Gnossienne No. 1

Midday sunlight traced patterns through the window, rousing Anastasia from her peaceful slumber, momentarily clouding her vision with drowsy confusion.

Unfamiliar sleeping surroundings briefly unsettled her until the previous night’s events returned. They were still on the thick fur rug, covered by a goose feather blanket. Which meant, she thought with a smile, that Lucy had entered and ensured they were warm.

She gazed tenderly at Jack, whose chest rose and fell with rhythmic grace, his breaths lulling Anastasia into a trance of affection. She stirred slightly, sending a cool ripple through the warmth cocooned between them.

Sage-green eyes slowly opened, revealing a sincere, sleep-softened devotion that made her heart tremble. His lips curved into an adoring smile and he whispered in a sleepy growl that resonated within her, “Good morning.”

She echoed his greeting with a husky whisper. Bridging the distance between them, she pressed a feather-light kiss upon his lips. Jack propped himself upon one elbow, casting a shadow that shielded her from the sun’s probing rays. With a tender touch, he reached out to tuck an errant curl behind her ear as he inquired, “Did you rest well?”

“Indeed, I did, thanks to you,” affirmed she with a smile.

He leaned in, claiming her lips with a soft, unhurried kiss; their subtle exploration a silent substantiation of their regard for one another. An invigorating peacefulness enveloped them, a bubble of serene repose. They savoured the exquisite moment, their bodies entwined, hearts pulsating in harmony. After several breathless moments, they parted with foreheads gently touching.

He reached for words that could express how he felt in the moment, hesitating with the effort. “It is a source of… great… satisfaction to me that I was… present in your moment of… need, yet I… wish that my… aid could have been… offered sooner.”

With a touch as light as the morning dew, she traced her fingers across his lightly stubbled cheek. “Your arrival,” murmured she, her voice floating like petals borne aloft by a puff of air, “bore all the hallmarks of a chivalrous knight.”

Her counter to Thomas’ scornful taunt found every miniscule fissure in the fortifications surrounding his heart and took root.

“Never again shall you confront him alone,” said he with protective resolve.

“I hope to never see him again.”

Jack’s hand glided gently along her arm, harbouring the same hope yet lacking confidence that they had seen the last of his brother.

The sensation of his roughened palm scraping against her prompted Anastasia to turn his hand over for closer inspection.

“What are these?” There was an array of small cuts and scratches at different stages of healing. Her finger traced the lines with featherlight tenderness.

“It is of no consequence. I tend to roses, and they can be somewhat temperamental at times.”

“Have you no gloves?”

Jack experienced a strange flicker of resentment. Naturally, he possessed gloves; he was not devoid of sense. “Indeed, I do… yet at times I choose to… forgo them in order to… feel something beyond—” Abruptly halting his words, he closed his hands and pulled them away.

Drawing them toward her once again, she coaxed one open and pressed a kiss to his palm. “It is evident you cleanse them well; otherwise, these scratches would surely fester.”

“I have found that… wounds tend to heal when they are… cleansed regularly. The reason… eludes me, yet the method appears to work.”

“Lucy insists upon the same.”

“Indeed, she mentioned it when… she delivered your message.”

They smiled at one another, cherishing the union forged through the words she had penned for him.

“She harbours the belief that something in the air exacerbates wounds considerably.”

“In the air? Invisible creatures, perhaps?” quipped Jack, his brow arching in mock seriousness.

“Indeed, something of that nature,” concurred Anastasia, her mouth quivering with mirth.

They shared a brief laugh at the absurdity of the notion, and with Lucy’s name invoked, reality seemed to sharpen into focus once more.

Rising from the rug was a leisurely affair. Their bodies were not solely sluggish from the night’s fervent explorations, their hearts were caught in an emotional respite, loath to relinquish the closeness of their tangled forms. Nevertheless, they stirred, united by clasped hands, and stepped into a new day brimming with promise.

Lucy was in the kitchen, humming a cheerful tune as she completed the arrangement of a breakfast table for three. Her demeanour radiated cheerfulness, and her energy was infectious.

“Peace has at last returned to our humble abode,” declared Lucy, casting a spirited glance towards them. “And the living room—oh! It may now revert to its original state, unmarred by Thomas’ scandalous disarray.”

A cloud of disquiet enshrouded Jack. “I never… wished to resort to… violence. I should not have… engaged in such conduct—”

“You acted out of necessity, guided by your convictions,” interjected Anastasia softly, reaching out to take his hand.

Jack’s reverent eyes went from gazing upon her to looking right through her as darkness enveloped them. She longed to wash it away so he might never endure the weight of his pain. He appeared to struggle for breath; his hand trembled beneath hers.

She clasped it tighter. “You removed that horrid man from our home. You have done us a great service.”

Lucy, ever the beacon of practicality, offered her perspective. “He would have been an endless torment had you not taken a stand.”

Jack released a soft sigh of resignation as the clamour resumed with a resounding crash. The brief interlude of solace, that morning’s reprieve from his fragmented thoughts, had come to an end.

“I fear I… must take my leave.”

Anastasia persisted in her attempt to gently bring him back. “Will you not stay for breakfast? We do not need to speak of Thom—”

He flinched in his seat at the name. It was too much; he had not thought of his brother for years. With considerable effort, he pushed away the thoughts upon thoughts upon daydreams distorted by disparagement dampening his armpits as he fought. Yet with even greater force they came rushing back, slamming into him, incensed by their brief overnight banishment.

“It is too… too noisy. I must… clean up and prepare for my… tutors. No, I mean to… to say that… I have chores. I am… not lying. I am trying to—” Abruptly, he rose, the chair scraping against the floor, powerless to articulate the extent of the chaos within.

“Jack…” whispered Anastasia, laden with a plea for understanding. Yet he was already retreating—almost staggering, as if he could not quite see properly—away from the dining area, away from her.

“Jack, please —”

“Anastasia, dear,” said Lucy, halting her with a hand in the air. “Let him go.”

Uncertainty weighed heavily upon her heart as she observed the torment in his posture, the struggle within him to stay. A sharp pang of guilt assailed her; perhaps she had demanded too much of him.

“But—”

“He will return.”

Jack halted halfway to the gate, his hands opening and closing as cheerful chirping filled the air. A breeze brought with it a touch of warmth that almost reached his troubled spirit. Nevertheless, the persistent ache in his head erected an impenetrable barrier, between him and the woman with whom he yearned to stay.

He continued through the gate, watching his feet lead him blindly towards home.

Steam rose silently into the air, carrying a hint of honey as Lucy poured a cup of tea to accompany the bread which Anastasia was despondently buttering.

“Captain Clifton has clearly endured much,” said Lucy, “and I do not believe it is just the war that has affected him so.”

The butter knife halted mid sweep across a slice of bread. Anastasia’s eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of confusion and concern.

Lucy endeavoured to explain. “He hears things that others do not, and he reacts to them as if they were real, much like many men that return from the war, yet, he seems to have something more…”

Unease tightened within Anastasia as the pieces of her perspective began to coalesce. “Could he have realised his mistake in accepting my infirmity? Did he leave on account of me?” The weight of this possibility settled deep within the chambers of her heart, causing it to throb slowly with dread.

“No, dear, it is not you. It was clear he was fighting himself. I believe the mention of Thomas and conflict might have stirred something within him.”

Despite Lucy’s reassurances, doubt had taken root in Anastasia’s mind. She revisited their past interactions, the intimacy they shared, the manner in which he gazed upon her and the words he uttered.

The memory of their first kiss, infused with passion and the promise of a shared destiny, returned with a heat that came from deep within. Yet now, she could not shake the persistent suspicion that something was amiss. She thought of the painting of Jedburgh Abbey that had called to her through its melancholic beauty since her youth. Jack seemed as distant as the abbey—unreachable yet tangibly present.

Was it her, or was there something preventing him from revealing his true self? Would she need to penetrate a shield to find the man who evidently yearned to be discovered?

“Is he truly indifferent to my plight? Is there something within him that maintains his distance, akin to me?”

Lucy drew nearer to her friend, clasping her hand. “I cannot speak for him, but from what I have observed, that gentleman harbours genuine affection for you. Do not allow your apprehensions to cloud your judgement.”

“I asked him last night if he knew and… oh he kissed me, but he said nothing!”

“Anastasia, you are letting your apprehensions cloud your judgement. Were words necessary?”

Ana closed her eyes and pondered how her heart had reacted. Inhaling sharply through her nose, she held it for a moment, then exhaled before continuing. “Indeed, you utter the truth. Yet, I find myself unable to relinquish my worries with such ease.”

“One cannot be expected to simply let go of such a thing in one night. But with Captain Clifton's support, you might find it easier than you think.”

“But how am I to help him? How can I quell the noise that he hears if I cannot hear it?”

“I do not think you can, not physically.”

“I do not understand.”

“Sometimes my husband would become overwhelmed. It took some time for me to understand, but all he needed was my presence.”

“You were simply there?”

“Not quite so, dear. He would be laid up in bed, unable to rise, and I would just lie with him and hold him as he sought forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?”

“He could not come to terms with being different, he struggled with the way of the world. Over and over again, he would try his hand at various responsibilities, hoping to find one he could manage well enough to provide for me.” Lucy stopped, tears trickling down her cheeks. She set her tea cup aside and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.