Nocturne in C♯ Minor, Op. Posth., XX

Jack fought with fierce desperation, his sword flashing in the sunlight. The men who had followed his reckless charge fell around him, their efforts valiant and futile.

He had returned home and immediately begun to prune his roses with the same wrathful precision he would afford an adversary, chastising himself and wishing he had found a more composed response. The unexpected smile of greeting after his actions the day before and— the heat and stench of a burned book; his brother’s piercing scream —had near shattered his concentration.

With a decisive yank, he uprooted a weed and cast it aside, as though through this act he could dispel his haunting memories just as easily.

He had heard tales of other men plagued by their pasts, driven to madness by the inexplicable machinations of their own minds. Their stories were not ones of peace, but rather narratives filled with relentless suffering that instilled a dread deep within his bones. He could not—would not—subject anyone to the torment of his mind, or be the catalyst for further pain and misery.

Yet now, there was Miss Hartford. The mere contemplation of her instilled a serenity that surpassed even what his beloved roses provided. It was an enigma beyond his comprehension, one that imbued him with heretofore unimagined hope.

His hand hovered over a sky-blue rose bush that mirrored the soft hue of Anastasia’s gown. Brushing his fingers against the delicate petals, he realised that his cravat was of the same colour. The shining thread he thought of as Miss Hartford shone a little brighter as he smiled.

The snip of the shears resonated through the tranquil morning air. He trimmed with precision; each cut was an act of careful preservation designed to ensure that the roses flourished within their impeccably maintained beds. The flowers’ pure and fragile beauty symbolised the contrast to the violent, chaotic existence he had renounced. In nurturing them, he found satisfaction in nature’s silent joy and grasped at a semblance of serenity that almost kept that chaos at bay.

The garden stood as tangible proof to himself that he could create and sustain beauty in spite of the ugliness that had once consumed him.

The two images he had of her, caught in the rain and in the bookstore, often intruded upon his thoughts unbidden, blending with the scent of roses. Each time, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the enthralling illusion, his heart resonating with a longing unfamiliar to him, for moments filled with soft touches that promised comfort and cheer.

As the sunlight began to wane, Jack persisted in his labour, ensnared by his reveries. His muscles protested from hours of exertion; yet it was his heart that ached more profoundly. Yearning for a woman he scarcely knew, but to whom he felt an inexplicable pull.

While he cleared away the clippings, he heard her laughter permeating the silence of his garden, and imagined their fingers entwined during a moonlit stroll beneath the night sky.

The rolling crack of muskets erupted behind him. A fellow soldier, caught in the danse macabre of friendly fire, performed one final pirouette before collapsing to the ground.

He turned to respond to the knocking at the gate.

A servant presented a letter. “From Her Grace, The Lady Caroline Wintersley.”

Accepting the missive with a bewildered nod, his thoughts meandered back to the morning encounter with Miss Hartford as he perused the oddly insistent invitation to a ball this weekend.

He continued to prune his roses until dusk had rendered everything grey, striving to remain indifferent about attending. Yet, whenever he contemplated declining the invitation, her captivating copper eyes would flash before him. He found himself torn between his desire to shield others from his internal battles, and the appeal of a woman who had unexpectedly secured a place in his heart.

Introspectively walking through his roses to the manor, he made his decision. A stillness had ever eluded him; a peace he desired that could subdue the inner turmoil. He found it in her and yearned for more. More of the presence that somehow ushered in this tranquillity.

With this thought at the forefront of his mind, he steeled his resolve to accept the invitation.

After commencing and discarding several sheets of parchment, Jack carefully inscribed an RSVP and made his way to the Wintersley estate, a mere ten-minute stroll from his own abode.

As he presented the RSVP to a servant, Lady Wintersley appeared and greeted him, giving the impression she had been awaiting his arrival. “You know, Captain, it was your rendezvous at the bookshop that brought you to mind for this event.”

His brows furrowed in puzzlement. “Rendezvous, Your Grace? At the bookshop?”

“Yes, it was quite remarkable.”

A knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach as he wrestled with her insinuation. Surely, the fleeting interaction must have appeared trivial to anyone else. Had she seen his inability to articulate himself, conscious that his words would tumble over one another? His abrupt departure? Miss Hartford, lovely and mesmerising?

Lady Wintersley chuckled with satisfaction. His expression had unwittingly mirrored the turmoil within him.

Jack’s face darkened, his displeasure mounting amidst the discordant orchestra of his emotions. “On second thought, Your Grace, I—"

“No, Captain Clifton, I shall not entertain such a notion. You have accepted the invitation and you shall attend.”

Finding himself reluctantly nodding in compliance with her unwavering determination amidst the whirlwind of his thoughts, a simmering resentment rose against her for discerning his vulnerability with such ease.

As he made his way home, Lady Wintersley’s words went back and forth in his mind. Her observations and assumptions had woven a narrative with him and Miss Hartford at its centre. The mere possibility that she might share these insights with others was enough to unsettle him deeply.

His resolve to decline the invitation solidified. He crafted in his mind the words he would use to excuse himself. The thought of entering a room where every eye might scrutinise his every move and word was enough to make him consider fleeing before he even arrived.

A single, delicate thread that bound Jack to Miss Hartford brought him to a halt outside her picturesque cottage. Bathed in moonlight, he gazed upon it, the image of her captivating eyes flashing once more in his mind.

His resolve wavered. The prospect of being in Miss Hartford’s presence again was a temptation he found difficult to resist. His mind roiled with the battle between seclusion and companionship.

Upon returning home, Jack proceeded to the washroom and stripped himself of his garments. In the mirror’s reflection, he beheld a man shaped by hardship—a raw edge to his character that was only just tempered by the genteel fa?ade of his present existence.

Apparently, it was peculiar for an individual to cleanse themselves every night. However, the sensation of dirt and perspiration upon his skin rendered it difficult for him to slumber or concentrate on any matter after a time. He had been compelled to endure this during his service in the army, and loathed it.

Filling the basin, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, feeling the muscles of his back tense as the sound of mocking laughter at his discomfort rose before he suppressed it once more.

A concoction of rum and rosemary water purged the grime from his hair and the sudden chill refreshed his mind.

Daunting though it was to admit, after all these years of convincing himself otherwise regarding any other lady, he desired Miss Hartford. She bestowed upon him a serenity amidst the cacophony of his thoughts. With this realisation, he made his final decision: he would attend Lady Wintersley’s event, all for the chance to be near her once more.

He worked up a lather until bubbles covered the surface, then divided the froth evenly on both sides of the basin, creating a clear space in the middle for no discernible reason other than that he had found it mandatory.

Scrubbing diligently, taking the froth from one side or the other at random, rivulets cascaded down his torso, tracing the muscular contours of his abdomen and legs into the tub below.

Once he had finished drying himself thoroughly, he returned his gaze to the mirror. The candlelight cast deep shadows across his face, revealing a heaviness and dullness where a spark should have danced. Overcome with exhaustion, he retired to bed, sleeping with a small smile as Miss Hartford graced his dreams with her kisses.