I had changed my mind about him. Of course, I assured him I have not, but he seemed somewhat skeptical.

We spent just a few hours together, during which time we walked and talked, stopping once in a lovely little cafe for bread and wine, chocolates and fine French cheese. He spoke of the adventures he has while doing his work and of the poverty and unrest he sees in many parts of France, including Marseilles. He also spoke of his young sisters and an older brother who runs the family business, a winery not far from where we sat. In fact, the wine we drank was from L'Vignoble D'Badeau. I will admit to you that I cannot tell a good wine from swill, but I assure you I praised it to Henri as if it were wine blessed by God himself.

He walked me back to M. Champney's home, so that I could spend one last evening with father before heading back to Italy and my writing. At the door of M. Champney's, Henri kissed my hand in the manor of all well-raised frenchmen. Am I completely wonton for admitting that I wish he had aimed a bit higher?

I do hope you will write soon. I would like to know your opinion of my encounter with Henri Badeau. Do you think my nervousness at seeing father will have put him off?

And, of course, please let me know what our dear step-mother has been up to of late. I was so glad she did not come to France with Papa, but worried that it might be your life she was disrupting in his absence.

Now I am off for a walk along the harbor, where I will see that this letter goes out on the next boat headed north. Then, it will be time for some tea and a bit of writing. I miss you, dear Hetty.

Ever Your Friend and Sister,

Fanny