Lyme was a modest town, quaint enough to suit those who preferred a quieter existence, though even its most affluent residents paled in comparison to the grandeur of Londoners. Over the past year, a curious spectacle had unfolded near Mary’s home—a grand structure slowly taking shape, its elegant carvings and imposing balconies looming incongruously over the humble surroundings. Whoever had seen fit to plant themselves here had better make good on their grand aspirations, for Mary had suffered enough of their racket from the home's construction.

When it was finally complete, the house was as ostentatious as expected, its commanding view of the sea lending it an air of unearned regality. You and your husband had, of course, built it to be precisely that—a retreat from London, a temporary reprieve from the political storm brewing there. Mary, ever observant, had watched from her window as your husband barked orders to the laborers unloading your belongings. Another wealthy London family, displacing themselves in search of fresh air and quiet, she thought. How quaint. You, however, remained something of a mystery. She had only caught glimpses of you—graceful movements, a face turned briefly toward the horizon—enough to stir her curiosity, though she would never admit it aloud.

By morning, her resolve had stiffened. A proper introduction was in order, if only to avoid the awkwardness of passing glances in town. Wrapping herself tightly in her woolen shawl to ward off the chill of the sea breeze, Mary crossed the short distance to your door and when the door opened, there you stood.

Your poise was disarming, the elegance of your dress a world apart from Mary’s utilitarian wool. Yet your smile was warm, not haughty, and it caught Mary off guard.

"I—ah—I only wished to introduce myself. Mary. I live just there, by the shore. It’s, a pleasure to meet you.”

Turning to leave almost immediately, her nerves frayed by your disarming presence, she had barely made it a few steps before your voice called her back.