Adagio for Strings, Op. 11

May 4th 1805 - Aldiana-upon-Tyne

The summer was warm and uplifting; the balls and soirées were cancelled, and Anastasia, now a vibrant eighteen-year-old, was beside herself with worry.

Hannah, whose effervescent spirit had been the lifeblood of their family, was ensnared in a merciless struggle with influenza. An epidemic had beset the village, and many had already succumbed to the illness.

The once boundless expanse of their family home appeared to contract until it was no more than the confines of that single room. Each laboured breath the young girl drew resonated ominously throughout the cottage, following Anastasia no matter where she went.

Then her father, who had always been the pillar of serene fortitude for their family, cast a faint shadow. The same illness that had gripped his daughter now sapped his strength.

Anastasia endeavoured to emulate her mother’s resilience in the face of escalating dread and duties, tending to Hannah while Josephine tended to her father. However, the contagion was non-discriminatory, ensnaring Anastasia herself within its merciless clutches.

She yearned to engage in the struggle, to stand alongside her mother, and offer succour to her sister and father. Confined as she was to her bed, a bitter well of guilt swelled within her from the depths of helplessness.

A beacon of hope, Lucy Hawthorne, came to help at their cottage. Having once overcome influenza herself, she brought with her an air of comforting expertise that almost alleviated Anastasia’s sense of despair. Yet, not long after, Josephine was relegated to the confines of a sickbed.

Upon receiving the news of her mother’s illness, Anastasia merely turned to face the wall and remained silent, overwhelmed and unable to fathom a future devoid of her presence.

Days merged into nights, which in turn gave way to the pallor of grey dawns as Anastasia bore witness against her will to her family’s gradual decline.

Her steadfast father, the bastion of quiet strength and wisdom within their family, succumbed first, and a fragment of herself disintegrated in tandem.

The passing of Hannah struck a devastating blow. Their lives had been interwoven like roots of ancient trees; now, with Hannah’s departure, it seemed as though part of her own spirit had been mercilessly mutilated.

Her mother’s demise was the cruel final touch, severing what remained of her connection to the cherished simplicity of her youth. In that moment, as Lucy held her hand and spoke meaningless words of comfort, Anastasia felt as though she were gazing into an abyss, desperately yearning to fall into it and allow the darkness to claim her.

Outside, the world persisted regardless of her wishes. Birds chirped on, their songs a sharp reminder of the vibrant life that once infused their home. The wind whispered through the trees, its soft rustling bearing tales of days now lost forever.

In the weeks that followed, Anastasia began to recover. The fever abated, yet a peculiar agony lingered, a discomfort that entwined itself around her stomach, refusing to relinquish its hold. At Lucy’s behest, she sought counsel from a physician in Haltwhistle.

Her delicate constitution, still convalescing from the onslaught of illness, found the journey arduous, even with Lucy assisting. The physician, a stern man with eyes that betrayed a gentleness, listened intently as she recounted her symptoms.

Upon her return to the carriage, a tortured silence enveloped her, and Lucy, laden with concern, greeted Anastasia with a warm hug. “I will not pretend to overlook the pain in your eyes, dear. What did the doctor say?”

Mustering a faint smile, Anastasia mechanically twisted the black fabric of her cotton mourning dress and stared, unseeing, at the passing scenery. “I would prefer not to delve into this matter further.”

“I understand if you do not wish to discuss it at present, but please know that I am here for you whenever you are ready.”

“I appreciate your concern. However, this burden is one that I must bear alone.”

“I do not believe that is a healthy way to handle things. You cannot keep everything bottled up inside,” said Lucy, despite the sinking feeling in her heart.

A soft sigh of resigned determination escaped Anastasia’s lips. “I implore you to trust that I make this decision believing it to be the best course of action.”

“The best course of action?”

“This… this burden is one I must bear alone,” repeated Anastasia, plucking at her bonnet with trembling hands. “For it resides deep within me.”

“But…”

“I am truly appreciative of your concern,” said Anastasia. “However, I implore you to honour my decision. I have suffered the loss of my family and now another thing of great significance to me has been taken away. I do not wish to engage in further discourse regarding it.”

The resolute set of her shoulders showed Lucy that further argument would be futile. With a sigh, she nodded, and silence filled the space between them as they travelled home.

July 16 1805 - Portsmouth

The same day that Anastasia conversed with Lucy was Jack’s fifteenth birthday. The household bustled with its usual rhythm of daily life. In his room, he immersed himself in a new tale by Radcliffe, escaping from the cold indifference within the walls of his home.

Midway through a dramatic chapter, Bernard kicked open the door. Jack flinched backward, hitting his head on the wall. His father glared at him, evidently aggravated that his son was a coward, then approached his chest of drawers. Upon opening the top one, Bernard pulled out a pocket watch.

Before Jack could gather his thoughts, his father rounded on him, grabbing him by the shoulder and hauling him protesting to his feet.

“Quiet!” A harsh slap struck Jack’s cheek, and humiliation coursed through him more painfully than the sting of his father’s hand.

“It is true, then. You are a bloody thief!” He used both fists to punctuate the last two syllables, snapping Jack’s head back with the first and slamming into his gut with the second.

Jack bent double, retching.

“Do not create a mess in here you horrible little boy!”

Jack clapped a hand over his mouth and swallowed, the acid burning his throat on the way back down.

“Thomas… The noise—” He received a slap to his head in return.

“Stop blaming your behaviour on your brother!” His father kicked him in the thigh, knocking him over. “Or some imaginary noise! Stop crying boy!”

“But… it is not… imaginary,” sobbed Jack, desperately scrambling away from the onslaught of kicks. He could not comprehend the turmoil within his mind or why his thoughts swirled like a tempest, yet he was certain of its reality. “It is always there… it does not stop… it makes everything hard and I cannot—”

Jack’s attempt to articulate the turmoil within was shattered by a boot connecting with his ribs.

“Hard? Life is hard! Everyone fights their own battles, but unlike you, they do not make excuses or steal from their family! Now get up. You have chores to do.” Bernard turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving Jack lying on the cold wooden floor.

He pushed himself off the ground, legs wobbling, and he clung to his bed post for support before making his way downstairs. His leg and ribs protested every step on the staircase and once he reached the bottom, his mother’s sharp voice pierced through his clouded senses. “Why have you not done your chores?”

“I… I am hurt. I need—”

“You have been chastised for being a thief. You need to cleanse yourself before you get to work.”

When the awful day of chores had ended, Jack made his way back to his room. As he lay down, his ribs in agony, he closed his puffy eyes and wept.

The sorrow in his lonely heart was a living entity, feeding on his pain and misery. The people who should have loved him, protected him, would always be the cornerstone of his nightmares. He longed for peace amidst the storm, but knew that the dawn would bring anything but. A furious resolve, fuelled by the relentless misery he endured while merely surviving the hell he was supposed to call home, became clear. If he was to be beaten and treated as a thief, then he may as well be one.

While the household slumbered, he crept around the house and rummaged through drawers to gather a collection of valuables. His heart thumped with an aching rhythm that echoed his dread of discovery with every stolen item. Once he had safely tucked away the spoils, he turned his attention to packing his own belongings.

There was little that he could call his own, but there was one item he treasured above all: the third novel in ‘The Italian’ series. It had been a birthday gift to himself and was supposed to have brought him some joy on this dismal day.

He had left the book on his bedside table, a beacon of light in the gloom. However, the book was nowhere to be found. A quick scan of the room offered no signs of it either, and he could not recall seeing it when he came in earlier.

He forced himself to dismiss his mounting unease and focus on his immediate goal: filling his bag with his limited possessions. The click of the clasp over everything but his book was akin to a grim termination of the life he was rejecting.

“Running away, are you?” Thomas’ malicious delight cut through the air like a cruel, cold wind as he stepped out from behind the woodshed before Jack could reach the gate.

“Leave me alone.” Jack managed to grind out, attempting to step past him. Thomas moved as well, blocking his path to freedom with a glint of satisfaction dancing in his eyes.

“You know, I was the one who put that pocket watch in your drawer. It was too easy, really. Just the perfect little gift for your birthday. Did you like it?”

Jack’s eyes widened at his brother’s vindictive admission. “Why?” asked he, choked with tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

Thomas simply laughed, a harsh sound that grated on Jack’s misery. “Look at you. Always crying, always whining. Can’t you do anything else?”

“Why? Why do you do this to me? What have I done to you?”

“I was here first! You cannot have them, they are mine!” Thomas shrieked at him as he hurled something at Jack’s feet. “Go away!”

Jack knelt and retrieved the remnants of his book, still warm from the fire that had consumed most of it and blackened what remained. He endeavoured to take it with him regardless, grappling with the clasp of his satchel, his vision too blurred to discern his actions.

Thomas laughed spitefully and bent down. “I hope you end up like your stupid book.”

Something snapped inside Jack. Rage drowned out all rational thought. He grabbed a discarded chunk of firewood and swung it at the malicious laughter, cutting it short. Teeth scattered as Thomas crumpled to the ground screaming.

Jack bolted through the gate, the agonised wails of Thomas ringing in his ears, and never looked back.