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