Until that night, I was only familiar with the exteriors of the grander homesteads of New Jersey. I expected the Ballard Estate to be pristine through and through like a block of pure gold. The ballroom, the parlors, the mahogany furnishings with sparkling trinkets, china and cutlery all existed with the intention to dazzle and distract the guests from viewing what was behind those facades.

I was to receive a lesson in cheated expectations from Miss Ballard, as trite as that sounds. First, I watched her transform from a contrived young woman without so much as a ringlet out of place to joyous and excitable. Perhaps I was giving myself too much credit, but I suspected that this change could be attributed to having a potential friend by her side and this phenomenon was nothing short of witnessing the final stage of a beautiful metamorphosis.

She tugged ferociously at my arm, leading me through the winding passageways and cellars of the mansion. Not a hint of grandeur could be glimpsed in our surroundings. We had fallen from the heavens to the underworld by way of a single flight of stairs.

"Hold these," Sylvia demanded in the spoiled tone of a girl who was used to always having her way. "We'll need to move quickly and quietly so the workers in the kitchen won't hear." With that, she shoved a pair of satiny shoes into my one free hand. I watched the flight of her narrow feet, safely encased in their flowery lace stockings. Surely, she would be troubled to learn the rough floor that we raced across was nothing like the smooth surfaces that she was accustomed to. I felt obligated to speak up, if only to avoid the impending fit when she realized that the silly things had been either soiled or torn- or both.

"You're going to destroy your stockings," I warned. It startled me to hear a lady such as herself snort with such disinterest. "Miss Ballard?!" She shushed me, actually shushed me during our final dash into what I assumed to be an empty pantry. Behind the stone wall, I could hear a constant gurgling of some unknown culinary mechanism. "Why are we here?" I whispered, realizing that the space was too loud to hold a conversation at the hushed volume that we had adopted.

"Watch." Sylvia instructed, kneeling without a hint of remorse for her pale pink gown that was immediately stained with dirt. She appeared to be hunting for a perturbance in the dusty row of floorboards and I quickly understood it was a secret compartment that she sought. "Oh, bother!" she cursed, leaping to her feet with the otherworldly athleticism of a skilled dancer. "I'll never be able to find them with these blasted things on my hands! Would you be so kind, Master Bordon?"

Her palms turned towards the floor as she reached for me. I'd touched the soft leather of her gloves before during our invigorating albeit peculiar flight. Yet, the second that I started to pull, revealing for the first time the naked flesh of her wrists, my face turned as red as wine. I'd never undressed a woman before and had no real idea of where to begin. My best guess was that it would be begin like this- and let me assure you, the unspoken eroticism of this innocent gesture still sets my heart ablaze. That being said, I was taken aback and nearly disappointed upon the realization that there was nothing uncanny about Miss Ballard's hands at all!

"They're ordinary hands," I exclaimed roughly. "Pretty, yes. But I see nothing that would make them worth hiding from the world!"

Sylvia moved her fingertips to the blurry edge of a pool of light. "That is because, unlike Papa, you do not know where to look. Or where to feel." As she guided my touch along the nailbeds of her left hand, I began to realize tiny peculiarities. The first of which was that the nails on her dominant hand were significantly longer than those on her left. When she asked me to apply the slightest bit of pressure to her left-hand fingertips, I realized that the vacancies where the nails might have been were callused and tough. The contrast this made to the rest of her skin caused me to startle. "They are rough, aren't they? Ladies mustn't have rough hands," Sylvia assured me in a shameful tone.

"Only slightly," I shrugged modestly, longing to explain to her that I didn't find her any less beautiful because of these minor imperfections that she was nearly referring to as deformities. There was nothing about Sylvia that called for shame in any form! Secretly, I even found the haughty nature of the Ballard Sisters to be justified by their beauty. "You could always manicure and shorten the other five nails. That would even it out… would it not?"

Sylvia looked offended. "On my bow hand! Never! Those nails must be kept nice and long for when the music requires that I pluck."

I felt foolish. Foolish and intrigued. This explained the openly platonic conversation that she held with the gentlemen in the orchestra. "You are a musician," I observed as she continued her hunt on the floor, "it is perfectly normal for a young lady to have interests! You needn't hide away because of them!" My advice wasn't nearly as important as her search or the contents of the compartment once it was found.

"I'm not merely a musician, Master Bordon," she paused to scowl at me before removing an old violin with scratches and deep indentations in its body and rusted hardware. A piteous old thing, but the sound that it produced was unsurpassed by any of the musicians who General Ballard had commissioned to play in his home. "I am a composer!" She played several, lovely measures of what I would later learn to be an original work before growing frustrated and plopping the violin on the floor with a quick pout. "Let me assure you, I am improving! I am!"

"Improving?" I only laughed. "If you improve any more, Miss Ballard, those gentlemen downstairs will be out of the job for good!"

She produced a quick glare that clearly read, 'don't make fun of me', before returning her attention to the crypt in the floorboards. "I have the most extraordinary of teachers! Teachers that those fools up there would only dream of working alongside. This music-" when I saw that she was struggling to lift a fat book, overstuffed with mismatched pages, I leapt to help her, "this music is from all over the world! If I want to write world-class music, I will require a world-class education, you see! From places undreamt of in the dull collection of harpsichord pieces in the parlor upstairs. This movement-" she unveiled what appeared to be a partially burnt pamphlet with a text that appeared to be English, but with countless unrecognizable accents, "this movement is from Estonia. I have several from Russia, too and even India… and Japan! Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?!"

With her permission, I perused the jagged stacks that had traveled long and far only to become buried treasure. "They're priceless," I assured her with a smile. "how did you ever come to acquire such a collection?"

"I have a friend in New York with similar interests. He also happens to be a draper. You know, an occupational dressmaker? The envelopes were music, the narrow boxes were strings and the square boxes were rosin for my bow."

"If there is anything that you will require while I'm in New York, Miss Ballard, anything at all, you need only ask." Although the heated blush that I had worn was diminishing, it returned as I made this statement. "I was planning on writing you, anyway. Your father would be none the wiser if I added a roll or two of bow hair to my letters."

A smile moved across her round, smooth face like a pleasant breeze and I found myself looking upon her with the same adoration that I had given her sister all those years. It is strange, of course; she was the only Ballard girl I had ever truly disliked but at the same time, she was also the only one of her sisters who prompted me to think and wonder. Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. Writing to Sylvia and assisting her with this passion of hers could go terribly awry. Wealthy girls have expectations that poor boys can rarely fulfill, after all, especially in regards to material exchanges and there is no denying that Sylvia was materialistic. But as I watched her smile form, I glimpsed something that I hadn't before- humility.

"You owe me nothing, Master Bordon," said she, breaking the silence between us.

I parsed those words and meditated on them for the remainder of the evening. If she truly meant this, that the two of us could converse often and become more than mere acquaintances without the weight of expectations, perhaps there truly was more to Sylvia Ballard than I had thought previously. We returned upstairs, unsuspected, and instead of mingling or dancing, we sat beside the orchestra, draining one flute of champagne after the other. The joy that the music seemed to fill her with was infectious and, like the foolishly impulsive (and somewhat inebriated) young man that I was, I allowed my heart to be snatched away by her pretty, gloved hands.

"Are any of these compositions your own?" I inquired, half-joking, half-terrified that she would take offence to my nerve-riddled stab at humor.

"They don't play from the anonymous stack," she whispered. "My music is for a niche audience, after all."

"And which 'niche' might they be intended for, Miss Ballard?"

Her eyes dropped to her feet as embarrassment hardened her lovely features. "Presently, a vendor who sells at a discount price beneath a bridge in New York."

We both laughed uncomfortably. I already knew that I had an affinity for saying the wrong thing, so it came as no surprise that flirtation wouldn't be my strongest suit. "We all must start somewhere. Even if you never put a name to your music, all of the 'greats' have a signature sound. Yours will surely stand even amidst a sea of anonymous composers."

I meant this. But my words failed to put Sylvia at ease. Her thoughts quickly returned to the question that I had asked her earlier. "Besides," she trilled with forced optimism, "every piece for this ball was hand-picked months ago. But I do have a special talent for sneaking requests to Marcus. He almost wasn't permitted to conduct here last year because of the rowdy tunes that I asked him to play in the past, it was," she covered her mouth daintily to laugh, "it was quite scandalous!"

"Is Marcus familiar with your catalog?" Her glare told me everything that I needed to know. "What about your 'teachers' from Estonia? Russia? Japan?"

Her visage began to glow brighter than any candle in the ballroom as a wicked albeit darling idea dawned on her. "Marcus is familiar with many movements," Sylvia's laughter grew so boisterous that it was nearly impossible to contain, "from France! He keeps some Martini on his person at all times! My, how rebellious that would be! Everything is politics, politics, politics with these men and I am very nearly sick of it, Master Bordon!" She passed me what was her forth flute of the bubbly, intoxicating beverage and pirouetted off to set her "evil" plan in motion with her conductor friend, returning instants later with an outstretched hand. "Papa will never know it was me," she assured me, gesturing again and again for a dance.

"Sylvia? That poor gentleman isn't going to lose work because of you, is he?"

She paused, partially remorseful. But the champagne caused her careless idealism to grow. "Papa will be so pleased to see his youngest enjoying herself with a handsome soldier that it's likely he won't even notice what song is playing! So, Master Bordon, his fate is in your hands!"

With a sigh, I rose to my feet, warned her a second time that I was a humiliatingly poor dancer and proceeded to give her what she desired, anyway. "You are aware that you are rather bratty, are you not?" My teasing frazzled her, but it wasn't long before I was eclipsed by the music and she boldly led on with a rare and beautiful rapture. "I hardly even mind that the piece is French, your choice of song is divine!"

Her body belonged to the music, it surrounded her and held her closer than my arms ever could. But she spared her face and words for me alone as we danced. I could tell that she was pleased with my approval just by basking in the warm glow of her smile. "The feeling never changes, too. I've played this piece so many times and my heart stops and starts itself back up again in the same places. Every single time."

"May I make a request, too? For you to play it for me someday." Her nod meant the world to me. As my ears experienced that miraculous arrangement of notes for the first time, I envisioned her slender, ungloved fingers manipulating the old violin into song. "I shall hold you to that, Miss Ballard."

"Sylvia. Now that you are my friend, I would prefer that you call me Sylvia. And what should I call you?"

"Friend," I replied as I shyly remembered her father's reaction to my laughable name.

"Come now, Master Bordon. That is hardly fair at all! You know, I could always ask around now that you are part of His Majesty's Service."

Feeling rather uncomfortable with both the disclosure of my identity as 'Boris Bordon' and my minimal skill at any sort of dancing, I decided to bring a new name into our conversation. "What is this song called?"

She sighed and, for what I assumed to be the first time in all her eighteen years of having her every whim indulged without question, Sylvia dropped the pursuit of what I was unwilling to give. "Plaisir D'Amour. Martini," she glanced over her shoulder at the players who were managing beautifully despite their unfamiliarity with their new, shared scores. "It was a poem first. Many songs are. 'The pleasure of love lasts only a moment; the grief of love lasts a lifetime,' that is what it translates to. More or less."

The music swelled, and I held her closer than I might have intended. At eighteen, she was sheltered and lonely. I was eight years her senior, life and loss had exposed my gaping soul to the elements and yet, we found common ground in our loneliness. Along with our curiosity for what it would be like to be loved.

"Did you truly mean what you said earlier?" The breath that Sylvia's words produced comforted and warmed the side of my face. "That even after you leave for New York, you and I will-"

"-Master Bordon!" The boom of her father's jovial voice pulled us apart. I raised my hands and made them visible, but the balding man chuckled at my modesty. "Sylvia seems to be behaving for you. Splendid! Thank you for agreeing to dance with her tonight."

I addressed the General with a slight bow before turning my attention to his daughter, who appeared to be just as startled and discomforted by his sudden appearance as I. "It has been an honor, General Ballard. And a pleasure," Sylvia both understood and accepted my look of admiration, "truly, it has."

"It saddens me to cut your evening short," he reached for his daughter's arm and I was very nearly devastated when she allowed her father to pull her out of my grasp, "but a colleague of mine has offered to assist you with your relocation. Among other necessary formalities. He is waiting for you in my office."

Concealing my childish disappointment came as a challenge. But I nodded in agreement and turned to bid Sylvia farewell. How long we were to be separated was a mystery to me, it could be for weeks, it could be for years and if all that we had was this night, I was certain that the impression that I was leaving her with was less-than-memorable. "Before I go, General Ballard and... Miss Ballard, "I bowed awkwardly, "Would you allow an exchange of letters between your daughter and I?"

The round-faced man turned to his child and grinned, "I believe the real question is will Sylvia allow it? If you haven't noticed, she is a rather fastidious young woman."

One alarmingly bashful nod at the floor later and it was arranged. I reached for her hand and gave the cold surface of her glove a gentle kiss goodnight. This gesture felt unusual and would have been more satisfying for us both if her gloves weren't present. But it also served as a promise to hold the secrets that she shared with me that night close and to, as monetary factors allowed, endorse the production of her compositions. "Good evening, Sir," I said to the General before turning and blushing darkly at the first woman I ever courted, "Good evening."

My thoughts and emotions unraveled themselves for observation as I made for the office. I'd arrived at the estate hours prior with every intention of ridding myself of Sylvia's presence as quickly as possible! Not only had she inadvertently rushed in to fill the emptiness that Celeste had left me with, but she had gifted me with a sense of comfort- a calm that I might cling to as I entered this new and potentially terrifying chapter of my life. When my hand found the shiny brass doorknob at the end of the hall, I straightened my back as best I could and briefly meditated on the step that I was making towards a prosperous future. A soldier who is courting a general's daughter! Surely, there was more merit in this title than a parcel boy who slept each night beneath a leaking roof. My thoughts derailed and my confidence shrunk into oblivion when I noticed who was awaiting my arrival behind that weighted door- Banastre Tarleton.

A/N: Well, this should be interesting. Especially when Tavington arrives in the picture. Creative liberties abound, I guess. Lol. Speaking of create liberties, it is worth noting that Plaisir D'Amour wasn't actually written until 1784, but it's so breathtakingly gorgeous (especially on strings- ugh!) that I decided to use it in this piece anyway. Sorry, not sorry. Thanks for reading, there's much more on the way!