I have these fits, you see.
One would hesitate to countenance my roaming at this late hour, especially with no chaperone to right my path. However, the moon is bright and full tonight, casting its cool glow over the road. It is the moon that so pulls my moods these days that I feel as though the moon himself should act as my guide. Dear Lucy only resides a bit further down this way, and I should come to no trouble in the short time that will pass before my arrival.
Oh! It should come as a surprise that she might see me this night, for she is set to be married to Lord William Henceforth in two days’ time. His wealth will surely provide for her a most promising future, though his courtship of Miss Lucy has caused a certain cessation in our once joyous social encounters. A man of his prominence sees no sense in feminine foolery that may distract his dear wife into hysterics. Certainly he must be correct in his assumptions, and fond Lucy should see herself dearly lucky to be the match of Lord Henceforth.
I have not found myself to be granted such luck. Not suited for matrimony. I crept to the drawing room door and heard, with pressed ear, Father utter this phrase with great regret at the prospect of a suitor, one Sir Edgar Marron, aged forty and seven, who had come to call upon my availability one Sunday afternoon. I will make no pleasing wife, not with the fits that so plague my being. Father has brought forth the greats of the medical profession to come to the cause of these furies, but no resolution has been unearthed. I confound the doctors who know not than this began after the June night when Lucy and I escaped to the orchards.