Gymnopédie No. 1

Anastasia remained against the door for a moment, striving to preserve her composure despite the state of her attire. The bookshelves and plush red damask furniture of the sitting room, all brass gilded and matching, seemed almost dull in comparison to what she had just witnessed.

“I was about to call for you. You are soaked to the bone! Come, let us get you out of those wet clothes,” said Lucy Hawthorne, who had heard the storm and begun to kindle a fire in anticipation.

Lucy was a grey-haired woman, somewhat small in stature, with kind hazel eyes and deep laugh lines that crinkled upon her face more often than not. The two women were dear friends who had met under sorrowful circumstances, and had resolved that a mutual living arrangement would suit them both for the time being. Thus far, that time had been just over a decade.

Anastasia acquiesced to Lucy’s guidance towards the comforting warmth of the hearth, her thoughts adrift as she revisited the image of Captain Clifton standing in the rain with awe on his countenance. A tremor coursed through her, not from the cold but from a surge of unexpected passion that his profound melancholy had kindled in her heart.

“Oh dear, this is not good at all. We do have a bath inside, you know,” gently teased Lucy as she helped her out of the drenched clothes with hands well-accustomed to summer storms.

“It was a rare day of sunlight; it was not my intention to find myself caught in such a predicament.”

“Yet you did. How did you manage it? Too engrossed in your writing?” inquired Lucy, draping a towel over her bare shoulders with maternal tenderness.

With slow, deliberate motions—still reflectively outside—Anastasia dried the elegant violin contours of her body. “Do you recall the reclusive Captain Clifton?” said she, thoughtfully. “The one who came here to live a few years ago after the war?”

“Why do you ask?” inquired Lucy with surprise. This was most unusual; Anastasia had shown no such interest in anything of the sort for quite some time.

“The wind whipped away my papers and he kindly assisted me in their retrieval. But… but Lucy! I caught him scrutinising one!”

“‘Scrutinising’?” said Lucy, and ceased assisting with the silk chemise Anastasia was slipping into.

A worried blush suffused Anastasia’s cheeks as she recalled her unbecoming response. “The words I write often emanate from my heart without conscious deliberation. And he was perusing it!”

“As long as you kept your manners,” said Lucy with gentle reassurance, offering a dry dress. She knew well that Anastasia tended to be rather verbose when she was feeling somewhat unsettled.

“I… I addressed him with severity,” confessed Anastasia, accepting the dress and fixing her gaze upon a watercolour of a ruined abbey upon the wall. “His countenance bore a depth of understanding and melancholy, as though my tale had resonated within his very soul. The vision of him standing solitary amidst the rain… the desolation he radiated… it pierced me to my core.”

“Whatever do you mean?” said Lucy. Taken aback by the impassioned words, she could only repeat herself as she bustled about with firewood.

“Please try to understand,” implored Anastasia, stepping into the dress as the crackling of the kindling grew louder. “Before I entered, I could not resist casting one final glance behind me, and there he remained.”

Astonished at such a thing, Lucy hurried towards the door, briskly brushing her hands free of wood residue before swinging it open. “He is not there now,” said she, trying to reassure her, then looked down. “But what might this be?”

She stooped to retrieve something that had been placed beneath a stone, then presented Anastasia with another stack of her papers.

“Why, these are the remaining ones!” exclaimed Anastasia, as she accepted them in surprise, aghast at her forgetfulness in the face of a mere gentleman’s overwhelming presence. “His kindness is unexpected after my severe words; these would be in a lamentable state by now.”

She carefully positioned the stack of papers near the fire to dry and placed a piece of wood atop them to ensure their safety. “I do hope he harbours no ill will towards me due to my response. The sight of him… He appeared utterly forsaken, as if my unwarranted harshness had wounded his very heart, yet… he seemed to understand what I had written, I could see it.”

“I am sure Captain Clifton is fine,” said Lucy reassuringly. “Do not let your imagination carry you away.”

“But…” began Anastasia, then faded into silence as her thoughts drifted to the captain, now free from his rain-drenched attire that had clung to every contour of his muscular chest. She traced the jagged scar with her fingertips. Instead of hastily snatching paper from his strong hands, she found those very hands upon her, tenderly caressing her face as— She closed her eyes and willed the image away by picking up her black mourning ribbon and tying it around her upper arm.

Lucy touched her arm softly with a blend of concern and affection. “Dearest, it is unwise to indulge in fantasies about gentlemen, especially those who have endured the harsh realities of war.”

“Rest assured that I fully comprehend what my eyes beheld. I possess the discernment to distinguish between reality and imagination. He was no hero from the pages of my novels.”

Nevertheless, Captain Clifton’s countenance, marked by a captivating combination of melancholy and understanding, would not cease casting itself upon her thoughts.

Her pulse quickened as she pictured him drawing near, his lips seeking hers in a gentle kiss, his arms encircling her. Yet she cast aside these intrusive reveries, stifling the lingering warmth that his image kindled within her.

It was a tempting path to tread, but she reminded herself, running a finger along the ribbon on her arm, that it would inevitably lead to sorrow.

The squall had passed, yet the air remained quite cold. Attired in warm garments and seated comfortably in her bedchamber with a steaming cup of tea, Anastasia held a quill poised above an untouched page. She dipped the quill into the inkpot, took a sip of tea, grimaced at its temperature, blew gently upon it, and then took another sip before setting it back down.

Ink flowed from the quill scratching against the paper in an impassioned dance.

Once again, I mourn for what could have been. My encounter today has only made my fury at the illness that stole away my dreams rise to the forefront of my mind.

I knew what path lay before me. Now, I find myself indecisive, at a juncture.

My independence brings me serenity, yet a longing for something (or someone) else lingers. Jac—Captain Clifton represents an alternate route, filled with the promise of companionship, and, perhaps he would accept me as I am?

My heart burns to discover the answer. Am I ready to embrace the vulnerability that path demands? Shall I adhere to the solitude that has become both my sanctuary and source of strength?

How can I ignore the stirring within my—the part of me that stirs with excitement at the mere mention of his name?

Such is my dilemma. Whence shall I proceed?

She reclined in her chair and stretched, staring outside at the clouds rolling in the night sky as she pondered the enigmatic captain: a man shrouded in mystery with little known of him beyond the whispers that circulated through town. His deliberate withdrawal from society had never interested her. Now it piqued her curiosity.

Might the captain be concealing a trauma, or personal tragedy, that compelled his retreat into isolation? Or was it possible he simply cherished his privacy, preferring his own company to the hullabaloo of social engagements?

Closing her window against the unusually cool spring air, she exchanged her day dress for a double layered cotton nightgown and went to bed, wriggling comfortably under the heavy duvet. Her mind incessantly returned to the captain; even as slumber enveloped her, his image persisted in the corners of her dreams.

Birdsong charmed her awake, their melodies intertwining with her lingering thoughts of Captain Clifton. As she rose, she found her heart unexpectedly light despite the tumult of the previous day.

She perused her wardrobe, her fingers gliding over the fabrics, each texture evoking a different melody of memories and emotions. She hesitated on the smooth silk of a gown cool against her skin. A faint blush crept up her neck at the recollection of Captain Clifton’s nearly translucent silk shirt adhering to his physique. With a small smile and a shake of the head, she dismissed the memory and resumed her search.

Usually, Lucy would assist her in preparing for an outing; however, today she felt an inclination to prepare herself independently, and chose a gown that would facilitate this notion. Selecting a sky-blue walking dress, she laid it out upon the bed.

Slipping into a soft cotton chemise first, she then chose short stays of hand-woven linen, laced at the front, which she tightened with practised ease.

Over the stays, she layered a petticoat that rustled softly with her movements. Each garment brought her one step closer to completing the image she desired to present to the captain—she paused and corrected herself—the world. At last, she donned the dress. It draped around her elegantly as she appraised her reflection.

The soothing hue lifted her spirits, and she had embellished the hemline with dual rows of silk ribbon that added a unique sway with each step. It featured long sleeves, covered her chest to her collarbone, and a woollen shawl embroidered with blue flowers lay gracefully over her shoulders. The ensemble was completed by fitted York tan gloves that extended past her elbows, and half-boots to match the gloves.

Anastasia called for Lucy as she chose a bonnet with a blue ribbon to match the dress. “Could you please prepare my cream pelisse?”

With a washcloth in hand, Lucy appeared around the door. “You are going out? Would you like some company?”

A soft smile adorned Anastasia’s lips as she shook her head. Her unavailability was well established in the village, and she had taken to moving about quite alone. “I aim to take a leisurely perambulation into the village with the intention of acquiring a new literary treasure to add to my collection.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows at this prolix explanation. However, she said nothing, respecting the boundary Anastasia had subtly drawn.

“Right now,” continued Anastasia at her expression, “I simply wish for a new distraction to transport me away from the present.”

A certain name hung in the air between them, unspoken yet understood. Demonstrating her usual tact, Lucy refrained from delving further and simply nodded before preparing the pelisse for Anastasia’s walk into town.