Piano Concerto No. 23 in A Major, K. 488 II. Adagio

Jack toiled in his garden, the tranquillity and order providing the perfect space for him to be engrossed in his recollections of his time with Anastasia. Merely being in her company had dispelled the shadows of solitude that lingered within him, yet the abruptness of his departure was a dark blot that he could not shake. He knew all too well that such sudden bouts of restlessness might unsettle those around him, and he harboured no desire to dissuade Anastasia from seeking out his company.

He was rather worried that he had, for she had not sent him any note, and he was uncertain whether he should send her one. And even if he did, what could he possibly say? He would have to traverse his collection of books, seeking the right sentence here and a phrase there, twisting and turning them into reflections of his own thoughts.

He contemplated the pillar rose at the heart of his garden, how it entwined itself around a post that was simple yet sturdy. The flower’s delicate resilience reminded him of her, and he wanted to be her simple pillar of strength.

The rose that currently wrapped the pillar was insufficient; he must create something of his own design.

Though he grappled with the challenge of conveying his sentiments as eloquently as he wished, he remained resolute in his intent to show Anastasia the value he placed on her company and his desire to prolong their shared moments. With a rejuvenated sense of purpose, Jack went indoors and retrieved all his volumes on roses, musing over the most fitting manner to articulate his emotions. Casting aside his doubts, he resolved to address this matter with the same patience and diligence that guided him in nurturing his garden.

As the sun commenced its descent below the horizon, Jack seated himself for his evening repast. The tranquillity of the scene was suddenly broken by the distinctive creak of the manor’s gate. He peered out of the window and beheld Lucy standing there.

“Mrs Hawthorne.” He greeted her with warmth as he neared the gate, “Your presence here is a most delightful surprise. The evening air has taken on a chill; might I persuade you to join me indoors?”

Lucy cast a swift glance at the garden before stepping onto the cobblestones that paved the pathway to the manor. Whether it was due to subtle alterations or Jack’s guidance, her route through the grounds seemed more discernible than before.

As he led her inside, he paused for a moment at the threshold, pondering the most suitable place to entertain a lady in his home. The dining room remained in disarray from dinner, and his bedroom was, of course, entirely out of the question. The parlour was nearby; he had a couch therein, perhaps it would suffice. He endeavoured to appear confident as he guided her into the dusty chamber.

Once they were seated upon the worn chocolate-brown settee, glasses of water in hand, Jack turned to Lucy and awaited her conversation.

“I have come to express my gratitude, Captain Clifton. Your assistance in dealing with your brother has brought a great deal of relief to Anastasia. To us both.”

Pleased, he carefully chose his words. “Anastasia’s well-being has been a… cause for concern, and I am relieved to hear that… she is feeling better. And you as well, of course.”

Lucy unclasped her reticule and extended a small parcel towards Jack. Her voice, tinged with a hint of breathlessness, conveyed Anastasia’s request: “She asked me to deliver this to you.”

Jack accepted the parcel, surprise evident upon his countenance. “I am most grateful, Mrs Hawthorne. Convey my regards to Anastasia as well, if you would be so kind.”

Upon unwrapping the parcel, he found a book nestled within.

The Book.

Silence enveloped them for several moments. Jack simply stared at the book, his expression one of heartbreaking incredulity. Reverently, he traced the title etched upon the cover. Despite his best efforts to remain present, his mind dragged him back through the years. The tumultuous events of his fifteenth birthday surged forth in his mind: the cruel delight etched upon Thomas’ visage as he cast the charred remains of a book at Jack’s feet, and the raging despair that had driven him into the night. For a time, he sat motionless, gradually regaining composure as his breathing steadied.

Lucy remained seated, her glass cradled in hand. His reaction had surpassed her expectations by a considerable margin, and she could not help but feel an intrusive observer to such a display of vulnerability.

At length, he addressed her in a shaky voice. “This is… an extraordinary gift. How might I… ever repay her?”

Lucy offered a smile. “Accompanying the book is a note, dear—Captain.” He seemed not to register the slip of endearment as he eagerly unfolded the letter.

Dear Captain Jack Clifton,

I find myself quite at a loss for words to convey my gratitude for your recent intervention. Please accept this book as a modest token of that heartfelt appreciation.

If I may be so bold, our shared affection for the written word has urged me to concede that it would be most delightful should you consider another visit. The prospect of indulging in an evening with you, filled with literary conversation over tea presents itself as a charming respite from the oftentimes tiresome routine of daily existence.

I eagerly anticipate your decision and hope that you will grace me with your presence.

Yours sincerely,

Anastasia Jane Hartford

Enthusiasm blossomed within Jack at the prospect, his fingers lightly caressing the words as, for an instant, a vision of them seated together in quiet companionship, absorbed in reading, filled his thoughts. He proceeded to his desk, putting aside his last correspondence, (a mother of a soldier under his command wrote to him each year, commemorating Jack’s birthday, which would also be her own son’s. However, Jack had first penned a letter to her regarding her son—one, like all the others, he did not expect to receive an answer for), and commenced penning a response.

A frown creased his brow as he began to write. After scratching out an unsatisfactory word and uttering a curse, he crumpled the paper and commenced anew. He gazed at the blank sheet before him, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. As he laboured, his foot bounced, and his unoccupied hand drummed upon the desk in frustration while he endeavoured to capture his thoughts. There was another quiet curse and another ball of paper flew to the floor.

“Captain, if I may—”

Jack jolted upwards in surprise. Lucy’s presence had slipped from his mind and he sat with a countenance tinged by a faint blush of shame.

Confronted with the sight of a man seemingly poised in fear of reprimand, she found herself momentarily lost for words. “I believe I may be of assistance.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Jack’s features, suggesting he had anticipated a different response.

“Do you?” inquired he, a touch of irritation lacing his tone as the spectre of reactionary defensiveness threatened to rear its unwelcome head. With deliberate effort, he quelled the rising disquiet and turned his attention to her, noting the flame that suffused her cheeks.

“I beg your… pardon, Mrs Hawthorne. Your assistance in this… is most appreciated. I must… confess that I find committing thoughts to… paper a considerable difficulty. I fear I may… deplete the entire stack without achieving… any semblance of progress.”

Laughter resonated throughout the room, and a momentary flash of fright seized Jack before he realised Lucy was merely amused by his feeble jest. His relief palpable, he rose from his seat and commenced pacing to and fro, prattling with the vivacity of a dunnock heralding the dawn.

A barrage of ideas and thoughts assailed Lucy. Words and sentences emerged in a disjointed manner, revealing the confused struggle that perpetually reigned within him. A rush of empathy ran through her as she began to grasp the magnitude of his internal battle.

Lucy penned a brief missive. In his excitement, he had forgotten to express his appreciation for the book, and she added a statement of thanks to it. Upon perusing the note, he affixed his signature while expressing his gratitude for her assistance. As they approached the gate, Jack paused and cast a contemplative gaze upon his hands, opening and closing them with mild apprehension. “Might it be deemed proper to send another rose?”

For a moment she pondered whether he might be jesting, yet, observing him clenching his fists, she discerned his genuine doubt concerning the propriety of his question.

“Indeed, she would be most pleased,” responded Lucy, her smile conveying a warmth that echoed her assurance.

He grinned and darted into the garden. She could hear the sound of his footsteps transitioning from path to grass and back as he ventured deeper. Upon his return, night had almost enshrouded them completely; yet in his hands he held a rose of a colour that was unmistakable even in the dim light.

“I have procured violet this time,” he proclaimed with evident pride, then abruptly turned to Lucy, panic flaring in his eyes. He opened and shut his mouth as if struggling for words, glanced at the rose, and finally managed to articulate his question. “You did say violet was her favourite colour?”