Tilby, Lincolnshire, 1811. Miss Sophia Landon is the daughter of an impoverished clergyman. Her father's health is failing fast, but who wants to marry a woman without birth, beauty or wealth? Her prospects are limited indeed - until her friendship...
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'Well, madam, you have made a mess of my contest, and given the victory against me. To what do I owe the honour of your interruption?'
His accent was unlike anything she had heard before, either, and very pleasant, full of lilting musicality. He did not sound cross, but Sophy—as the injured party—bridled. 'A pretty comment, sir, when it is you who has interrupted me! You almost knocked me down a few moments ago.'
'Ah! I had thought it was a wall I had connected with, but thinking on it, I did find it a little softer than one might expect of a stone structure.' His one visible eye twinkled at her more merrily than ever, and his tone was full of laughter.
Sophy lifted her chin and stared him down. To be mistaken for a wall! She was taller than most women, this was true, and she was not especially blessed with physical endowments; but still! A wall!
'An apology is considered customary, under the circumstances!' she said.
'And have you really followed me for such a purpose as that?' he marvelled. 'Hey! Well, an apology costs nothing. You may have several, madam, if that will please you.' He proceeded to sweep her a low bow, and said, 'Apologies once, twice and thrice, and I am delighted to see that I have done you no lasting injury.'
Sophy could hear his smile, even if she couldn't see it. His peculiar manner began to strike her as charming, and she smiled in return. 'No injury indeed, though perhaps I had better ascertain the health of the wall. You may not have collided with it, but I did, and rather hard at that.' Hard enough to bruise, she judged, for she could feel a dull ache in her shoulder and back.
He laughed at that, and held out a hand. 'Walls are exceptionally good at taking care of themselves, I do find. May I know your name?'
Sophy advanced with a little caution. What manner of introduction was this? No proper one, certainly, for she ought to be introduced by a respectable third party. Moreover, she found he did actually mean to shake her hand, for he continued to hold it out to her.
'Miss Landon, of Tilby,' she said, curtseying. Evidently the customs of Grenlowe differed from those of her home town, but still she could not bring herself to actually shake his hand.
'Miss Landon of Tilby,' he repeated, withdrawing his hand. To her amusement he mimicked her gesture, and curtseyed very prettily to her. 'I am Aubranael!'
'Very well, Mr. Aubranael,' she began, but he cut her off.
'Not "Mister". Just Aubranael.'
Sophy frowned. Proper etiquette required that a lady address a gentleman by his title and his family name; did he really expect her to call him by his first name?
But, she remembered, this was Aylfenhame. Perhaps people here did not have family names. Or titles.
'Aubranael,' she repeated, trying it out. The name was so odd that the lack of title did not seem so peculiar after all; but she felt compelled to make up for the deficit in politeness by making another curtsey, which drew a laugh from him.
