Christmas Eve 1789, and my heart dropped when we entered the Assembly Rooms in Bath. The evening was proving to be as unbearable as I’d anticipated. Narcissistic society pretending to lead seemingly picturesque lives that would have been perfect if they were not so farcical. Husbands engaged in liaisons with women not their wives, and wives alleviating the boredom of vacuous marriages by holding court with unsuitable paramours. Just imagine my astonishment when an hour after my arrival, the rest of the audience and I were indulged with an appearance of the evening’s illustrious guest performer.

George Bridgetower was 38 years old, from Poland, and of African descent. I was transfixed by his appearance, and unable to remove his physical image from my gaze. I did not intend to be rude nor to stare, but I simply could not control my reaction, why was this happening to me? Never in my life had I ever been presented by a vision such as he.

He was tall with an athletic build, broad shoulders, and a tight abdomen. Made obvious by the way his body moved beneath his well-fitting shirt. His tight black curls were neatly trimmed, allowing his straight nose and full lips to take centre stage on his elegant face. His clear skin had a deep richness no other man I had ever seen possessed, full of health and verve displaying an enviable glow from within. Though his facial expression was its antithesis; haunted yet enigmatic.

His dark brown eyes remained tightly shut as he savoured the tempo from the violin he played, of which he was clearly a virtuoso. There was, however, an unmistakable sadness that shrouded him, like a dark fog. It was neither disappointed, angry, irritable, or surly; just a void that exhibited no real emotion. Yet I was trapped beneath his spell for the duration of the performance, only stirring after the enthusiastic applause from the audience started loudly and jolted me from my reverie. Standing I joined them in my exuberant appreciation.