They were an hour out from the castle when Fiona remembered the package.
She had been sitting in silence, staring out the window at the passing countryside, trying to numb herself to the pain that radiated from somewhere deep in her chest. Molly had attempted conversation once or twice, but Fiona’s monosyllabic responses had discouraged further effort. The maid now sat quietly opposite her, pretending to read a book she had not turned a page in since they departed.
The package was still in her reticule, a slight weight against her hip that she had almost forgotten. Now, with nothing but empty miles ahead of her, Fiona reached for it.
The brown paper fell away easily, revealing a square of soft fabric—a handkerchief, she realised, though far finer than any she had ever owned. It was made of delicate white lawn, edged with lace, and embroidered in one corner with a small, elegant design.
A birthmark. Wine-dark thread against white fabric, shaped like the mark she had kissed so many times.
She pressed the handkerchief to her lips and breathed in.
It smelled of him. Sandalwood and soap and something underneath that was simply Christian—a scent she would recognise anywhere, even in a crowd of thousands.
There was a note, too. A small piece of paper, folded once, with her name written on the front in his familiar hand.
Fiona,
I wanted you to have something to remember me by—though I know you need no I wished you to have something by which you might remember me—though I suspect you have little need of such a token. You are impressed upon my heart more indelibly than any mark upon the skin, and I shall carry the memory of you with me always.
This handkerchief belonged to my mother. It is the only possession of hers that I retained after her death. I give it to you because you have given me something far more precious: you have shown me what it is to be loved.
I know you must be angry with me, and you have every right. I am, as you said, a coward—too fearful to claim the happiness I so desperately desire. Perhaps, in time, I shall discover the courage you believe I possess. Perhaps I shall come to you, as I ought to have done today, and beg you to forgive my weakness.
But if I do not—if fear prevails, as it has so many times before—I wish you at least to know this: you are the greatest blessing that has ever entered my life. You are the only person who has ever looked at me and seen something worthy of affection. And I am sorry—more deeply sorry than I can express—that I was not brave enough to keep you.
Forgive me if you can. Forget me if you must. But above all, be happy.
I shall love you for the remainder of my days.
Christian
Fiona read the letter three times, her vision blurring with tears.
He loved her. He had always loved her. And he had let her go anyway, because the fear was stronger than the love, because the voices in his head were louder than the voice in his heart.
She folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into her reticule, alongside the handkerchief. Then she pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and wept.
She wept for the future they would never have. For the children they would never raise. For the life she had glimpsed, briefly and brilliantly, before it was snatched away.
She wept for Christian, alone in his castle, convincing himself he had done the right thing.
And she wept for herself, heading toward a world that no longer felt like home—because home, she had discovered, was not a place. It was a person.
And she had just left him behind.
Molly did not speak. She simply moved to sit beside her mistress, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and holding her as she cried.
Outside the carriage, the miles rolled past—hills and fields and villages, all the ordinary landscape of England, indifferent to the heartbreak happening within the small wooden box that carried two women toward London.
Fiona did not know how long she wept. Long enough for the tears to run dry, for her body to ache with exhaustion, for the sun to climb high in the sky and begin its descent toward the horizon.
Eventually, she raised her head from Molly’s shoulder and wiped her face with the handkerchief—Christian’s handkerchief, his mother’s handkerchief, the final token of a man who loved her deeply, yet not enough to overcome his fear.
“What will you do, miss?” Molly asked quietly. “When we reach London?”
Fiona considered the question. She could not go to her parents—not yet, not with her heart so raw and her grief so fresh. They would demand explanations, make accusations, try to repair the reputation she no longer cared about preserving.
But there was someone else. Someone who might understand.
