Impromptu in F-Flat Major, Op. 90, No. 3 Andante

Upon the table lay a pocket watch. Jack found himself casting glances in its direction at, the very least, two-hour intervals. However, despite the passage of considerable time, the minute hand had advanced an infuriating five minutes.

A few days ago, Lucy had delivered another note, specifying a suitable time for him to call upon Anastasia. This second missive rested on his bedside table, where he had fallen asleep reading it each night since its arrival.

The persistent checking of the watch disrupted his reading of The Book, an activity upon which he wished to focus. He had read The Book once already; yet, as it was from her, he doubted his ability to set it aside any time soon. It accompanied him even to the garden, where during moments of rest he would diligently cleanse his hands before indulging in its contents anew.

He was convinced that the faint scent of vanilla lingered on the paper, a fragrance unmistakably hers. The procurement of such an exotic essence in these remote parts piqued his curiosity. Resolving to unravel this enigma, he planned to inquire about it during their dinner engagement that evening, if he could remember.

The novel was set aside, and within the tome’s pages lay Anastasia’s message of thanks, now serving as a bookmark; worn and creased from his frequent perusal.

Rising from his bed with uncertainty shadowing his countenance, he traced the textures of various garments.

His gaze returned to the book. Love, a battlefield for which he had never prepared, loomed before him, and doubt crept in as to whether he possessed the requisite armaments to engage in such an encounter.

He chose a frock coat of the deepest grey, its hue reflecting the tempestuous clouds that mirrored his inner turmoil. His heart quickened with uncertainty and longing interwoven with an emotion deeper than any he had previously dared to acknowledge.

He dressed with a rhythm that masked the turmoil beneath his composed exterior; the only hint of his inner disquiet was the stream of expletives uttered whilst he struggled with his cravat.

His fingers traced the gnarled sword scar concealed beneath his cream cotton shirt, a vindictive reminder of a time when death had been wrested from him against his will.

He uttered another curse, removed his frock coat, and selected a waistcoat.

This evening, he would not contend for life or honour but perhaps for a treasure far more valuable—his heart, and he headed to the Hartford cottage, ready as he could be for this battle.

After shy greetings, dinner began smoothly, and Jack’s initial reservations dissipated while Lucy carved the roast chicken with habitual precision, laughter shared between them at the recollection of one of her past culinary blunders.

The scent of warm, golden crusty bread permeated the air. Anastasia, clad in a simple white cotton dress, shivered with recognition as Jack’s strong hands offered her a slice, evoking memories of the tender moment they had shared.

As the meal continued and his courage swelled, he cleared his throat before turning to Anastasia. “I wish to… convey my gratitude for your kindness in… sending me that book,” said he with heartfelt appreciation. “It was a favourite of… mine in my youth, yet leaving home… prevented its completion.”

Exchanging a glance and sensing an undercurrent of something deeper in Jack’s words, the two women felt a curiosity yet remained uncertain as to how to broach the subject.

Anastasia endeavoured to tactfully pose an inquiry. “One cannot help but ponder the magnitude of your feelings upon departing from the comforts of home.”

A shadow dipped across Jack, momentarily dimming his bemused cordiality with a trace of melancholy. “At the age of fifteen, I… deemed it time to go out into the world and… relinquish the comforts of my youth.”

There was a clink as Anastasia dropped her fork in surprise, scarcely able to fathom such premature independence. “But how could you simply depart?”

Reluctantly, Jack let unwanted memories swirl to the surface, compelling him to poke at the chicken on his plate with a knife. “My family life… it was rather complicated.”

The gravity that he dropped with his tone of voice gave Lucy’s curiosity pause, and she smoothly intervened just as Anastasia was poised to inquire further. “The book you mentioned, Jack,” said she, “how do you find it?”

Jack’s demeanour softened, his eyes sparkled, and he leaned in with eagerness to share his reflections. “The ambience that Radcliffe conjures is indeed enthralling. Her use of the… landscape. The vast, shadowy forests and… towering mountains… is so masterful that the settings themselves seem alive, almost as… if they are… conspiring in the story’s mysteries.”

Spreading butter on a slice of bread and observing his transformation into one brimming with exuberance, Anastasia nodded in charmed agreement. “Indeed, and the suspense that mounts with each successive chapter. She masterfully weaves a sense of increasing dread.”

The final course of their meal was fragrant apple pie, dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg. The pie was served by Anastasia as Lucy, noting their mutual interest, nudged them along with a question, “What do you make of the main character's struggle between heart and reason?”

Anastasia tilted her head towards Lucy, passing her a slice of pie accompanied with an expression of bewilderment. Lucy responded with a wink and a subtle nod in Jack’s direction. He was considering the question intently, his fingers drumming lightly on the arm of his chair.

“Indeed, there is a—” he took a plate of pie with an air of distracted concentration. “Thank you, Miss Hart—Anastasia. There is a… a… The heroine’s romantic ideals often find themselves at… odds with her rational instincts.”

Leaning forward, Anastasia’s dessert spoon paused on her plate after slicing into the pie, waiting for her to make the scoop to her mouth. “Women were frequently ensnared in such dilemmas, compelled to heed their hearts yet constrained by societal expectations to remain sensible and composed.”

“Indeed,” concurred Jack, brandishing his laden spoon to punctuate his accord. The portion of pie splattered back onto the plate. His cheeks coloured with embarrassment as he hastily scooped it up, hoping the mishap had gone unnoticed.

It had not gone unnoticed, but before Anastasia could comment, Lucy gave a slight shake of her head.

The spoon had halted in the air, forgotten almost immediately as he continued with his discourse. “Radcliffe does not… avoid the portrayal of female fortitude. Notwithstanding the… constraints they encounter, they… exhibit resilience and resourcefulness.” The spoon was remembered and finished its journey to his mouth.

“It is indeed inspiring, given the era during which she wrote,” replied Anastasia in fond amusement at his fervour. She had never seen such vivacity regarding books in a man.

Lucy’s smile was a mirror of her delight in the animated conversation between the two as she commenced the clearing of the table. Seeing this, Jack rose to lend his assistance.

A perplexed glance from Lucy was met with a similar expression from Anastasia, before they turned back to Jack, who was wholly absorbed in consolidating the remnants of their meal onto one plate.

Reaching for Anastasia plate, he looked up. His complexion shifted from pale to flushed and back again in the span of time it took to read this sentence. “Oh, are… are… we not… clearing the table?”

“We are indeed clearing the table, Captain—” Jack flinched, cutting her off; Anastasia looked to Lucy, at a loss for words.

“Seeing as you are a bachelor, I reckon you are accustomed to clearing the table,” Lucy said, mildly worried at his current switch in disposition. “Still and all, if you would prefer to accompany Anastasia to the garden, I would not mind finishing up here.”

Distant gunfire had drifted behind the word ‘captain’ and into Jack’s ears. He looked down at the plate of scraps he held, hoping that his concentration would quell the noise from rising higher.

“Would you… mind if I did assist, Mrs Hawthorne?”

“Well, Captain—”

The plate slipped from Jack’s hands, striking the table, causing some of the food to scatter. Lucy turned towards Anastasia, helplessness in her expression, as he hastily gathered the remnants with his fingers.

“I understand there are… protocols. Nevertheless, I had believed that… under these particular circumstances, it would… present no issue?”

Anastasia, uncertain of what precisely was transpiring but recognising that he appeared wholly trapped in this task and unable to proceed until it was accomplished, transferred the remnants from her plate onto the one which he had inadvertently dropped.

Upon looking up at her, Jack was met with a warm smile that transformed his almost frightened expression into one of radiant gratitude. She then lifted the plate and positioned hers beneath it to commence the stack, whilst the three of them completed the task of clearing the table.