Sospiri, Op. 70

Aldiana-upon-Tyne, the quintessence of English villages, snuggled amidst the rolling countryside of Northumberland. Wind-rustled ivy embraced stone walls, while chimneys puffed soft tendrils of smoke into the unseasonably cold air. A stone bridge arched gracefully over the river, connecting the main village to the dock, where boats arrived and departed laden with goods from up and down the river.

As she navigated the patchwork of buildings and cobbled streets, which formed a labyrinth that only the locals could traverse with ease, Anastasia greeted the shopkeepers as they opened their doors and hung up their signs.

From the bakery, the scent of bread fresh from the oven wafted through the air, blending with earthy notes carried from the adjacent river. In the square stood a clock tower; its melodious chime heralded the eighth hour, bouncing off walls and along narrow alleyways.

Upon her arrival at the bustling town square, Anastasia quickened her pace as she passed a group of gentlemen, clad in dandyish ensembles, congregating at the street corner to attend to their affairs.

Though lacking the grandeur of London or Bath the tranquillity had drawn affluent families who sought refuge from the capricious nature of life in more populous cities. Over time, the verdant landscape became dotted with grand country estates, each serving as a venue for balls and soirées that pulsed with their own unique cadence.

She crossed the street and made her way towards the bookshop, when she espied a group of her friends gathered beneath the clock tower for morning tea. Realising they had also noticed her presence, she approached them with a degree of reluctance.

“Miss Hartford, it is a pleasure to see you!” exclaimed Mrs Hargreaves, a woman of remarkable height and slender build, with a complexion akin to alabaster—an effect she had achieved through the application of an abundance of beauty products. She possessed what one might generously term an insatiable curiosity regarding the affairs of others. “What brings you into town?”

“Indeed, dear Anastasia,” said Lady Amelia Fitzroy with a serene smile. Her half-Indian features were as integral to her distinguished aura as the sharpness of her intellect, which she deftly concealed behind a gentle demeanour. “It is most unusual to see you in the village at this hour.”

The ginger-haired Charlotte Morland chimed in, her grey eyes twinkling fondly amidst a constellation of freckles. “However, it is lovely to see you at any hour.”

“The rare instance of sunny skies and invigorating air has beckoned me hither,” responded Anastasia, endeavouring to gracefully divert the conversation from personal inquiries.

Recognising her reluctance to speak of her affairs, Lady Fitzroy smiled and offered her an escape. “Indeed, the amount of rain and snow has been most unusual. Would you care to join us, or are you quite occupied at this moment?”

“I am most grateful for the invitation, however I must—”

“—go to the bookshop?” giggled Charlotte.

Laughing with her, Anastasia nodded, disentangled herself from the assembly with affectionate embraces and the acceptance of a gingerbread biscuit, and proceeded onward.

The aroma of paper and leather in the bookshop enveloped Anastasia in vellichor as she stepped into the warm interior. Loosening her pelisse slightly, she meandered through the aisles with affectionate familiarity, lightly brushing over countless tomes, each harbouring its own universe eager for discovery.

The gentle scent of roses and damp earth wafted by. She turned, then halted, her pulse quickening. Captain Clifton was perusing a novel. He seemed to perceive her presence and glanced up. His enigmatic countenance sent warmth surging through her neck and butterflies astir within her.

He is merely a man, she chastised herself, no different from any other and if he knew her secret, he would not even bother to say—

“Good morning, Miss Hartford,” said Jack, with a slight tremble in his voice.

“Good morning, Captain Clifton,” replied Anastasia, her heart lodged in her throat despite the scolding she gave herself.

The apologetic expression touched with pain crossed his face, the same one that she had seen after she snatched her papers from him, and her heart sank. As they gazed at each other, it slowly yielded to one of open longing. The moment stretched on until he abruptly looked past her shoulders. His eyes widened, then once more took on his usual look of stoic bemusement.

“I hope… you have a good… day, Miss Hartford.” He evidently ached to express more, yet all he offered her was a polite nod, the book he held was returned to its place on the shelf, and he departed from the shop.

The dejected slope of his shoulders suggested an attempted, but unfulfilled, struggle. So engrossed was she in her musings, that it took a pronounced clearing of the throat from another patron to jolt her from her reverie.

“It appears the bookshop has become quite a rendezvous, Miss Hartford.” Lady Caroline Wintersley, Dowager Duchess and the very embodiment of town society, captured her arm in greeting. “One might even consider it a secluded haven.”

Anastasia felt her cheeks flush with warmth at Lady Wintersley’s insinuations. She had not foreseen her brief exchange with the captain, much less expected it to be remarked upon in such a way.

“Please, allow me to assure you, Your Grace,” stated she with dignified poise, “that our encounter was purely coincidental,”

“Certainly, Miss Hartford,” said Lady Wintersley, her smile brimming with knowing anticipation. “A lady should always be prepared for unexpected prospects. Spontaneous encounters can often lead to the most fortuitous of outcomes.”

“Your Grace,” said Anastasia, her voice calm despite the quickening of her heart, “I must admit that your implications escape my understanding.”

Lady Wintersley chuckled softly and patted her hand in a reassuring manner. “Now, do not be bashful. Captain Clifton is known to be rather reserved, so it is quite an honour that he appears to have taken an interest in you.”

The anticipation stirred faster within Anastasia, yet she promptly suppressed it. “Your insights are indeed remarkable, Your Grace. However, I am inclined to believe that the good captain harbours no intentions beyond those of a courteous gentleman. If you will excuse me.”

A smile of recognition rose upon the Duchess face, and she paused to observe Anastasia for a moment.

Drawn towards the book Jack had abandoned and retrieving it from the shelf, Anastasia discovered a novel by Ann Radcliffe—an unexpected selection, she thought, for an ex-soldier. A vivid image flickered before her: a cosy fireside scene with the captain and this very book at its centre. She allowed herself to indulge in this enticing vision, a gentle smile gracing her lips as she imagined being nestled against him on the couch, both engrossed in their own literary worlds.

“Could it be that the good captain indulges in such unconventional literature?”

Anastasia’s daydream exploded abruptly, and the emphasis that had been placed upon her earlier words passed her by. “I find myself uncertain, Your Grace.”

“It is always advantageous to maintain an open perspective, would you not agree? I dare say it would have been difficult for the good captain to find a cravat to match your gown; the colour is most unusual,” said Lady Wintersley with a fondly knowing smile.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” responded Anastasia, absentmindedly committing the book title to memory. The image of Captain Clifton quietly engrossed in the book whispered of a softness hidden behind his stoic facade. “Please accept my sincerest apologies. I find myself compelled to attend to certain pressing duties that require my immediate attention.”

Her fingers lingered upon its spine for a fleeting moment before she politely nodded to Lady Wintersley, who smiled indulgently in return, then made her way out of the bookshop.

She could not help but feel a touch of regret for leaving the shop empty-handed, yet Lady Wintersley’s words had stirred something within her, igniting a spark of curiosity that refused to be extinguished.

Her blood turned to ice as the last sentence of Lady Wintersley seized her mid-step. He had indeed worn a sky-blue cravat that matched her dress, yet no such arrangement between them had been made! Yet… they had matched, nonetheless.

The unintentional harmony brought an enchanted smile to her lips, and she all but floated home.