Intermezzo in A Major, Op 118, No. 2

April 1816 - Aldiana-upon-Tyne

Captain Jack Clifton squinted against the wind dragging the thundering clouds across the sky.

Mildly vexed by the sudden change in weather—which had been notably capricious since March—he half-wished that he had brought an umbrella.

The battlefield was in pandemonium. The air, thick with the acrid tang of gunpowder and smoke, stung his nose, making his eyes stream as he led his men through the onslaught of cannons, their deadly payloads indiscriminately tearing through the soldiers.

A jolt of adrenaline shot through his veins and he nearly stumbled on the cobblestone path.

A bullet whizzed past him, its lethal trajectory grazing the side of his head, knocking it sideways. A thrill pulsed through him at how close he was to finally leaving it all behind.

Another wave of cannon fire— A clap of thunder cut through the clamour and rain began to descend without even waiting for the rumble to die away.

This caused him to wish that he had brought an umbrella, or at least a hat.

Blinking away the droplets as he inhaled the scent of petrichor, a disturbance behind one of the low stone fences that lined the path leading directly to the village centre caught his eye.

In the front garden of a quaint yellow sandstone cottage, Miss Hartford, a distantly acknowledged woman he would sometimes see demurely walking about the village, was rather un-demurely rushing about in dismay.

Papers pirouetted in the tempestuous wind while she endeavoured to reclaim them, holding down her bonnet with one hand, her dark curls breaking free despite her efforts.

He vaulted the low stone wall, darted towards her, then skidded to a halt on the rain-slick grass. Miss Hartford had turned away from him, and something prompted him to instinctively reach out. His fingertips brushed against her hair before he snatched his hand away. The fleeting touch sent an unexpected thrill through his arm, and the constant cacophony that usually plagued his thoughts subsided to a background hum.

“Please, Miss Hartford… allow me to… assist you,” said Jack with strange hesitance, as though stopping to search for the right words to complete his sentence. Covering her shoulders with his coat without awaiting a response, he set about gathering the flying papers.

The warmth that enclosed Anastasia took her by surprise. She was on the verge of casting off the coat when she paused to observe the gentleman, who was now assisting her in her task, whether she desired it or not.

She came to the realisation that she did indeed desire his assistance. Particularly as she found herself currently fixed to the ground, only able to gaze upon the gentleman who was dashing about before her.

He had no waistcoat—or hat for that matter—and through the clinging fabric of his silk shirt that marked the solidity of his chest, she glimpsed a jagged scar. It stood out starkly above his heart, and seemed to writhe slightly with the movement of his muscles as he snatched papers fluttering past.

Wet tan trousers adhered to thighs flexing as he altered his course with an abandon that bordered on the perilous. His physique was almost flaunted by the frigid droplets as he worked. A heady mixture of trepidatious intrigue ignited within her at the quite clearly impulsive display of formidable strength and agility.

In their pursuit of the same paper, they bumped together and pulled away instantly, as though a spark of connection did not sizzle through them and heat their blood.

Jack lunged for a hovering sheet; it was whisked away by a fickle gust. His leg slipped from under him. Flailing perilously close to Miss Hartford, he twisted aside and landed with a sodden splat behind her.

Taking a moment to compose himself, he sat up, disregarding his soaking backside, and began to gather together the pages he had rescued. Upon glancing at an excerpt, he paused to absorb its contents.

It was a page of a story, yet to describe it thus would be akin to stating, “this parchment bears ink”. The narrative described a sentiment he had always felt yet never quite comprehended: a profound sense of isolation that spoke of an emptiness within the very depths of one’s soul.

The incredible wisdom, the idea he could never quite grasp, was laid bare in front of him. He read on, captivated, hunching over it to shield it from the downpour, feeling his world shift fundamentally. Each sentence drew him further into the incredible wonder she had crafted with ink and parchment.

A rogue sheet whipped straight at Anastasia, clinging to her face, obscuring her vision, and sending cold water down her neck. Attempting to remove it carefully, the wind flapped it away from her fingers, prompting a huff of frustration. Upon pulling it away she discovered the captain seated upon the damp grass.

Spellbound, Jack raised his face, and the woman who understood his loneliness stared back at him as their chests rose and fell together. He scrambled to his feet, unable to tear his gaze from her captivating copper eyes.

She had forsaken her bonnet in favour of the pursuit. Droplets, scattered within her sable curls, glistened as though they were diamonds. Her high cheekbones lay obscured beneath soft apples flushed with the warmth of exertion. Light pink lips were slightly parted below a button nose adorned with a delicate sprinkling of sun-kissed freckles.

Anastasia abruptly found herself at the mercy of Captain Clifton’s unmistakable awe. Magnified by the rain, his astonished admiration bestowed upon him a mesmerising glamour that rendered her speechless.

Unable to think, Jack simply extended the sheaf of papers he had collected towards her.

“How dare you!” said Anastasia furiously, snatching the documents. “This is the most egregious intrusion upon my privacy I have ever—” The flash of agonised apology in his sage-green eyes and his panicked step backwards stung more than she would have thought, leaving her unable to continue. Not knowing what to do, she flung his cloak back to him and commenced her retreat.

“I beg your… pardon, Miss Hartford. I did not intend—No!” The woman who possessed knowledge he did not, and who had granted him a glimpse of understanding, was now fleeing from him, clutching the papers they had salvaged tightly to her bosom.

“Wait!” cried Jack; he knew not why, his typically resonant baritone voice straining against the sorrowful gusts trying to whip it away. “It—it was magnificent! Miss Hartford!”

His heart was begging her to turn around, to see him, to see how he felt. It was on his face, he could not remove it if he tried.

She had to see .

Anastasia’s dress, drenched from the downpour, mirrored the tumult in her heart. His call was a beacon amongst the confusing turbulence, and she cast a glance back.

He was gazing at her with the unabashed intensity of a besotted youth; mouth agape in astonishment, raindrops cascading from an aquiline nose unnoticed. Ebony locks clung to his forehead and a streak of white hair traced a scarred path along his temple. In his very demeanour she could see that he had grasped her desperation for connection woven into her prose.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, torn between violation and elation, never having dared to dream that her words could elicit such a response. It was clear he understood what she was attempting to convey, and she could not quite determine whether this brought her joy or fear.

Undeniably, he was the most captivating gentleman she had ever beheld.

A short while later, Jack walked home, stirred by the singular beauty he had witnessed in Miss Hartford. Her remarkable writing—whispering of hidden knowledge and understanding—along with her justifiable—nay, majestic—anger, revealed her strength in the face of his unwitting violation of her vulnerability.

She was, without a doubt, the most enchanting woman he had ever encountered.