Symphony No. 6 in F Major, Op. 68, III.

July 14th 1800 – Aldiana-upon-Tyne

Perched on the edge of Anastasia’s canopy bed, the two Hartford sisters luxuriated in the golden afternoon sunlight that filtered through delicate cream lace curtains.

Cradling a resplendent emerald gown in her lap, Anastasia delicately traced the intricate embroidery and shimmering beading while regaling her sister with tales of her enchanting evening.

“You can scarcely imagine it! The ballroom was like something out of a dream. Grand chandeliers hung from the ceiling; each one ablaze with countless dancing flames.”

She elegantly spread the skirt, sending playful ripples through the silk fabric, eliciting a giggle from Hannah. “And the ladies! Each dressed in gowns of red, blue, pink, purple—it was akin to a garden of roses! The music, it compels your heart to match its tempo. And oh, the dancing!” Taking her younger sister’s hands in hers, she swayed them as if they were lost in the rhythm of the dance floor. “Such swirling and spinning that you will forget all earthly ties!” She suddenly blushed. “And then there are the splendid gentlemen, in their finery. They approach the ladies with utmost courtesy, and request the honour of a dance.”

Hannah gawked at her. “Is this what you truly want, ‘stasia? The music, and dances, and… the gentlemen?”

A resolute and tender fire ignited in Anastasia’s eyes. “More than anything. I want a handsome husband, charming children, a home filled with love and joy and glittering soirées like mother hosts.”

“But what of our books?” said Hannah, a little tremulously, “Our writing?”

“Oh, we shall not lose that, Hannah! We will always be writing and reading together, no matter what happens.”

“That is good,” said a chiming voice from the doorway, “For now, it is time to prepare for dinner, your father went hunting with the Duke today and we have—”

“Venison!” cried Anastasia, leaping to her feet.

“Rabbit!” cried Hannah, rushing past Anastasia to hug her mother’s legs.

“Wild boar!” cried their father, Craig, from behind Josephine, who laughed as he kissed her neck.

“Wild boar?” said Hannah. “We have never had that before. What was it like to hunt?”

“Oh, Hannah, must we?” said Anastasia, crinkling her nose and taking a prim stance against the suggestion. “Perhaps on the next occasion when you and Father take a stroll, he may impart the tale to you.”

“Indeed,” said Josephine, “I would prefer to remain uninformed about such events.”

“Well, I would like to include it in one of my stories!” said Hannah excitedly.

“I think you are a trifle young to write tales of that nature, would you not agree, Mother?”

“No, Anastasia, I would not,” said Josephine, gently reprimanding her with a fond smile. “If Hannah believes she can write of it, then she certainly may.”

“Oh, of course, Hannah,” said Anastasia, taking her sister’s hands to convey her understanding. “I cannot wait to read all about it!”

“And I have been bestowed a gift for my birthday!” said Craig, as he extended before her a painting.

“Oh, Father! What is it?”

“It is a place known as Jedburgh Abbey,” replied he. “It is in Scotland, and Lord Fitzroy seemed rather keen that I should possess it.”

he structure was softened by decay, though no less enchanting for its intricate stonework and towering arches. It seemed to glow at her in the afternoon sunlight, captivating her as she beheld it.

The roof had long since vanished, exposing the walls both inside and out; yet they still carried an air of majestic solemnity that shone through the painting.

At the west end, a box tower rose, while at the other a small white chapel sat against the broken grandeur, utilising one of the walls as its own. Three rows of arched windows—some empty and some filled with soft light—suggested a place where beauty and ruin mingled seamlessly.

The abbey's surroundings were a blend of nature reclaiming the land. Lush greenery crept along the edges of the riverbank, softening the starkness of the ruins. In the foreground a river meandered past, its reflective waters giving life to the scene. A handful of figures populated the riverside. Some bent over, as if washing or tending to the rocks, their small, simple figures dwarfed by the imposing grandeur of the abbey.

“…sia? ‘stasia!”

“Hmmm?” said Anastasia, blinking a few times before focusing upon her sister.

“You have been staring at the painting for quite some time,” said her mother, “are you well?”

Flushing, Anastasia did not know what to say; she had been enraptured, yet she could not discern why.

“Of course she is; it is a magnificent painting, and she has been captivated by it,” declared Craig with a laugh. “Let us put it in the parlour, I shall need your help, Anastasia, to make sure it is level!”

July 16th 1800 - Portsmouth

It was breakfast time in the Clifton dining room. Thomas, a lanky youth of thirteen years, was expounding upon a complex mathematical theorem he had recently conquered. His hands swept through the air with dramatic flair as though willing the very numbers to spring to life before them.

His parents watched his animated movements with admiration. Bernard, satisfaction clearly in his tone, spoke, “Your mastery of numbers is truly commendable. I believe I discern the makings of a promising engineer.”

His mother, Aileen, concurred with an encouraging smile and a nod. Thomas clung to each word of approval and praise as though it were a lifeline, his hunger momentarily filled by their affirmations.

Far removed from the happenings at the heavily laden breakfast table, Jack was concentrating on creating invisible patterns in the frosted window. Beyond the pane, he could discern a solitary rose in their garden; its vibrant violet hue striking against the rising sun.

“Jack,” snapped Aileen, “are you heeding my words? I inquired about the advancement of your studies.”

“I try to… do my best, mother. At times, the… noise can become somewhat… overwhelming.”

“Again, you speak of this ‘noise’?” queried his mother with a restrained smile across the table. “You are privileged with private tutors; it is not as though you are distracted by the commotion of a public school.” She curtly gestured with a piece of toast towards him. “You are endowed with a considerable intellect, young man. You ought not to encounter any difficulties.”

Attention shifted back to Thomas, who had observed the brief exchange with clear resentment, and had started to whine. Jack nodded and receded slightly into his polished mahogany chair; his attention diverted to tracing the grooves on the intricate arms. Engrossed in thought, he felt an entire world removed from the routine that enveloped him.

You ought not to encounter any difficulties.

If that was so, then why did difficulties abound whenever he tried to concentrate? Ideas and thoughts whirled within his head. His mind was besieged by distractions, each vying for attention, making it arduous for him to maintain a coherent train of thought. At the most critical moments, understanding would elude him, slipping through his fingers despite desperate attempts to grasp it firmly.

There was a tapestry, as he thought of it, in his mind, which he endeavoured to weave into knowledge. It was difficult, and he found himself regarding his thoughts as threads to grapple with.

A thread hovered before him, he plucked it from the air with a sense of curiosity and followed it. The reminder of the day’s significance at the end shocked a sudden lump into his throat. Hot tears welled up and cascaded down his cheeks unbidden.

The good-humoured atmosphere at the other end of the table gave way to startled silence.

“What on earth has incited such an exhibition?” inquired Aileen, her eyebrows knitting together in a display of displeasure.

“Your mother has just paid your intellect a compliment, boy,” said Bernard. “What are you attempting to pull?”

Gazing down at his half-eaten porridge, he endeavoured to suppress the rising terror that seized him when unexpectedly cast into the harsh light of frustrated scrutiny. He found himself at a loss to articulate or explain precisely why an emotional dam had burst, even though he was aware of the reason. It was perplexing, and he knew not how to address it.

Aileen’s impatience turned to anger. “What manner of gentlema—nay, a boy of nine—sheds tears upon receiving commendation? Youngsters half your age do not yield to such weeping.”

The very picture of misery, Jack swallowed hard in a desperate bid for control, yet the tears would not stop. Aileen gestured firmly towards the staircase as he tried to down another spoonful off porridge under the irate gaze of his family. “Retire to your room. Do not reappear until you have regained your composure.”

He cast one final glance at his parents—his father exasperated, his mother wreathed in uncompromising disapproval—and then at his brother, who simply sneered before turning to beg for attention once more.

He ascended the stairs, flanked by portraits of ancestors as distant as the family below. Unable to fathom his natural need for stability, Jack was only aware of an emptiness—a hollow space where something vital ought to reside.

With every step toward his bedchamber, resentment and anger seized Jack tighter and tighter, for no one—not even his own mother—cared that it was his tenth birthday.