January 11, 1884

Missus Oliver Robinson…

I awoke with such contentment in my heart and it was with much humility I looked over at my beloved husband's face as he slept. I dreamt of this moment for a very long time, though I had hoped my parents could have met him. His images fill my head and I must commit them to paper, though I fear he will think me demented the way my eyes follow him about, as though executing him to memory.


This morning, we spoke of finding a place to live and although the hotel suits our needs for the present moment, my heart yearns to make a home for my husband. With a study for Oliver, a work room for myself, a music room for a grand piano to allow my beloved's mind to create beauteous music. And dare I hope? A nursery for our babe.


I honestly tried to write of Brigite, but my mind is filled with so many other images and stories that my poor mouse must content herself to reading past books until I return to her. I know she will be forgiving.

I traveled about the town today, though found nothing suitable to establish residence. I did discover a plot of land for sale to the south of town which would be a fitting sight for a home. The aspen (I believe they are called? With the white bark and the gentleman spoke of when the leaves appear they seem to be silver coins fluttering in the wind) and in my mind's eye I could envision our home and returned to the hotel post haste to place pen to paper.

**Inserted within the pages of her book are renderings of her husband.



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