Piano Sonata No 14 in C Minor, K. 457 II. Adagio

Jack peered around the overturned cannon. Bullets and cannonballs whistled past, none of them coming close, refusing to grant him respite from the torment of his relentless thoughts.

He turned to his lieutenant and signalled for him to take a closer look. They switched places. The lieutenant peered out at the battlefield. A cannonball whizzed by; he convulsed and slumped to the ground, half of his face missing.

The morning sun bathed the sparsely laid mahogany breakfast table in a soft glow. A cup of steaming black coffee quivered as a tangible force plucked Jack from the clutches of his memories, and cast him gently into the embrace of a daydream.

Miss Hartford’s words had, somehow, pushed away his demons. Each melancholic line he had read soothed the pain he had lived with all these years. He had never been so fascinated by anything.

He savoured a sip of the rich, dark liquid; its familiar bitterness underscoring the ethereal vision that had seized his heart, and refused to relinquish its hold. It had compelled him to spend a near sleepless night wandering the empty corridors of his austere manor, grappling with the notion that someone, anyone, might comprehend the overwhelming sense of isolation one can experience amidst a crowd.

Upon finishing breakfast, his contemplation shifted to the window, where his garden preened in extravagant contrast to the sombre interior of the house. The roses symbolised for Jack the resilience of life. A reminder that he was not merely a force of destruction, but could also be a caring creator.

The world beyond the garden called to him that day, yet he harboured no desire for it, having ventured there only yesterday. He shook his head to clear his mind and discern the source of this compulsion.

Clearing the table, his gaze wandered to the books on the corner bookshelf. He had read each volume, and though not an extensive collection, it comprised titles deemed essential for any respectable household, and included a complete row dedicated to roses and gardening.

Literature, it seemed, beckoned to him. He completed the task of washing the breakfast dishes before walking the dim hallway towards his bedroom.

Much of the manor remained unused. He had refrained from filling it with superfluous items that might distract him from his beloved garden. No portraits adorned the dark oak walls, dust lay undisturbed upon many of the door handles, and the carpet retained its rich red hue everywhere save for a lighter path leading to his room.

In here was another bookshelf constructed along the longest wall with bricks and planks of wood, sagging under the weight of volumes both ancient and pristine.

He kept his favourite books in his chamber, rather than in a place where others might behold them. It made him uncomfortable that he required their wisdom to comprehend the world surrounding him. These books were not mere decorations, but indispensable tools in Jack's painstaking efforts to dissect and comprehend the moral foundations of human society. Unable to comprehend it at the pace required, he had resorted to reading about it in an effort to understand.

A row of philosophy books with cracked spines and peeling leather covers lay haphazardly arrayed. The enduring works of Plato and Aristotle neighboured the more contemporary insights of Bentham and Godwin.

Beside these philosophical works, the notable presences of pioneering women in intellect and literature held their ground. Nearly all of Radcliffe’s gothic tales stood as guardians of the imagination. Close at hand, evidently most perused, lay Wollstonecraft’s ‘Original Stories from Real Life’. Its pages were creased and margins filled with notes penned in his scratchy, erratic script.

The collection before him offered not simply an avenue of escape but a discourse bridging the epochs, a journey across the expanse of human contemplation and the splendour of nature. It stood devoid of any allusion to warfare; he knew all about it and was resolutely endeavouring to banish it from his mind. In the silent companionship of his books, Jack discovered a peace that remained obstinately beyond reach amidst the tumultuous din of society at large.

Mildly puzzled at what he was doing, he began to prepare himself as if for an occasion of some importance. Though uncertain of its significance, not even the allure of his garden could quell this peculiar compulsion.

Inside his wardrobe, a small variety of waistcoats, shirts, and trousers awaited his selection. For a moment, an image flashed through his mind: that of a rain-soaked dress being slowly removed under his touch…

He slowly fastened each pearl-coloured button on his crisp white shirt while debating upon wearing a cravat, whose simple elegance often belied the challenge it posed. The room was momentarily filled with mild expletives as he endeavoured to tie it, each attempt ending in frustration until at last a satisfactory Oriental Knot rested against his collar.

He secured his tan trousers, the fabric hugging his legs snugly. Their practical cut, devoid of the excessive adornments favoured by some of his peers, mirrored his preference for simplicity and function.

At last, he chose a pair of well-worn Oxford shoes. Their silver buckles, slightly tarnished yet still ornate, captured the light as he fastened them with practiced ease. These shoes, much like his other attire, bore subtle signs of extensive use—scuffed at the toes and deeply creased from innumerable steps—but were polished to a muted gleam of begrudging care.

Jack eschewed hats, harbouring a personal aversion that stemmed from his military days when such restrictive headgear had felt akin to a cage pressing upon his scalp. He wore only what he deemed necessary to be considered respectable, each item chosen with the utmost necessity in mind as he endeavoured to traverse a world that often seemed as confining as the military uniforms he had cast aside.

His grey surtout settled comfortably on his shoulders as he turned to one side before the mirror. He studied the faint shadows that clung beneath his eyes, yet a strange spark ignited within him as he patted down his pockets and straightened his cravat one last time, seeing a hint of the old resilience that had carried him through life’s darkest moments.

The gravel path emitted a satisfying crunch beneath his shoes with each step he took through the meticulously tended garden sanctuary. Every rose represented a fragment of paradise, collectively creating an oasis that offered a semblance of peace amid the relentless cacophony of life.

Tall hedgerows encircled his modest estate, concealing his roses from the prying eyes of the world, and creating an almost microclimate against the wind. Wild and unkempt on the outside, within they were meticulously pruned, providing a shroud of privacy that shielded both him and his cherished garden.

Jack cast one final appreciative glance at his roses before making his way to the gate set into the start of a short tunnel formed by the hedges. The urge that compelled him to venture out made him unlatch the gate. He pushed it open, paused then a curse escaped him: the waistcoat had slipped his mind.

Looking back towards his manor, his place of safety, he continued onward regardless.