Symphony No. 3 in F major, Op. 90, III. Poco Allegretto

The back parlour of Hargreaves’ Estate exuded a stately, near ancient, elegance. It was a snug retreat bathed in the soft glow of afternoon sunlight that filtered through diaphanous curtains, weaving elaborate shadows upon the well-trodden Persian rug beneath.

Dark oak wooden bookcases adorned the walls, each laden with tomes in abundance. In one corner stood an unassumingly majestic grandfather clock, its steady ticking resonating throughout the chamber.

At the parlour’s heart, a circular table hewn from seasoned oak supported an assortment of biscuits and a steaming teapot. The fragrance of bergamot intertwined with that of freshly baked confections permeated the air.

Lady Fitzroy and Charlotte were nestled close on a spacious settee, its fabric somewhat faded yet exceedingly plush. Their expressions reflected the anxiety they harboured for their friend.

Another ball had been announced and another invitation dispatched to Anastasia and Captain Clifton.

“Such an event could prove calamitous.” Lady Fitzroy dispensed tea for three from a dark blue china teapot. “Clifton and Anastasia do not want to face such public scrutiny.”

“Most assuredly not!” Charlotte concurred, waving a cream-laden spoon above some scones for emphasis. “Especially now when she and Jack are… well, their precise situation eludes us, but they are decidedly unprepared for public examination.”

The grandfather clock steadily ticked along with the ensuing silence. The women passed the plates of food around, their expressions pensive.

Mrs Hargreaves, seated in an overstuffed wing-backed armchair, adjusted her position. “This is undoubtedly Caroline’s machination; we are all aware of her penchant for drama. With the rumours about Clifton and Anastasia abounding, coupled with her narrative of Thomas’ rebuff by his brother, it is no mere coincidence that she has elected this moment to hold her ball.”

“We must act,” declared Charlotte. “Should we fail to avert the ball, it falls upon us to shield our Anastasia from being cast amongst the wolves.”

Lady Fitzroy’s gaze drifted thoughtfully towards the window, taking in the serene expanse of the country landscape. “Might we consider hosting a modest affair, quietly, amongst friends, where ease and comfort prevail.”

Charlotte stopped sipping her tea, setting the cup back on the saucer with a delicate clink, completely taken by the idea. “Indeed, we might extend an invitation to Lady Wintersley and Helena.”

“Are you certain?” inquired Mrs Hargreaves with a hint of scepticism, adjusting her spectacles. “Lady Wintersley’s reputation for discretion is somewhat tarnished. Recall the commotion at the last ball? She has a knack for creating spectacle, however well-intentioned she might be.”

Charlotte straightened her posture with an inhale through her freckled nose. “I am of the belief that she earnestly desires to be kind and helpful, albeit in her characteristically grandiose fashion. A setting of more subdued elegance might impart upon her the lesson that not all occasions necessitate grandeur.”

The drawing room lapsed into a contemplative hush, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock, which seemed to keep pace with the women’s ruminations. “Your proposal may indeed hold some merit,” acknowledged Lady Fitzroy. “Lady Wintersley could benefit from an environment where she is free to step outside her usual societal role. And as for young Helena, a relaxed luncheon amongst friends would be most welcome. The girl has much to discover beyond the confines of her mother’s stringent expectations.”

“Yet we must proceed with the utmost caution,” interjected Mrs Hargreaves, passing Charlotte the plate of scones. “We are navigating delicate matters of affection and reputation. Anastasia has endured a great deal; it would be remiss of us to risk inflicting further distress upon her. The time has come for us to offer unwavering support to our dear friend.”

Charlotte tapped softly upon the green door of Hartford Cottage, folding her umbrella with mild apprehension as she awaited entry. Presently, it swung ajar with a gentle creak to unveil Anastasia and the inviting hospitality within.

“Charlotte,” said Anastasia. “What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.”

The sitting room retained its customary warmth, a fire was cracking in the hearth and a blend of damp earth and lavender drifted through from the garden beyond.

Charlotte eased herself into a plush wingback chair and commenced to wring her hands with nervous energy.

“I have come to enlighten you… It appears Lady Wintersley has conceived another scheme and intends to hold a ball. She is extending an invitation to Captain Clifton.”

“Captain Clifton?” Anastasia picked up her embroidery. “What has prompted you to inform me of this?”

“I saw him leaving your house last week when I was out for my walk.” Charlotte’s gaze settled on the watercolour above the fireplace, as if seeking support in the sandstone abbey depicted, completely missing the way Anastasia reacted. “I offered a greeting, yet he scarcely afforded me a glance.”

“He was merely borrowing a book. There is no cause for concern or conjecture beyond that simple fact.” Anastasia, stomach tumbling over and over, dismissed the matter with a nonchalant wave of her needle.

“We were contemplating the prospect of a gathering at the Hargreaves Estate,” admitted Charlotte in a rush of words, sensing an undercurrent of annoyance in Anastasia’s response. “The assembly would comprise solely ourselves, Captain Clifton, Lady Fitzroy, and Lady Wintersley with her daughter Helena. We surmised it might prove… agreeable.”

The embroidery had not continued since Anastasia had waved the needle. “Whatever for? Our encounters in town suffice for regular companionship.”

Charlotte’s brows furrowed, a blend of surprise and pain imprinted upon her features. “Do you not think you should share more of your time with us?”

Her evident worry touched Anastasia. Her friends’ efforts to coax her from seclusion were evidence of a deep concern for her well-being. She was fortunate to have them in her life. Friendship was not merely about shared laughter and companionship; it also encompassed weathering storms together, providing support when needed, and understanding the healing that arises from such assistance.

“It is true; I have become more withdrawn. I miss you all as well,” admitted she, picking at some errant stitching. “I would be delighted to attend.”

“Truly?”

Anastasia nodded, her own smile mirroring Charlotte’s. “Yes, truly.”

A comfortable silence ensued under the rain drumming upon the thatch. Charlotte then stirred; her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she broached a new subject with hesitation. “Anastasia, if I may be so bold, I wish to inquire about Captain Clifton.”

During the pause that followed, Anastasia’s expressive eyes betrayed a silent struggle, teetering on the brink of disclosure or retreat, each path fraught with its own allure and trepidation.

“I confess I was rather upset after the ball. The scrutiny from everyone present took me by surprise… And the manner in which he regarded me…” She trailed off, the memory of that awe-inspiring gaze sweeping through her mind, lifting her off her feet in a moment of wonder.

“I did not intend to.” Charlotte unwittingly brought Anastasia back to earth with a reluctant thump, “I truly did not. The sight of you in such high spirits filled me with joy, and I gave no thought to—”

Anastasia raised her hand, halting Charlotte’s apology. “I understand your intentions were without malice. Nevertheless, I must confess the subsequent days have been rather different for me.”

Charlotte leaned forward slightly. “Has he called upon you since then?”

Aware that her response would circulate among the local ladies with astonishing rapidity, she nodded in affirmation. “Indeed, we shared dinner.”

Charlotte’s eyebrows ascended at the admission, a mischievous smile dancing upon her lips. “Dinner, you say? Is that all?”

Looking down at her hands and nervously nibbling her lower lip, Anastasia exhaled softly and shook her head.

Charlotte’s grin broadened, yet she promptly regained her composure upon noticing the pleading look in her friend’s eyes. “Would you rather others be under the impression that it was merely dinner?”

Relief flooded Anastasia, the dinner could have been for any number of reasons, yet if anything more was to be said… “I wish to choose the moment when I shall speak of… the remainder.”

Tucking an errant wisp of red hair behind her ear, Charlotte assured Anastasia. “Fear not; your secret shall remain safe with me.” She tilted her head. “Are you content with this… whatever may be transpiring between you and Captain Clifton?”

“He perplexes me. Nevertheless, deep within my heart, I harbour the conviction that his feelings towards me are sincere. They feel akin to a mirror of my own.”

As Anastasia’s confession drew to a close, revealing more of her sentiments than she perhaps intended, the oak door leading to the kitchen creaked open. Lucy entered, balancing a tray from which the aroma of tea and scones wafted through the air.

“You know,” mused Lucy thoughtfully, “my late husband used to say he had ‘a great many voices conversing in his head’. I suspect Clifton might be grappling with a similar tumult.” She busied herself with the teapot, pouring out the hot, steaming brew.

Anastasia regarded Lucy, a spark of understanding alight in her gaze. “Indeed, he has conveyed the challenge he faces in marshalling his thoughts.”

“What precisely do you imply?” Charlotte, her interest thoroughly piqued, had paused halfway through cutting a scone.

Lucy added a splash of milk to her tea and half smiled wistfully in memory. “Well, my husband often found it arduous to articulate his thoughts with precision. It was as if they were eluding his grasp, ever just beyond reach. He likened the sensation to… ‘racing thoughts’. Maybe Clifton is beset by a similar affliction.”

“How, then,” inquired Anastasia, “might one address such a quandary?”

“It cannot really be addressed. Not in the way you are thinking. It is a condition that must simply be managed.”

Charlotte, ever desirous of offering assistance where possible, inquired, “How did you and your husband contend with this issue?”

Lucy placed her teacup on the saucer with a slight rattle. “Well, David often said that my presence greatly soothed him. It was as though I served to anchor his wandering mind.” A reflective light shone in her eyes, brimming with unshed tears at the memory of her late spouse. “He harboured concerns about our children inheriting this trait.”

Anastasia laid a gentle hand upon Lucy’s shoulder. The older woman mustered a wan smile and, with quiet grace, excused herself from the room.

Charlotte, whose perception was ever keen, watched Anastasia spread butter on a scone with thoughtful deliberation, then queried, “Do you suppose that is the affliction he suffers from? And if it is, in what manner might you assist him?”

“Regrettably, dear Charlotte, I possess no immediate solutions. Yet be assured that I am resolute in my quest to unearth them.”