Prelude in D-Flat Major, Op. 28, XV

The sulphurous scent of gunpowder hung in the air as musket balls wailed around him, growing more intense with each passing second. The ground erupted, sending dirt and shrapnel flying. Jack rolled through filth and muck until he found refuge beneath—

Beneath the gentle shade of a bush in his garden, Jack squinted up at the roses overhead; their delicate red petals contrasting sharply with the azure sky, unable to recall why he was lying there, or for how long slumber had claimed him.

In the aftermath of the ball, his work in the gardens escalated to a manic-focused frenzy—setting posts and trellises, transplanting, pruning, cutting, digging—all executed with an intensity that bordered on disturbing. With the conviction of one possessed, he forsook his typically calculated and methodical approach for this newfound furious energy.

Even the roses were not spared his fervour. He grasped them with a gloveless hand, bending and shaping them to his vision. His usual gentle touch was nearly forsaken as he compelled the flowers into submission.

Throughout his exertions, the touch of Miss Hartford—Anastasia, as she had invited him to address her—clung to his cheek, sinking into the very fabric of his being, propelling him forward. A constant, gentle presence in the recesses of his mind that refused to be silenced. Although he could not fully comprehend why her image persisted so strongly or why her voice echoed in his thoughts, it spurred on his efforts and became the driving force behind them.

Yet his past was never far behind, creeping up on him, shadowy and relentless. Sudden bursts of memories, vivid and disorienting, would plunge him into darkness, transforming his reality into a nightmarish landscape before wrenching him back to the harsh light of the present, confused and shaking.

Despite the toll it was taking on him, he thrived on this frenetic pace. It seemed as though he had discovered a peculiar relief in his single-mindedness—a way to drown out the whispers of his past and grasp the vision of Anastasia that hovered just beyond reach. His manic activity, with all its potential for destruction, became his lifeline, a frantic dance on the liminal precipice between past and future.

The primroses shone beneath the enthusiastic gaze of a rare sun as Lucy approached Jack’s estate. A lush tunnel of meticulously trimmed hedges formed a brief promenade, culminating at a simple wooden gate. A strangely warm breeze, in comparison to the one outside the hedges, wafted through this verdant passage. She espied him toiling in his garden, covered in soil and sweat.

“Good afternoon, Captain Clifton,” hailed Lucy, waving from the gate.

Jack’s attention snapped upward, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he caught sight of Lucy. “Mrs Hawthorne,” replied he, acknowledging her presence with a nod as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a dark streak of dirt behind. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

He did not unlatch the gate to admit her. She hesitantly began to speak, uncertain of how welcome she was, and he realised his error. He swung it open with a mumbled apology, and as she stepped through with an understanding smile, she presented him with an envelope. “A letter from Miss Hartford—that is to say, Anastasia,” said Lucy, a knowing twinkle in her eye.

She observed his lips silently shaping the name as he reached for the letter then froze as Lucy let out a soft gasp. Upon his palms and upper arms lay an array of small scratches and cuts, some still fresh. Embarrassed, he endeavoured to get rid of the blood and earth by rubbing them against his trousers.

“Oh, do not do that, dear,” said Lucy. “Make sure you rinse with alcohol tonight and—” She halted with a blush.

“Thank you, Mrs Hawthorne; I have also noticed that cleaning them helps. However, I…” Jack trailed off, clenching his fists before opening them once more and gazing at them in near despair.

“Would you like me to open it for you?” offered Lucy with a sympathetic tilt of her head.

Gratitude shone in his eyes as he met her gaze. She suddenly realised that it was the first occasion upon which he had done so, save for when he greeted her. “I would be most obliged, Mrs Hawthorne.”

Lucy carefully broke the seal and unfolded the document, positioning it such that Jack could read along. His expression, initially marked by confusion, gradually softened into a smile as he absorbed the words before him.

My Dear Captain Clifton,

I trust this letter finds you well. I write to express my sincere gratitude for the delightful company you provided at the recent ball. Our engaging conversation, coupled with our enchanting promenade, was truly a pleasure.

Should it be agreeable to you, I would consider it a great honour to enjoy your company once more. I am aware of the demanding nature of social engagements, and I must admit that I, too, prefer less spirited occasions. Perhaps, if I may not be too bold, we might yet find a serene moment for an afternoon stroll or tea.

I eagerly await your response, and should you be so inclined, I would be delighted to arrange a meeting at a time and place that suits your convenience.

With the highest regards and in eager anticipation,

Miss Anastasia Jane Hartford.

“This is… truly from Miss Hartford?” Jack’s eyes widened, disbelief dancing within them as he posed his question.

A soft chuckle escaped Lucy at his habitual use of her surname, her amusement evident in the inclination of her head.

A glimmer of gladness gleamed in his gaze. “I would… I would be… honoured to see Miss Hartford again,” admitted he, earnestness threading through his voice. “Yet I must… confess, I’m uncertain… about how to proceed…”

Lucy’s smile warmed. “Do not fret, Captain. I shall convey your wishes to Anastasia.”

He expressed his gratitude with sincere relief. Lucy was reminded of her own husband and the charming awkwardness that had so often marked their courtship.

“In fact,” said Jack abruptly, capturing her attention. “If I were to express my desire to see Miss Ha—Anastasia—” He paused, gazed up at the sky with his hands clasped together, and silently mouthed her name once more. “What course of action might you recommend?”

Lucy regarded him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “Have you ever courted a lady before, Captain?”

“I… well, that is to say… I have read…” His countenance flushed a deep shade of crimson. “No, I have not.”

A wave of sympathy washed over Lucy at his admission. “Well, one option would be to dispatch a formal letter requesting an audience with Miss Hartford.”

“A formal letter? Must I adhere to… such a process? Can I not simply… go visit her?”

Lucy’s chuckle conveyed her understanding of his confusion. “In an ideal world, indeed you might. However, society is bound by its own edicts. It concerns respecting her privacy and signalling your earnest intentions.”

He nodded, clearly bemused but concentrating nonetheless, which served as encouragement for her to elaborate. Lucy cleared her throat and proceeded. “It is imperative, however, to ensure that your actions are beyond reproach; unannounced calls would be most improper.”

“And what would constitute an… appropriate timeframe for me to… proceed with such actions?”

“Traditionally, one ought to wait a few days after receiving a reply to one’s letter. It is a matter of affording the lady time and space. An approach too precipitous may convey undue eagerness, whilst an extended delay could suggest disinterest.”

Jack absorbed her words with a nod, his intensity striking. It appeared as though he was endeavouring to carve each word into his memory. The customary detachment that often characterised his demeanour had vanished; instead, he paid rapt attention, fully engrossed in the societal intricacies of courtship.

“Pray, convey my message to Miss Hartford that I would be most honoured to meet with her at her earliest convenience.” A note of alarm entered his voice. “However, the composition of such a letter is an undertaking I have not addressed!”

Lucy offered him a smile, her reassurance evident. “Do not fret. Miss Hartford holds me in trust and is aware that I shall relay your message with precision. She will comprehend the situation.”

His expression softened at her support, and then he ventured tentatively, “Would it… perhaps pique Miss Hartford’s interest were I to offer her… one of my roses?”

“I believe that such a gesture would serve as a most fitting postscript to your message.”

His countenance assumed a more solemn aspect. “What might be Miss Hartford’s favoured colour?”

She regarded him curiously, sensing his sincerity. “Violet.”

Jack glanced down at his hands and clasped them together, allowing the mild sting from the scratches to ground him as he pondered frantically.

He turned abruptly and hastened into the garden, his swift departure sending gravel scattering in his wake. Lucy listened to the sound of rustling as he moved among the bushes; then a soft curse reached her ears. Moments later, he emerged from the garden some fifty feet distant from where he had vanished into its verdant depths.

There was an expression of near torment etched upon his features. “Regrettably, I… I do not possess a… truly violet rose within my collection. Might an… amethyst suffice in its stead?”

Lucy paused, momentarily contemplating the gemstone before understanding his reference to the rose’s hue. “Indeed, that would be a most excellent selection,” affirmed she, her anticipation of delivering this singular message evident in her expression.

He pivoted on his heel, gravel once again scattering beneath the force of his movement. After a minute of absence, he reappeared unexpectedly behind her, causing Lucy to startle at his sudden presence.

He held an amethyst-hued rose of the most exquisite kind. Each petal was imbued with the velvety richness of twilight, its edges tinged with a faint blush reminiscent of the last rays from a setting sun. At the bloom’s heart lay an intoxicating depth, as though it had ensnared the very essence of dusk within its delicate folds.

Lucy felt a twinge of pleased envy towards Anastasia, yet her delight in the magnificent gift bestowed upon her young friend overwhelmed anything as petty as jealousy.

Anastasia was awaiting Lucy in the sitting room and immediately put her book down when she entered.

Lucy smiled and settled herself in the settee beside her. “I have conveyed your letter to Captain Clifton. He received your letter with great joy and has sent this in response.” She set the amethyst rose upon the table.

Anastasia caressed the bloom, the soft and velvety petals brushing against her fingertips. “It is beautiful.”

“He was quite unhappy that there were no violet roses available to send.”

“Whatever might you mean? How did he come to know that I have a fondness for violet?”

“Well, he asked what your favourite colour was, and I might have tested him a bit.”

“Lucy!”

“Well, I know, but it seemed the right thing to say at the time, I did not really think about it until now.”

They fell silent, both gazing at the rose.

Lucy cleared her throat. “He inquired as to when you might be available to meet with him.”

Anastasia lightly brushed the petals of the rose, her pulse quickening. The unforeseen nature of these developments had unsettled her carefully maintained equilibrium. Her carefully guarded secret, once a bastion against potential heartbreak in courtship, now loomed as a spectre that might overshadow her burgeoning relationship with Captain Clifton. “I… I require some time to reflect.”

“I understand your need for deliberation, yet it may be prudent to furnish a response with some haste.”

“You and I have lived together quite happily for some time now and I see no pressing need to rush headlong into any fresh enterprise.”

Lucy regarded her, replete with empathy. “We may have done so, dear, but has true happiness been your companion? Something has ever been amiss…”

Anastasia averted her gaze, picking up the rose and fretfully turning it in her hands. Lucy’s words had touched upon her painful sorrow, yet she was loath to acknowledge it.

Lucy continued, undaunted by Anastasia’s reticence. “It is obvious that, though he may struggle to express it, his affection for you is beyond question. Remember, there is no shame in seeking happiness, in spite of the obstacles that may present themselves.”

Anastasia trembled with unvoiced trepidations and doubts as she drew in its fragrant perfume. “Certain challenges are insurmountable.”

Lucy smiled as she observed Anastasia caress the petals again. “Are such challenges truly insurmountable, or is it that you have yet to attempt their conquest?”

Anastasia’s hands came together, cradling the rose within them. “In a moment of fervour, I implored the Captain to allow me insight into his thoughts; yet… he admitted he knew not how to express his… emotions.”

Lucy placed a comforting hand upon her friend’s shoulder. “And perhaps,” suggested she with gentle persuasion, “to truly comprehend his character, one must seek his company once more and devote additional time to making his acquaintance.”

“What if I am found wanting in the capacity to satisfy his most profound wishes?”

Lucy gestured towards the amethyst rose. “From what I have seen I would say that you already accomplish as much.”

Anastasia toyed with the edges of the delicate bloom. “Indeed, it may seem so upon initial observation. Yet, I speak of a more… subtle understanding.”

Lucy’s brow furrowed as she observed Anastasia hesitate, biting her lower lip.

“The matter at hand is… intricate.” Anastasia said this as if it were a holy confession.

“I have time; you must tell me,” said Lucy. Yet the manner in which Anastasia was now behaving caused her a measure of concern. Was she finally about to speak of what had transpired at the physicians?

Anastasia’s fingers ceased their restless dance. “What if my burden grows heavier with the sharing?”

“Dear one, no weight grows more ponderous when shared,” insisted Lucy, edging closer on the plush settee, trying to soothe the note of rising torment surrounding Anastasia’s voice.

“Not when they might just as easily crush others,” retorted Anastasia, her breath quickening and a storm brewing behind her copper eyes. The air between them became charged with palpable tension, filling the room with an uncomfortable heat.

Lucy extended her hand, attempting to cover Anastasia’s in a gesture of solidarity. However, Anastasia withdrew sharply, the plush armchair chair scraping against the floor as she rose. “You do not understand. You cannot. My situation is not merely a simple tale of woe to be shared over tea!”

“I have stood by you through every storm imaginable,” said Lucy, also rising to her feet. “Do not judge me incapable of weathering this one.”

“This is different! This… it is a mark against me. In our society, it is—"

“What is it?” pressed Lucy, her heart hammering against her ribs, hoping against hope that it was not what she feared.

“It is a curse!” cried Anastasia, crumbling beneath the burden of concealed anguish. “One that cannot merely dissipate with the passage of time or an outpouring of sympathy.”

Lucy’s hand lingered in the air, a bridge awaiting its crossing. “Whatever it is, you are not alone. Allow me to offer help—”

“No, you cannot,” cried Anastasia, shouting at Lucy in desperate fear. “Were the truth to be known, they would not deign to speak to me. Envision it! Reviled for circumstances beyond one’s control! The murmurs, the derisive remarks! Judgments that would haunt every step I take.”

“Anastasia!” gasped Lucy, her stomach sinking. “What do you mean?”

Overcome by the years of self-torture, of rage and despair, Anastasia cast the amethyst rose across the room. It collided with the painting then fell to the floor. A few petals drifted behind like fragments of her shattered heart as she ripped out the words she had locked in the deepest part of her soul.

“I cannot bear children!”

Lucy grabbed her weeping friend, pulling her into an embrace, imbuing her with all the love and comfort she could possibly give. “My dearest, dearest Anastasia. Is this the burden that has rendered you so distant and guarded all these years?”

Tears cascaded down Anastasia’s cheeks as she nodded and clung to Lucy.

“This does not alter who you are nor does it diminish your worthiness of love and happiness,” said Lucy compassionately as she lowered her gently to the settee.

“But it does!” Anastasia’s despair resonated throughout the chamber, sobs punctuating each word as she continued, “What gentleman… would want a… a… a wife who—” She faltered, slumped into Lucy’s arms, and wailed her desolate nightmare out into the world: “What man would want a woman who cannot provide him with children?”

Lucy simply held her tight, stroking her hair in silent communion of shared sorrow, for she found herself at a loss to answer such a complex and heart-wrenching question.

“How,” sobbed Anastasia. “How could any man ever see worth in someone such as I?”

Lucy’s heart wept upon hearing her words. “You underestimate the capacity of a good man. A man who truly loves you will love you for who you are, not only for what you can give him.”

“I… I ought to have foreseen this,” said Anastasia with a croaking sob. “In my heart of hearts, I was aware that you would comprehend. Yet the very act of giving it voice…” She shook, her breath unsteady as she mustered the courage to continue. “To speak those words… it renders the truth incontrovertible.”

Lucy held her close and stroked her hair gently. “I understand. I have suspected for some time now.”

“You…” Anastasia felt almost betrayed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am a nurse. I may be advanced in years, I tend to the laundry as well, and I am not blind.”

“All this time? Why did you choose to remain silent?”

“You were so set in your decision not to discuss it. As the years rolled by, it seemed less important, but now…”

“Now, it is important! It is of utmost importance!” cried Anastasia as she slumped into Lucy’s arms once more.

As Lucy comforted Anastasia, her thoughts went to Captain Clifton and the tenderness that suffused his very being whenever he spoke of her dear, grief-stricken, friend. Hope sparked within her. Perhaps he could be the gentleman who would look past this concealed sorrow and cherish this exquisite woman for all she truly was.

There was a knock at the door. Anastasia halted her sobbing and dabbed her face with a handkerchief as Lucy answered it.

“Good evening, madam. I hope you will forgive the lateness of this call; however, I am here with a matter that requires your urgent attention. Thomas Clifton, at your service.”