Symphony No. 2 in E minor, Op. 27 III. Adagio

As the final words of the letter faded from the air, the taste of battlefield dust lingered on Jack’s tongue, mingling with memories of searing pain emanating from his scar. The deafening roar of cannons still echoed in his ears, threatening to drown out all other sounds.

He inhaled the fragrance that permeated the room, a contrast to the acrid smoke of battlefields past. As he exhaled, he consciously willed the lingering images to retreat. He continued with slow, deliberate breaths, focusing on each sensation as air passed in and out, using its rhythm to ground himself amidst the storm within.

His countenance remained resolute, a mask of composure with only a subtle sheen of sweat betraying the internal battle he waged. Scars from past battles were etched deep within him, serving as constant reminders of his resilience. Having survived the horrors of war, surely, he could withstand this trial.

Once a soldier, he now stood as a mere townsman, a so-called hero burdened by memories he yearned to forget. With unwavering resolve, Jack faced this new battle for understanding and peace, drawing upon the same courage and steadfastness that had defined his character on the fateful day in Vitoria.

“Does anyone have questions?” His voice, resonating with authority yet carrying an undercurrent of weariness, invited others to seek clarity while he silently yearned for respite from his own haunted past.

“I indeed have a question. The story is most inspiring,” began Thomas, his voice coiling through the room. “A dispatch from the Peninsula War, claiming our dear Jack to be a valiant saviour. A convenient tale, would you not agree? From a violent and thieving miscreant to a military hero in but a decade.”

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he cast aside the letter’s importance. “Remarkable, what effect a few years, tales of war, and an artfully composed letter can have upon one’s repute.”

Lady Fitzroy, a steadfast bastion of tradition, manifested in her every word and deed an unwavering adherence to the strict codes that had governed her world since she was swept off her feet by her husband. Beneath this propriety pulsed a fiercely protective nature, particularly when it concerned her beloved William.

“Thomas.” The manner in which she uttered the name could have preserved ice cream amidst the heat of midsummer. “I can comprehend why one might harbour… strong… feelings towards you. We are, after all, but simple country folk.”

She continued with a subtlety that bore the mark of condescension. “We may lack the—” She paused, imbuing her next word with caustic insight. “—profligacy of those in London and their ilk. Yet we possess an ardour for life’s fundamental pleasures: the community gatherings, the rhythm of music at our country balls, the shared laughter and camaraderie at our dances. Many of us came here and learned to embrace these joys with a sincerity of heart conspicuously absent amidst the perfumed and powdered duplicity of grand city salons.”

Her sharp gaze never wavered from Thomas as she spoke with conviction. “In times of threat, a true community does not forsake its own; rather, it protects them. Should you prefer the debauchery and hypocrisy of London, then by all means go and join them.”

“Even if we do not condone acts of violence.” Her voice dipped slightly yet retained its formidable power. “We shall not cast aside one of our own because an… instigator, one who aspires to emulate the behaviour of our so-called ‘Prince of Whales’, deems it necessary.”

The scandalous twist upon the prince’s name stirred a ripple of gasps and laughter. It conjured a vivid juxtaposition of the decadence of the prince’s life with their own relatively modest existence, and the townsfolk found themselves in concord with her unspoken implication.

Thomas had suffered Lady Fitzroy’s oration in disbelief. A wall of silence enveloped the crowd, their attention riveted upon the woman who had emerged as his most formidable adversary. As she concluded her defence of Jack, the initial shock that pervaded the room dissipated, supplanted by a sense of solidarity. The dramatic revelation no longer held them captive; instead, they rallied behind the very man he sought to discredit.

“I, an instigator? What in God’s name…?” said he under his breath, his eyes darting about the room in disbelief. Lady Fitzroy’s words had effectively turned the tide against him, and the audience’s reaction was unlike anything he had anticipated.

Shaking his head as though to dispel the cobwebs of confusion, Thomas squared his shoulders and prepared a retort. “My dear Lady Fitzroy, your pastoral sentimentality is indeed touching. However…”

The unwavering stares of the townsfolk took his voice. Their eyes, once brimming with uncertainty, now hardened with resolve; their faces turned against him. For the first time, Thomas experienced the full sting of isolation amidst a room teeming with people.

“There is no reasoning with you, is there?” It bore the weight of a statement rather than an inquiry. The reality of his predicament was beginning to dawn on him: his crafted narrative was disintegrating and his sway over the assembly had vanished.

Thomas clenched his jaw, the once-confident gleam in his eyes now supplanted by frustration, and a trace of desperation. He cast a glance towards Jack, seething with thinly veiled rage. “This is not over,” hissed he, though the threat lacked its customary impact, then pivoted on his heel, his departure nothing like his entrance.

The silence that ensued was swiftly supplanted by a flurry of whispers as the crowd exhaled the tension that had held them in its grip.

The intensity of the past few moments left Jack reeling; yet amidst the turmoil, he found solace in the unity displayed by his neighbours, and he oppressive weight on his chest lifted.

“I…” His voice emerged as a gravelly whisper. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture with military precision, resolute in making himself heard. A rare moment of openness shone through his stoic fa?ade. “Thank you. Your support means more than words can express.

The compassion he had received surpassed anything he could have envisaged. Their steadfast loyalty and readiness to stand by his side gave rise to a newfound sense of security, eroding the barriers that had long made him feel an outsider.

He turned to Lady Fitzroy, intent on speaking; however, she pre-empted his words. “It was my husband who journeyed all the way to London and returned posthaste,” declared she with a stern voice that belied the mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

He inclined his head towards Lord Fitzroy, ensconced in an armchair with a brandy in the corner of the room, bestowing credit upon the deserving party.

He paused, gathering his thoughts before he addressed Lady Fitzroy with due respect. “Your Grace, your words have exceeded my expectations and touched me profoundly.”

With a wave of her fan, she accepted his apology with fond gentility, not able to respond, beginning to comprehend Anastasia’s fascination. When he looked at you, he looked at you.

He turned to the one person he had yet to acknowledge. Their warm eyes met in a silent exchange that wove an indestructible thread between them. In that moment of mutual comprehension, there was no need for words; their silence was eloquence enough.

He offered his hand to Ana, a glimmer of anticipation betraying the excitement that danced within him. With an understated bow and a demure smile playing upon his lips, he imparted both esteem and tenderness in harmonious balance.

Accepting his extended hand, her heart executed a pirouette as they advanced onto the dance floor. The musicians commenced their performance, and a comfortable waltz began to permeate the atmosphere, its melody encircling them as they swept gracefully across the room.

Jack’s voice softened, imbued with a trace of hesitancy. “Ana, there is… something I wish to… to inquire of you.”

A knot of anticipation formed in her stomach.

“I am… cognizant of the… impediments before us. I comprehend the… sorrow you bear.”

Ana’s breath hitched at his words, the full import of his declaration slowly dawning upon her. Yet before she could muster a response, Jack pressed on with his speech.

“Yet I am certain that there are… myriad ways to build a family.”

He paused, a gentle smile gracing his lips as he allowed the idea to take shape.

“Your books possess the power to… fill that void within us. Your words and stories can… become your legacy; they are a celebration of love and resilience for generations yet to come.”

In that moment, he proffered to Ana a vision of the future which might diverge from the tableau she had always envisaged, yet one replete with love and purpose. His communication bore testament to his steadfast belief in their capacity to forge something exquisite in unison.

“Yet, irrespective of… all else,” declared he with resolute determination, “it is my… deepest desire to be… by your side. Anastasia Jane Hartford—”

Ana’s mind spun with the realisation: Lucy had spoken truly; he did indeed say her name as if invoking a deity.

“—would you do me the honour of allowing me to become your husband?”

A slight smile graced her lips at the manner in which he spoke, yet the phrasing of his proposal struck her to the core—he desired to be hers. At that moment of clarity, Ana understood what her response must be s.

Kissing him with delight for all to see in the middle of the dance floor. “Yes… Yes, Jack Douglas Clifton. I wish to be your wife.”

A radiant beam broadened across his face, and the remainder of the world receded until there remained only the two of them, lost in the soft glow of their shared future.