Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major, K. 467, II. Andante

May 4th 1816

The day of the ball dawned with rain. In fact, it had rained since the start of May, but it ceased at lunchtime, and there was a nearly summery feeling in the air, as if the month required a freshening. Which it did; it was unseasonably cold, and people were beginning to worry about the approaching summer.

Lucy was attending to Anastasia’s ensemble. “You will appear quite lovely in this,” said she, as the soft fabric of the gown shimmered beneath the dusky light that poured through the window.

“Indeed, you have performed marvels with the gown. Are you quite sure you do not wish to accompany me?”

With hot water tracing the contours of her body and washing away her anxieties, Anastasia reclined in the bath, allowing the warmth to envelop her.

“Thank you, my dear, but I fear I am becoming too advanced in years for such revelries.”

Anastasia giggled at Lucy’s words. “You are not at all too old for such festivities.”

“Oh, indeed I am, and I have had my time with balls and things, and now I am happiest here.”

“Very well, the invitation is open until I reach the front door.”

Lucy laughed. “I believe it is time for you to get dressed.”

Water droplets cascaded down Anastasia’s Rubenesque figure. She directed a playful splash at Lucy for disregarding her words in favour of preparing her for the evening. Lucy handed her a towel, and she attempted to dry herself.

“This is wet!”

“Naturally, you splashed water on it,” responded Lucy with another laugh and handed her a dry towel before presenting the night’s garments, and Anastasia adorned herself with each layer in succession.

She began with her chemise, a simple white garment of delicate linen that acted as a shield between her skin and the coarser fabrics to come. Stockings followed, secured by garters just below the knee.

The stays she had chosen, though the height of fashion, did more than merely elevate; they sculpted her figure in a manner both unfamiliar and captivating. The high-waisted gowns that were en vogue often appeared tailored for a different sort of woman—one with less curves at the hips. She adjusted the fabric, musing upon the heroines in her beloved novels, invariably portrayed as willowy and delicate.

Is it too much? Her reflection stared back with equal measures of doubt, hope, and silence.

Lucy, ever observant, discerned the slight furrow in Anastasia’s brow as she finished the stays. “You look lovely. Fashion is merely a painter’s fancy; it is the woman who gives grace to the garments.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Anastasia. “Yet sometimes I yearn for a time when the painter’s fancy would not impose so heavily upon our self-perception.” Her hands glided over the fabric encasing her stomach, acquainting themselves with the novel contour imparted by the stays. “It seems one must strike a delicate equilibrium between how society desires to perceive us and how we aspire to view ourselves.”

“Exactly,” agreed Lucy, assisting Anastasia with the arrangement of her petticoat to accentuate the natural elegance of her figure rather than alter it. “A woman’s value resides not in the dimensions of her bust, or the sweep of her hip, but in the fortitude of her character, and the generosity of her spirit.”

Anastasia’s eyes met Lucy’s in the mirror, engaging in a silent exchange of wisdom transmitted from one woman to another. “Thank you, Lucy. That reminder was most necessary.”

As they finished dressing, Anastasia’s posture was a touch straighter, not from the stays, but from the bolstering of her spirit. The evening awaited, not as a trial of her appearance, but as a celebration of her presence.

With all undergarments securely in place and adjusted for comfort, Lucy aided Anastasia with her gown. The cool, dark silk dress provided a striking contrast to her pale skin. As she took in her reflection, a surge of anticipation enlivened her senses.

Lucy cast about for the additional adornments that further enhanced the ensemble. She became a little more frantic as she searched through the fabric on the vanity.

“The matching ribbon for your hair! It is essential to complete your attire this evening. I must run to the haberdashery and retrieve it before the shop closes.” With these words, Lucy set about preparing for her departure.

“But, surely, can we not use another? I shall be late,” protested Anastasia.

Lucy offered her a knowing smile. “It is not just about the ribbon itself; it is how well it complements your outfit. It is not far, and I will be as swift as I can.”

Alone in her room, with the gentle rustling of her gown caressing her skin, she fixated on the reflection that stared back at her from the full-length mirror, captivated by the woman she beheld.

Her hands were sheathed in elbow-length kid gloves, while her sleeves, pleated at the head, left much of her upper arms exposed. The high waistline rested just beneath the bodice—a slender strip of fabric that revealed a generous portion of her upper chest.

Anastasia favoured a minimalist approach to her wardrobe, eschewing excessive ornamentation. Nevertheless, she had embroidered the hem with roses meticulously excised from an old gown of rich crimson. She also cinched the high waist to emulate the newer style of triangular silhouette that Charlotte had exhibited on her latest dress.

Would he be captivated by her? She dared to imagine his eyes ablaze with longing, his touch strong and kind. A flutter danced within her chest at the mere thought of encountering him once more amidst the whirlwind of the ball. Yet a question lingered like an elusive whisper: Were these perceptions born solely from suppressed desires longing to be set free?

Lucy made her return, cheeks suffused with a rosy hue, as she clutched the coveted ribbon in triumph. Yet her exuberance was tempered by sombre news. “Anastasia…”

Upon hearing the timbre of her voice, Anastasia felt a sense of foreboding weaken her legs and she sat down heavily.

Lucy hesitated, conscious of the potential ramifications her next words might carry. “There were some people heading to the ball, and I overheard them talking of…”

Anastasia’s composure slumped in apprehension while she silently implored her companion to proceed.

“They… they say that the ball honours a couple who encountered one another in a bookshop, yet Lady Wintersley declines to reveal their identities.”

Her heart ceased its rhythm. She had ardently wished for her meeting with Captain Clifton to remain veiled in secrecy. Her mind whirled with dire scenarios that threatened to overwhelm her as her gaze returned to the mirror. Therein, she saw a woman who would be at the centre of gossip, subjected to questions and comments. It had been years since anyone had questioned her choices, and she doubted whether she wished to endure such again.

Lucy, the steadfast presence in Anastasia’s tumultuous sea of emotions, steered her away from the spiralling thoughts with unwavering sensibility and practicality. She took Anastasia’s hands within her own, and said, “Indeed, tongues are wagging as they are inclined to do. Yet we must not allow idle chatter to dictate our lives.”

“I fear the judgement that awaits me, and even more so, the judgement that may befall Captain Clifton.” Panic replaced the foreboding, as she contemplated the repercussions of—

“Judgement? Why on earth would people judge you and the captain?”

“I… I only meant in terms of the scrutiny he would suffer if—”

Lucy squeezed Anastasia’s hands with a comforting assurance. “People are partial to gossip, particularly regarding matters beyond their understanding. It is simpler for them to whisper in corners than to confront their own ignorance.”

‘But what if their conjectures are not entirely without foundation? What if there is indeed an unspoken connection between Jack and myself?’ Her face reddened, “I mean to say… Captain Clifton.”

“Then is that not splendid, dear? A rapport, a connection… That is something to be cherished rather than dreaded. Do not allow the fear of gossip to steal away the joy of a blossoming friendship or perhaps even more.”

“I… find myself terrified of the very idea.”

“Do not let fear impede you from embarking on what could be a beautiful journey.”

Anastasia fidgeted with her dress, her fingers hovering near the bows she had fastened, tempted to untie them yet again.

“Attend the ball tonight, Anastasia. Carry your head high and let the world see you for who you truly are: a woman of strength, grace, and integrity. And remember, despite the whispers and stares, there are individuals who care about you and stand with you—myself included.”

Anastasia traced the black ribbon around her arm, seeking relief in its cool touch. It failed to quell the worries that consumed her thoughts. The one thing that Lucy did not know, the secret that remained hidden from all, continued to restrain her. “But what if I cannot be the woman he wants?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I… may not embody what he seeks in a woman. What if he deems me not worth the scrutiny he suffers? What if he sees me and I have only imagined—”

Lucy interrupted her with a firm pull of the laces on the back of Anastasia’s dress. “You have dedicated so much time to prepare, and you look absolutely ravishing. Do not let mindless chatter spoil your evening.”

“But…”

“No buts,” insisted Lucy, her tone harbouring an uncharacteristic severity. “You know your heart.”

“I… do. I do!” responded Anastasia, wringing her hands, “But what if—”

“ Anastasia Jane Clifton !”

Anastasia snapped her mouth shut in shock.

“You have received an invitation to a ball. Your friends will be there, and indeed, there exists the possibility of forming an acquaintance with the captain, or, perhaps not. Your reluctance serves no purpose.”

“I—”

“You have spurned suitors in the past, and you have attended balls where you enjoyed delightful company with your friends. Why do you insist on making this so troublesome?”

“Of course, I wish to attend the ball; I am eager to see the captain. It is imperative that I find out the truth, Lucy!”

“And you shall.” Lucy returned to her gentle self and soothed her by changing the subject for now. “You really must attend to your hair; it has become quite unmanageable.”

“Well, I find little appeal in short hair,” said Anastasia, scrunching her nose.

“It already scarcely fits the under-cap, especially with the bonnet atop.”

“I shall dispense with them both.”

“What do you mean?”

“I shall arrange my hair in a half updo.” Anastasia swept her tresses from her visage and secured them temporarily with a ribbon to maintain the style.

Lucy thought this was straying slightly too far from the fashions that bound the community together. “You are not wearing a bonnet, not to a ball.”

“I am aware,” giggled Ana, “I merely intended to express my desire for my hair to simply cascade down my back.” She paused and gathered a bunch, curling it around her hand. “Oh, but I am unsure! What if he favours women of high fashion?”

“Do not indulge in such folly; you have observed him twice without a waistcoat, of all things. I am convinced he wishes to see you, irrespective of your attire, or lack thereof…”

They shared a slightly scandalised giggle.

Considerable time and effort had been devoted to preparing for this momentous occasion; it would be folly to let such dedication go to waste. Anastasia examined the woman in the mirror—a gorgeous stranger in a breathtaking dress who appeared confident and radiant, yet beneath the ribbons, make-up, lace, silk, and cotton, she felt exposed and defenceless.