Symphony No. 88 in G Major, Hob. I88, II. Largo

The garden was lined with neatly arranged stone-edged beds, which harboured medicinal herbs and flowers that Lucy nurtured with the precision of a nurse and the tenderness of a gardener. A tall pine tree offered its shade in the centre, beneath which a small wooden bench had been placed.

The carefully chosen plants not only served Lucy in her medicinal practices but also provided a peaceful retreat from the demands of daily life. It was a garden that was both lovely and purposeful, reflecting the character of its keeper: understated, knowledgeable, and nurturing.

Jack and Anastasia sat on the bench; hands interlaced with the trembling thrill of newfound intimacy. The gentle inclination of their bodies towards one another spoke volumes of the invisible threads binding their hearts in unity.

Apprehension held Anastasia back from the one subject she wished to discuss; reluctant to disturb the peace that had settled between them. Yet an insistent inner voice urged her to embrace candour as essential for their understanding. He had kissed her when she had asked him about her infertility, yet he had not conveyed to her precisely how he felt.

A small smile, touched by the soft evening light, played upon his face. Drawing a deep breath, she summoned her courage, wondering faintly from where the elusive aroma of roses might be emanating. It barely lingered over the lavender bushes forming an aromatic border along the pathway. It made her recall the warmth that radiated from Jack as she held his arm on their return to the mansion. With a soft exhale, she resolved to place her trust in the burgeoning connection between them.

Anastasia’s voice bore an undercurrent of trepidation as she gazed at the rosemary and sage. “Jack does my… condition give you cause for concern?”

Jack, momentarily adrift in the darkening expanse above, returned back down to meet her questioning eyes. Her condition? “No,” replied he with a feeble attempt at a laugh to veil his unease. “Thomas appeared to… regard it as a matter of… considerable import.”

His cavalier reply caused her hand to slip feebly from his.

“Is this but a jest to you? Does the prospect of parenthood truly carry so little significance in your life?”

Realising she was challenging him to acknowledge the seriousness of her predicament, he frowned in thought. “I have scarcely allowed myself to contemplate it…” The notion that he would be outraged by the revelation was ludicrous to him. He could not help but reflect on the tragic irony: that those of wicked nature could conceive, while an angelic soul such as Anastasia could not.

Her evident distress summoned a tumult of disjointed whispers threatening to engulf him. However, with her at his side, he found himself anchored, able to grab threads and follow them.

He leaned towards her and she parted her lips in anticipation, taking his hands in hers. However, his focus was on formulating a reply and his gaze grew distant. She brushed his lips with hers. Taken aback, he withdrew, suddenly cognizant of their intimacy, but she halted him by tenderly cupping his cheek.

Anticipation crackled between them like the charged air that heralds a storm. At last, bridging the gap between them entirely, his lips, warm and firm, pressed against her softer ones. She responded with eagerness, parting her lips slightly to invite him further in. The kiss was a fervent assertion of their bond. United in a silent conversation, a passionate dance of tongues, known only to hearts that pulsed in harmonious accord.

Anastasia allowed herself to dissolve further into him—allowed his taste, warmth, and scent to envelope her. The kiss transcended mere physical intimacy; it was a potent declaration of their shared affection. When they finally pulled away, necessity taking precedence over desire, their foreheads rested against one another as they endeavoured to catch their breaths while lost in each other’s eyes: Copper meeting Verdigris.

Everything about this woman was extraordinary, and he was suddenly compelled to express his sentiments. “A woman’s worth extends beyond the bounds of mere procreation.”

Suddenly finding herself thrust back into the discourse, she endeavoured to discern his genuine sentiments on ‘mere procreation’, “‘The great business of one generation is—”

“—to prepare the next.’” He concluded her quotation, his hands gently squeezing hers. Abruptly, he released them and slid back, cringing against the corner of the seat.

The rupture of their connection felt akin to a dousing with cold water. She found herself almost leaping towards him, craving his warmth and fortitude, yearning to feel his presence beneath her, within her, as she ran her hands through the hair on his chest—

She pulled herself from the image. He was trembling, his hands upon her wrists, restraining her.

They began to speak simultaneously and stopped.

He released her wrists, and she placed her hands upon his lap, edging closer to feel his presence and offer reassurance. “It is quite all right; I am certain Locke himself would not take umbrage if his words were recalled with such promptness.”

As she watched the tension drain from his shoulders and the fear fade from his countenance, a compulsion took root in her heart—an earnest desire to shield him from anything that might cause such distress again.

“Pray, proceed with your thoughts.”

He shifted forward on the seat, clasped his knees, and directed his gaze towards a group of foxgloves. “If we embrace these… principles without question, how can we be… certain of their continued relevance in an ever-changing world?”

“Are you saying that there exists no objective standard by which we might ‘prepare the next generation’?”

“Objective principles… do not truly exist,” declared Jack, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to articulate the muddle of his thoughts. “They are constructs that… shift with the passage of time.”

Fascination stirred within her. A part she often concealed found resonance with his words, prodding at the inklings of scepticism about the certainty of her own beliefs. She coaxed him back into a more conventional posture and leaned against him, resting her head upon his shoulder as they delved deeper into the unexplored depths of their conversation. “Do you truly believe that no objective truths exist? Are there not principles universally acknowledged as true, irrespective of time or culture?”

The threads of thought in Jack’s mind grew increasingly elusive as they delved deeper. He was certain of his intended point, yet the words to express it escaped him. “The notion of ‘universal values’ is… inherently subjective.” His leg started to jiggle as he grappled with the threads of his argument. “Such principles are… reliant upon… cultural, and historical, and… personal… perspectives. Although certain principles… are… are widely accepted, they… are… not… not absolute… and… and… our… our… comp—comprehension…”

He lifted his face to the heavens in a gesture of despair for once again losing the thread of reason. It was right there; he could feel it, yet why could he not grasp it?

The anguish he displayed ravaged her heart, she was almost forced to move of her own accord, trying to pull his hands from his knees as she responded.

“Our comprehension of these principles develops as we acquire greater knowledge about ourselves and our world.”

His restless feet ceased their tapping; he no longer sought to sink himself into the ground in shame, but listened in wonder as she articulated the remainder of what he had struggled to convey.

Her smile radiated gratification as his hands lost their grip on his knees and took hers as she continued. “Although we may employ currently objective standards to examine our beliefs, we must concede their intrinsic subjectivity.”

He was dumbfounded. She had achieved it once again, taking his thoughts and lending them clarity. “How did you…?”

“It simply resonates with logic.”

The awe reflected in his gaze rendered her nearly concupiscent. She doubted her capacity to withstand the allure of it much longer, and his demeanour suggested that should she initiate any advance, he would permit her every liberty. Her thighs came together in a silent battle against the rising tide of desire.

“It does seem to… resonate with logic,” concurred he, shaking his head in frustration. “There remain elusive pieces that I have yet to grasp.”

The gentleman before her had evidently grappled with these concepts for an extended period of time. He possessed all the requisite pieces, yet seemed unable to assemble them into coherence. She deemed this most unjust; he sought to comprehend, but his mind, and not his intellect, permitted only so much insight before it rebelled. She bestowed upon him a tender kiss, reassuring him of her return, then made her way to her bedchamber.

Upon the oak table adjacent to her bed rested a small black journal brimming with her innermost thoughts and musings, some of which mirrored the substance of their current discourse. A corner of the journal peeked from beneath a mound of garments awaiting her attention. It served as a secluded haven, a sanctuary wherein she could dissect her notions free from censure. It beckoned with the allure of mutual comprehension.

Apprehension rose within her at the prospect of divulging these secret reflections to him, yet, as she contemplated his sincerity, her hesitations began to wane. An unfathomable trust in him grew within her, surpassing the confines of mere language. His genuine inquisitiveness, his readiness to question and probe, mirrored her own approach to life. Here was a man who esteemed knowledge and held understanding in the highest regard.

In her absence, Jack’s attention had climbed to the heavens where stars had begun their emergence between the rolling clouds. The tapestry of half-formed notions and elusive musings flapped loosely within him, each thread slipping through his grasp. Yet amidst this, there remained a singular thread—one she represented. An incredible characteristic inherent in her being had put it there, something he found himself managing to keep hold of amidst everything else.

Upon Anastasia’s return, he greeted her with that same expression of almost deferential awe. She squeezed her thighs together once more, uncertain whether she was capitalising on his evident vulnerability.

She trembled ever so slightly while extending the journal towards him. “Perhaps, you might discover some missing pieces within these pages.” The journal was far more than a mere collection of words; it served as a portal to her very soul. Should he fail to comprehend its depth, she was at a loss for what course of action she might take next.

Jack perused the page to which she had directed him; he glanced up with a look of bewilderment etched across his features. “Have we not already discussed this matter?”

Despair engulfed her, leaving her untethered. “Do you not discern it? The thoughts I have inscribed upon these pages are your own!”

He wrestled with what she had written, enraged by the currently sluggish pace of his own cognition, unable to hasten his understanding as quickly he might have desired.

“I apologise, I cannot… I strugg—” He faltered as he saw her on the brink of tears, the hope in her refulgent eyes dimming. His gaze returned to the journal, but the words blurred before him. He had let her down, profoundly disappointing her at a moment when she had entrusted him with her innermost thoughts.

Closing his eyes, Jack marshalled all his concentration. He commandeered the flailing threads of understanding that so often entangled him, grasped them firmly, and silently screamed at them to cease fighting back.

Cease.

For this singular moment.

For her sake, he implored his mind to cease its relentless resistance.

All for her sake.

The fragrance of vanilla enveloped him as Anastasia sat down, settling against him. She clasped his hand, and the pressure on his mind eased. Upon opening his eyes, he found her there, studying him intently, endeavouring to decipher his actions. Once more, hope had suffused her visage with light.

He slid his hand to the nape of her neck and drew her close. His kiss was one of a man adrift at sea, seeking salvation in a lifeline. A hand. A simple touch. It was evident that he endeavoured to convey his earnest desire to persevere, to earn her approbation and assure her of his determination to comprehend.

She drew back slightly and rested her cheek against his. “I am certain you have considerable intellect and—”

“No!” He ripped his hand from hers and flung it up to prevent her from continuing. Dark dread had sunk into his features. His fear pierced her heart. The words she had uttered had clearly been wielded against him; yet, exact comprehension mattered less to her than responding to the urgent need he displayed.

Uncertain of any other course, she embraced him from the side, nestling beneath his arm and resting her cheek against his chest. She would be his bastion, a confidante who demanded no revelations unless they were offered willingly. A constant companion upon whom he could rely when the ghosts of his past proved too formidable to confront alone. Her heart would gladly suffer the anguish he bore, and her spirit was determined to remain indomitable for the sake of them both.

Tranquillity enveloped Jack, where he had only ever felt disdain. Anastasia was offering him solace despite his shortcomings. This realisation alone began to dislodge a cornerstone that had kept the walls around his heart stable amidst the growing cracks. Gradually, he realised the threads he had been struggling with now remained in his grasp because she was providing him with a steadfast foundation, and upon it, he found his footing.

He raised the book, and their smiles met in silent understanding. As he immersed himself further into the journal’s contents, it became clear that she had captured his train of thought, steering it towards its destined conclusion.

Though our understanding of universal truths continues to change, their existence remains constant. This underscores the importance of continual self-examination and re-evaluation in our quest for truth.

In analysing our convictions, subjectivity may influence us; nevertheless, it is imperative that we endeavour towards objectivity to avoid yielding to personal prejudices or societal influences.

The threads he had endeavoured to weave through ceaseless struggle were now aligning with remarkable precision, creating a new section of the frayed tapestry within his mind.

This endeavour necessitates the inclusion of varied perspectives, meticulous examination of empirical evidence, and employment of collective cultural reasoning.

It is essential to recognise that our primary aim ought to be fostering acceptance and comprehension of differing viewpoints.

He looked at her with astounded awe on his face once more. “Like the page in the rain?”

She regarded him with a furrowed brow, the incongruity between the awe and the question puzzling her.

Jack gripped the journal, then immediately softened. “There is a connection between them. Both are… fragments of something… bigger.”

Anastasia sat back and thought for a while, listening to the night rise around her as they danced their hands together unconsciously, contemplating his tendency for seclusion and the tall hedges encircling his estate. Both pages, she realised, were reflections of his own sentiments, offering him insights into concepts he could not quite fully grasp. “Like the page in the rain.”

Lost in thought, he ran his hands along her arm, the cotton sleeve smooth and cool, choosing his words carefully to convey both regret and uncertainty about how to address her situation respectfully.

“I beg your pardon for… my thoughtless reply to… your question concerning your… condition?”

She gave a slow nod, then shifted herself forward until she was leaning against him. He encircled her with one arm, the other maintaining its hold on her journal.

“Have you only ever aspired to become… a woman of… respectability through motherhood?”

He could feel her distancing herself; clearly, he was not articulating himself well. A prickling sensation of panic raced over him. “But consider this,” said he, holding up her writing with reverence akin to that for a sacred scroll. “Is not this something truly… invaluable that you could share beyond your own… lineage? Might it not become your… enduring legacy?”

The words, unexpectedly insightful, pierced her deepest insecurities without a hint of judgement. He radiated genuine curiosity and empathy. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she drew his face closer to hers; his initial surprise gave way to a warm smile upon their kiss.

With another soft kiss, she whispered into the night air, “If only it were that simple,”

He pulled back reluctantly, yet held her close. “What do you mean?”

“The very notion of daring to publish my own work is utterly out of the question.”

“But women do publish,” said Jack in astonishment. “You gave me that remarkable book.”

“I am well aware that women have indeed been published.” Her frustration seeped into her tone as ink would on parchment. “Yet Radcliffe’s tales, your book for example, ensnare the reader’s fascination with their suspense and terror. My own work does not match such allure. It is introspective and philosophical in nature, my very thoughts woven into a fictional tapestry. My concern is that it might prove too pretentious for some, too labyrinthine for others.”

Embracing her more firmly, he reflected on her metaphor of weaving a tapestry, akin to his own. She must share her words with the world. There must be others like him, in need of such support. “There is always… space for contemplative literature, the kind that… prompts self-reflection and intellectual exploration. It may require… a bit more effort to… fully grasp; yet, is not the challenge what truly renders a piece of literature significant?” His words ended in a rush of hopeful reassurance.

She ducked her head shyly at the compliment hidden in his words, yet she had to voice her reservations. “A piece requiring additional thought does not inherently guarantee its endurance or significance; we must not dismiss the power of simplicity.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, but she placed a finger upon his lips. “Simple stories possess a captivating ability to resonate through the ages. Not everyone desires or has the luxury for profound contemplation; some seek refuge in tales that offer respite from life’s complexities.”

He pressed his lips against her finger, taking a moment to reflect. He replied with unguarded admiration at her point, “Why confine ourselves to merely one type when we might savour the richness of both?”

“Regardless of the circumstances.” Her hands covered his wrapped around her waist. “I have always yearned for a household of my own.”

“By focusing on a family, you limit your—”

Her head snapped up; eyes ablaze. “Do not mistake my desire for a family as a limitation!”

He scrambled backwards, struck the arm of the seat with his hip, bounced forward slightly, and then stood. “I… did not… intend to—” He closed his eyes and his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath.

“I find myself in a state of embarrassment, Miss Hartford” inhale “I failed to allow sufficient time for thought before responding and fear the possibility of repeating such an error” inhale “therefore, it is imperative that I take my leave before causing you further distress” inhale “however might I request permission to exit via the side of the cottage the prospect of engaging with Lucy once more fills me with trepidation” inhale “and—"

She wrapped her arms around him, understanding that he was truly regretful, the flood of mortified words soothing her heart. “Thank you, Captain; I appreciate your forthright apology.” Unwilling to allow him to depart under the impression of her displeasure, she pressed her lips to his; a gesture he gratefully returned. He retreated with a wan smile, walking the perimeter of the cottage rather than passing through it.

Darkness had enveloped the world outside by the time Anastasia entered the lounge. The flickering candlelight cast a soft glow upon her visage, illuminating the glistening trails of tears that traced her cheeks.

Lucy, sitting upon the plush settee, laid her knitting aside and regarded Anastasia, alone, with an expression of concern.

Anastasia endeavoured to project composure, yet her voice trembled. “He has taken his leave.”

“Did he cross words with you, dear?” Lucy's hand found its way to a knitting needle.

Releasing her hair from its chignon, Anastasia shook her head at the query. Still as yet uncertain of Jack’s sentiments towards fashion, she had chosen to err on the side of caution. Lucy had devoted a considerable portion of the day to arranging it just so, yet now it cascaded freely down her shoulders.

This time his attire included a waistcoat, suggesting some regard for fashion, despite the cut being far from current. Nevertheless, she found herself disheartened by its presence. The absence of a waistcoat had lent him a certain rugged allure that—she abruptly reined in her thoughts to focus on the matter at hand.

“There was no true disagreement. Rather, we… explored the extent of my limitations.” She endeavoured to restrain further tears as she unconsciously ran a hand down her soft belly.

Lucy took her hand with understanding. “Your inability to… bear a child?”

“Yes, but it is more than that. My…” Anastasia faltered, searching for the appropriate words to convey her emotions.

Lucy stood beside her at the window and helped her with untying her dress. “Your writing?”

Anastasia rubbed her arms as if to hold the feeling of him upon her as much as possible. “He proposed that my work might serve as my legacy and possesses worth.”

Lucy relieved her of the dress, leaving Anastasia in her stays and petticoat. She then guided her to the settee before posing a question, “Do you disagree?”

“I expressed my reservations…”

“And what of him?”

Anastasia paused, a stay ribbon held between her thumb and forefinger as she rubbed it thoughtfully. “He believes there is room for such work in literature.”

“Yet you remain uncertain?”

Anastasia brooded at the empty hearth, tugging at a ribbon without doing anything with it. Lucy took it gently from her hands, and with a resigned slump against the settee, Anastasia relinquished the task to her steadfast friend. “I yearn for a family, Lucy.”

“I understand,” said she, working at a recalcitrant knot. “Yet oftentimes in life, we do not receive what we desire; rather, we are granted that which we need.”

“You do not understand, Lucy. My longing for children is not merely a response to societal pressure; it is deeply ingrained within me. For so long have I harboured this desire, and when it was wrested from me, I believed nothing could ever fill its void.”

Lucy, who had also borne no children before her husband passed away, let go of the ribbon and sat back. “I understand. You are aware that I do.”

Realising what she had said, Anastasia enfolded her friend in an embrace. “Naturally, you understand. I apologise.”

“Do not fret, my dear,” said Lucy, reassuring her and squeezing her in thanks. “You are merely voicing your thoughts.”

Anastasia withdrew after their brief interlude of upliftment, shaking her head in perplexity. “Does Jack not desire offspring?”

“It is possible that he simply finds contentment in a life shared with you, even in the absence of children. The passions you share, your companionship and love might well suffice for fulfilment.”

“I find myself lost for direction,” admitted Anastasia, slowly unhooking her stays and setting the garment beside her. “I long for a world where compromise is not the sole path to progress.”

“Life consists of compromises. Though it may not contain all you have wanted, beauty can still be found within its bounds.”

Anastasia stood and slipped off her petticoat, laying it on top of her stays. “Could Jack represent my beautiful compromise?” Desperation wrapped with rising dreams resonated in Anastasia’s voice, a yearning for acceptance from another when she found it difficult to accept herself.

Gathering the cast-off attire, Lucy made her way to the laundry. “I hope so, dear. Would that not be delightful?”

Anastasia remained stationary, in a simple linen chemise, with her head bowed and arms wrapped around her stomach.

Lucy halted at the door and looked back.

“It would indeed be delightful.” A sob escaped Anastasia as she sat down, tears of hope falling as she lifted her eyes to meet Lucy’s. “Oh, it truly would be most delightful!”

Dropping the garments, Lucy enveloped her in an embrace. There, beneath the flickering candlelight, Anastasia leaned against her friend, and permitted herself to face her most profound fears, and face them with a rekindled sense of possibility.