String Quartet No. 2 in A Minor, Op. 13, II. Adagio non lento

Arm in arm, they strolled through the tranquil village, taking a wrong turn every so often while the sun commenced its descent.

Jack’s pace slowed, his gaze on the path as he collected his thoughts. How could he articulate the frenzied tangle that so often gripped him? He sought the right words, yet they remained elusive, slipping through his grasp like wisps of smoke. “I find myself… indebted to you, Miss Hart—Anastasia. Today has been… unlike any other; no one… has ever…”

He, halted, took her hand, and led her beneath the branches of an oak tree. Golden rays slid through the leaves above, weaving a pattern of shadow and light upon them.

Aware that he could scarcely capture the full extent of his gratitude, he leaned towards her, his hand tenderly framing her face. His gaze, full of silent thanks and an emotion far more profound that resonated within her soul, remained fixed upon hers.

He brought his lips to meet hers in a gentle caress. The act itself was eloquent; it conveyed all he yearned to express: appreciation, vulnerability, and an acknowledgement of the unfathomable connection between them.

Beneath the ancient tree, the soft kiss became a powerful declaration of an intimate bond uniquely theirs.

Their lips parted gradually, their breaths mingling to create an aura of warmth that enveloped them both. The intensity of this silent communion was affirming a desperate need long suppressed. An undeniable devotion to each other took root in their hearts, an incipient love destined to flourish with time.

Looking down and shuffling his feet, Jack gathered up his courage. “I was considering… In my… garden, I grow several varieties of roses…” Trailing off, he endeavoured to formalise his question as best as he could in that moment.

“Should it not be deemed too presumptuous, might you entertain the idea of visiting so I may show you?”

Smiling at the rush of formality, her hand traced the rough bark of the tree, betraying her uncertainty even as her heart yearned to acquiesce. “You have a garden of roses?”

A flushed bloomed up her neck and she stared unseeing up into the leaves. Of course he has a rose garden; he had sent her two, but it would not be seemly, even for a… a spinster —her heart clenched at the word— to engage in such an act. And what if he were to look at her as he did that night at the cottage? No gentleman would cast such a gaze upon a woman he were aware it stirred a desire to —His hand covered hers and she dropped her eyes to his.

“Indeed. I would be… honoured to show you, but only should… it align with your wishes. Should you… prefer we proceed directly to… your cottage, then let that be… our destination.”

The sincere willingness to defer to her preference transformed her hesitation into enchantment. She cared not whether it were seemly; it was clear that he offered purely so he might spend more time with her. “I would be most honoured.”

Leading her through the entrance to the tunnel, his step grew jittery, and a slight tremor beset her hand as it rested upon his arm. He paused before the wooden gate and toyed with the latch for a moment, evidently realising what he was about to do.

“I… I beg your pardon.” He slowly plucked a leaf from the hedge, and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “It is simply that… my garden has always been a private haven for me. Lucy alone has… ever beheld it in this state, and that… that was at night where she could not—” He dropped the leaf. “Yet the notion of… sharing it with you strikes a different chord.”

Upon his mention of her devoted friend, realisation dawned upon her. Despite Lucy’s visits to Jack’s residence, she had never once spoken of the garden; only that he had sent her a rose. It was reassuring how faithfully Lucy had preserved Jack’s confidence. This discretion heightened the significance of the invitation; he was offering a glimpse into a facet of his life shrouded in privacy.

“Your garden is an extension of yourself, Jack, and I am honoured by your willingness to share such a personal treasure with me.” In her eyes shone the truth of her sentiments, her voice a soft melody that soothed the fearful tangle in his mind.

Suffused with a renewed tranquillity, he gently pressed her hands in his own. “I am most grateful, Anastasia.” He opened the gate and gestured for her to step forward.