My dearest love,
I can hardly breathe. Is it true? Are you free of him at last? I hardly know what to think and dare not hope that no other has captured your heart and hand. I find myself hanging from the coach window, shouting at the driver to lay on the whip, for every passing minute without you is an agony…
Goodness. The page was filled with his undying devotion and his dreams for their future. And Felicity was willing to admit that they called to her. Though her present life was beautiful in its own right, the letters promised a future filled with love, tenderness, and a family of her own.
Though the cold nipped at her nose, Felicity ignored it, setting aside the letters to stare out at the churchyard. Her breath spiraled and swirled into the chill air, and the world was silent and still. If only her heart could find such peace.
Had Uncle George been wrong about him?
Freed from the fog of attraction that clouded her thoughts whenever Alastair spoke, Felicity picked through the past few minutes, trying to see the truth. The stack of letters beside her was a strong testament in Alastair’s favor, yet as her mind cleared, Felicity struggled to accept the accusations against her kin.
The picture Alastair painted was not favorable to Uncle George. Felicity could well imagine her uncle going to great lengths to protect her—it was in his nature to defend those he loved—but she couldn’t reconcile the uncle she knew with the malevolent fellow who’d threatened the Dunn family. Uncle George was more likely to send Felicity to the country and out of Alastair’s influence than destroy the livelihood and well-being of innocents.
Uncle George may have been gruff at times and far from what anyone would call “refined,” but he’d been a good man. Though often uncertain how to comfort a brokenhearted young girl, he’d done his best. That brusque man had held her as she wept and watched over her as fiercely as any father. Better than Felicity’s own, who had hardly comforted his child after the loss of her mother.
Leaning forward, Felicity rubbed her forehead, hoping the faint pain pulsing there wouldn’t grow. It was unlikely, but she still hoped.
Truth was a fickle thing. Though called immutable, one’s perspective colored it. Altering it. Twisting it. Even if one believed themselves impartial or a defender of it, so much of what was deemed “true” was merely the world as one perceived it.
Had Uncle George been truthful then? Or was Alastair now? Or was reality merely bits and pieces of both cobbled together like a chimera?
Chapter 23
Gathering the stack of letters, Felicity deposited them in the basket and made her way out of the churchyard. The overcast sky and short days always made it difficult to tell the time, but she hoped it was time to return to Buxby Hall. Unfortunately for Aunt Imogene, Felicity’s afternoon away had only provided her with more questions, concerns, and conundrums with which to pester the old biddy.
Alastair. Mr. Finch. Uncle George. Bristow was proving to be as irksome as Plymouth.
Within minutes she arrived at the inn and her groom had the carriage readied. Once seated inside and pointed home, Felicity tried to puzzle out the truth. The letters called to her from the basket. She rather wished to get some distance and perspective before rushing through them, but her mind would not give her peace. Perhaps they might hold some answers. Untying the twine, she turned to the bottom of the stack and unfolded the letter.
My dearest Felicity,
It breaks my heart that we are apart. If fate had been kinder, we would be married now. Irreparably bound as husband and wife and beyond your uncle’s power. I wish I had been stronger or faster. I wish I had set out sooner. But there is no undoing the past, and I only hope we do not suffer long for my weakness.
Do not fret, my love. I will be whole again soon, and we can try again…
Alastair’s words flowed across the page, recounting each pain and agony he’d suffered and the treachery of her uncle and his men. And while it stirred Felicity’s heart to sympathy, a tickle at the back of her neck grew more pronounced. Without Alastair standing before her to cloud her judgment, she could feel it there, pricking at her peace of mind and warning that not all was right.
The gentleman was so enticing. More than his looks, his personality drew her in, enchanting her through his passion and zeal; with naught but a few words and a look, he ensorcelled her. But away from his influence, she studied his letters, acknowledging just how wrong Alastair’s accusations against Uncle George felt.
Picking up the next letter, she read more of the same. Recounting his injuries and cursing her uncle. Pleading for a swift recovery in order to return to her side once more.
Felicity understood why he held Uncle George in contempt, but the more Alastair darkened her uncle’s name, the more ill at ease she felt. No one could ever accuse George Barrows of being a gentleman, but that did not mean he lacked honor or kindness. Such virtues were not exclusive to those who clung to social niceties and etiquette. And the man Alastair described in his letters was not her uncle.
…The sun is setting outside my window, and it brings to mind the afternoons we spend together, wandering along the Barbican. The afternoon light caught your hair, and it blazed like a sunset. Golden, fiery hues that lit my world with your loveliness…
Words like these had filled Felicity’s dreams for years after Alastair’s disappearance. It was the precise thing he’d whisper to her before stealing a kiss. The gentleman was so adept at surrounding her with such lovely compliments and declarations, but seeing them written in black and white drained them of much of their power.
Flipping through the letters, Felicity scanned one after the other, hardly giving more than a passing glance. Each was much the same. Frustrations at their separation. Declarations of undying love. Recounting her beauty. Promises to remain true to her.
The carriage rocked, and Felicity turned her attention to the window. Buxby Hall was fast approaching, and she was grateful for a chance to speak to someone about this turn of events. Perhaps Aunt Imogene had some insight into Alastair and what she ought to do next.
Ought she to welcome his attention? Uncle George might’ve been wrong about Alastair, but he might’ve been correct. Yet here, before her, was evidence that her former beau’s heart had been true. The dates in the letters spanned years, each showing that she was never far from his thoughts. With such a sign of his devotion, it was difficult to believe Alastair’s motives to be sinister.
But even as she contemplated that possibility, her stomach turned. Not only because something felt amiss, but because even with the hope of rekindling that long-lost love, Felicity couldn’t rid herself of another gentleman who’d taken up residence in her thoughts.
Felicity chuckled to herself. Was she truly debating whether to welcome the courtship of a gentleman who seemed intent on distancing himself or the gentleman who had broken her heart so many years ago? It was laughable.
Only she could find herself embroiled in such chaos during a holiday—
