Symphonies in E Minor

Prologue

Manchester, 1841

Despite the bright orange and hot pink hues of the sunset spreading over Manchester, Sir Styles's bedroom chambers have their curtains shut, concealing the sun from his view in an attempt to bar a migraine from occurring behind his eyes. The medicine that rests on his side table does little to ease him, the irritation putting him in a foul mood that he gets no pleasure from unleashing on his staff.

He's undoing his cravat, removing his vest when his butler announces the arrival of his soon to be betrothed, Lady Emilia, late in the afternoon.

Harry should have noticed something is immediately wrong when there is no mention of a maid or chaperone assisting the Lady. A woman rarely ventures far without some type of company, and Harry's estate is a decent half hour carriage ride from her own family's house.

He begins redoing his necktie with a sigh, glancing in the mirror. Harry tells his butler, Roger, to allow her in and that she may meet him in the drawing room. There, servants are stationed, and perhaps it'll ease both of them if they're not alone.

Being alone with her, at times, is far more daunting than he'd like to admit, not because of her spontaneous personality, but her depth of knowledge in things he simply cares nothing about. Their meetings often pass by in silence or forced conversations.

Lady Emilia, no matter how pretty she is in her new custom dresses and satin gloves, simply does not have anything in common with him, though he can't put the blame on him. The men that she is accustomed to speaking with and getting marriage offers from are all Lords by title and not by name like him, men like his brothers, who have accepted the titles given by his father. Harry does not have a title, however, due to his father's, he's called Lord Styles in society. Perhaps if he acted more like a Lord, then he'd gain more positive attention from the general public. Maybe even from Lady Emilia who has spent the last five months with him complaining about them having dissimilar interests.

She arrives at the drawing room with her usual long petticoat on, but Harry notices that when she sits down, she's wearing a silk white dress under, her shoes heeled and delicate. It's not the expected attire to wear in the evening, but she doesn't explain her attire to him.

"Could I pour you some tea, if you please?" Roger asks her, bringing in the tea tray he's hastily put together.

Lady Emilia barely turns her eyes to the butler, clearly a woman used to having people at her every beck and call. She waves a hand at him dismissively instead.

"I am to be married," she announces. Harry rests his hands on his thighs and waits for more. "Tonight."

"Certainly not to me," Harry answers, eyes narrowed.

Lady Emilia glances away from him. "No, not to you. It could never be to you."

Harry feels sudden ease underneath all the discomfort in his chest. "I see."

"You must feel it too, Harry. You and I, we just don't match. We don't even have anything to talk about! You with your music and me with my social life. We could never work. You want someone just like you and that is simply not me."

"I never asked you to be like me. I simply don't care about that."

"But I care! I care what they say about me, nearly engaged to a man who barely looks my way despite all the other men quite anxiously begging for my hand. I don't know what was going through that friend of yours' head when he set us up, but do you truly believe you and I could be happy together?"

Harry's never considered being happy with her. But he's 28 and he must be married sometime soon and it seemed like a good investment. Lady Emilia would keep the appearances up in public with her social life and allow him to bury himself away into his work where he's comfortable.