Felicity shook her head, her fingers twisting the edge of her cloak. “Only your farewell note, which Uncle gave me himself.”
Alastair's brows rose, and he shook his head. “I didn’t write it. I was in no state to hold a quill. And even if I had been, I would never have agreed to it.”
Eyes widening, Felicity cast her thoughts back to that scrap of paper Uncle had given her. She’d read it enough times to know its contents by heart, but the words were too few to know if Alastair’s hand had written it. Though, in her heart, Felicity wouldn’t be surprised if Uncle had forged it in an attempt to give his niece some semblance of a farewell.
“I went to our place,” he whispered. “That little spot near the Barbican where we’d stroll by the sea.”
Felicity nodded, and his expression lightened.
“For weeks, I went there, hoping you would appear and I would have the opportunity to explain myself. To tell you that my heart was still faithful. That I would love you—and only you—to the end of my days.”
Sometime in his speech, his hand entwined with hers, and Felicity peered down at it, but before she could think what it meant or what she wanted, Alastair continued in a frantic whisper.
“When he discovered what I was doing, your uncle came after me again. But this time, he threatened my family, saying he would sack my brother and make certain no one else hired him. Then he would go after my father’s debts and see my family turned out into the streets if I did not leave Plymouth immediately. I know I promised never to forsake you, but I couldn’t risk my family’s well-being. I had no choice but to leave.”
A whisper of uncertainty skittered across Felicity’s spine, but she couldn’t focus on it when Alastair stood so close to her. It was there and gone before she could give it a voice.
Goodness, she was a spinster who had long ago relinquished such silly notions as swooning, but with Alastair so near, his voice speaking the things she’d longed to hear all those years ago, Felicity found it impossible to remain aloof. This was her first love, and perhaps—just perhaps—he hadn’t been as false as the rest.
Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Alastair retrieved a lock of fiery red hair, tied up with the green ribbon she’d worn the first time they’d met. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it before tucking it back away.
“So, I moved across the country and built a new life for myself, but I never forgot you. No other woman could compare, for they were only pale, lifeless imitations. Years passed, and I waited for the day we could have a life together.” His head dropped, and Alastair let out a heavy sigh tinged with a self-deprecating laugh. “I even took to writing you. Even when I knew I couldn’t send them, pretending gave me some peace.”
Without meeting her gaze, he withdrew a bundle of letters tied together with twine and handed them to her. “Forgive the late delivery, but these are yours.”
Clutching them, Felicity stared at the stack, uncertain what to say or think or even feel at their appearance. And her confusion only grew when Alastair raised his gaze and she found his eyes steeped in unshed tears.
“I only just heard of your uncle’s passing and rushed to Plymouth. When I found you gone, I couldn’t rest until I saw you again,” he murmured, that hand of his drifting to her cheek once more. “I did not come here demanding or expecting anything. I came with the desperate hope that you’ll allow me the opportunity to win your heart again.”
Alastair Dunn had the most expressive eyes Felicity had ever seen; that much had not changed. And though she had long since believed her memory of his affection to be false or flawed, his eyes burned with an adoration that was as warm and devoted as she remembered.
A heavy silence filled the churchyard, though unspoken declarations rang in the air.
Alastair drew closer, his foot bumped hers, and she looked up into his eyes as he leaned down to meet her. But when his lips drew close, Felicity straightened and jerked away.
“Alastair, please,” she murmured, clutching his letters in one arm while pressing her other hand to her stomach, as though that touch might calm the flutters that were less butterflies and more like a swarm of angry hornets.
His smile tightened, but Alastair nodded, putting a minor distance between them. “I apologize. I cannot seem to help myself around you, Felicity. You are intoxicating, and when I look into your eyes, my good sense is lost.”
Felicity gave him a tremulous smile, though she had no idea if she was pleased or irritated by his sentiment. Too much had happened in the past few days for her to think straight, and Alastair’s reappearance and confession were enough of an upheaval.
Holding her gaze, Alastair gave her a low bow. “I do not wish to add to your heartache. Please read my letters and see that my heart has always been true.”
Alastair straightened, the movement drawing him close once more, and he raised her hand to his lips. Though her hand was encased in leather, Felicity felt his warmth as he kissed her knuckles with a smile and a sigh as though her touch eased a pain in his soul.
Turning on his heels, he marched away without a backward glance, though Felicity watched him until he disappeared from view. She cast a look around her and fled to a bench someone had placed beneath a nearby tree. Her legs trembled, struggling to keep her upright in the ice and snow before she dropped to the stone, not caring how frigid it was. She clutched Alastair’s letters, her gaze unfocused as she stared into the distance.
Uncle George had always been careful to behave with the utmost decorum around Felicity, but he was not a perfect man, and a few of his more colorful phrases sprang to her mind as she tried to unravel the tangled mess that was her life. She had come to Bristow to escape such entanglements. Her time here was intended to be a solace from such overtures, yet two gentlemen had attempted to kiss her in the last few days.
Felicity Barrows was no young miss unaware of the machinations of fortune hunters. She was well used to spotting their lures and traps, but none of her experience gave her an ounce of clarity when it came to these two.
Mr. Finch wasn’t aware of her fortune, so it was a moot point. But Alastair?
Her first love. The man whom all others had been compared to, even if Felicity hadn’t recognized the bias. Alastair had left his mark, leaving her forever altered. And even with Uncle George’s claims of his unfaithful heart, some part of her had always longed for a moment exactly like the one he’d just given her. One filled with regret, apologies, and longing. An explanation.
Felicity glanced at the bundle in her arms that contained fifteen years of unspoken sentiments. She couldn’t believe he’d written so much without hope of delivering them. To carry them with him for so long surely meant something significant. Didn’t it?
Sliding out the topmost letter, Felicity unfolded the paper. The script was splotchy and hurried, as though Alastair could hardly get his words out fast enough. But then, he’d written it in the coach on his way to Plymouth.
