The Road Not Taken

October 12, 1857

Somewhere near Charleston

Dearest Nathaniel,

It has taken me years to summon the courage to write this letter, though I fear it will do little to mend the hurt I caused you. I owe you an apology—a true, unvarnished one. That night, the night you waited for me at the crossroads, I chose not to come. It was not the world that conspired against us, Nathaniel. It was me.

I’ve spent so long trying to justify my decision, to find comfort in the lie that I had no choice. But the truth is simpler and uglier: I was afraid.

The days before our planned escape felt like walking a tightrope between two lives. I carried your last letter everywhere, hidden beneath my bodice, its words burned into my mind: “If you meet me, I’ll know you’ve chosen me—and our future together.”

I longed for that future, Nathaniel, truly. I could see it so clearly in my dreams: the rolling hills of New England, the two of us in a little home with whitewashed walls and a garden in bloom. But every time I closed my eyes, another vision crept in—a vision of my father’s stern face, his disappointment seeping into my bones like poison.

At the print shop, where I worked long hours under Mr. Hargrave’s sharp eye, the days dragged on in a haze of nerves. Hargrave barked his orders with all the subtlety of a cattle driver, and I obeyed, my fingers trembling as I set the type or folded the freshly inked papers. The shop’s air was thick with the metallic tang of ink and the heavy musk of unwashed men.

Mary, the press operator, noticed my distraction. “What’s got you so skittish, Clara?” she asked one afternoon as we folded broadsheets at the long oak table.

“I’m fine,” I lied, avoiding her gaze.

“Fine,” she mimicked, rolling her eyes. “You’ve been sneaking looks at that clock all week. Someone waiting on you?”

The question stung, even as I smiled weakly and shook my head. If only I had been braver, perhaps I might have confided in her, shared the plan that you and I had so carefully crafted. But I said nothing, keeping my hopes and fears locked tightly away.

The night we were to leave, the city hummed with the quiet stillness that comes just before a storm. The gas lamps lining the streets flickered weakly against the encroaching dark, and the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth. I finished my shift at the print shop, my satchel packed and ready, and stepped out onto the cobblestones.

Every step toward the coach stop felt like dragging lead weights. My thoughts churned with doubt. What if I’m wrong to leave? What if I fail him? What if we’re caught?

My father’s voice echoed in my mind, his disapproval as sharp and cutting as a blade. “You think you can just run off and live on love? Foolish girl. You’ll end up starving, or worse.”

I reached the corner of King Street, where I was meant to turn toward the crossroads, but my feet slowed. A small café glowed warmly in the distance, its door propped open to let in the night air. The scent of coffee wafted out, mingling with the faint strains of piano music. Without thinking, I stepped inside.

The café was dimly lit, filled with murmured conversation and the clinking of porcelain cups. I slid into a corner seat, setting my satchel beside me. The warmth of the room wrapped around me like a cocoon, lulling me into a false sense of comfort. I told myself it was just a short stop, a moment to collect my thoughts.

But minutes turned into hours. The storm I had felt in the air broke at last, and rain began to lash against the windows. I watched the rivulets streak down the glass, each drop a reflection of my growing guilt. Still, I could not make myself leave.

When I finally rose and stepped back onto the street, the city was quiet again, the storm having spent itself. The coach to New England had long since departed, and with it, the life I might have had with you.

I told myself you would wait for me, that I could send word and explain, that we could plan again. But as the days turned into weeks, I could not bring myself to write. What excuse could I give? How could I make you understand something I barely understood myself?

My father never knew how close I came to leaving. I returned home that night as though nothing had happened, slipping in through the back door to avoid questions. Life continued as it always had—tedious, predictable, suffocating. But I was no longer the same.

The years since then have felt like penance. I married Edwin, the man my father favored, though my heart was never his. Edwin was not unkind, but our life together was hollow. He saw me as an ornament to his success, not a partner. I often found myself staring out the window, imagining the hills of New England and wondering if you were there, building the life we had dreamed of—without me.

When Edwin passed last spring, taken by the fever, I felt neither grief nor relief, only an emptiness that had long since become familiar. For the first time, I was free to choose my own path, but the weight of my past choices kept me rooted in place.

Now, Nathaniel, I write to you not to ask for forgiveness—I do not deserve it—but to tell you that I am sorry. I failed you, and I failed myself.

If there is still room in your life for me, if you can find it in your heart to forgive the woman who let you down, please let me know where you are. I will come to you as soon as I can. If you have moved on, as I deserve you should, I will understand and trouble you no more.

Yours,

Clara

November 2, 1857

Boston, Massachusetts

Dear Clara,

Your letter arrived unexpectedly and stirred memories I had long since buried. I had not thought of you in years—not because I forgot, but because remembering was once too painful to bear. Even now, as I hold your words in my hands, I feel a flicker of the man I was on that night you failed to meet me, the man who waited until the stars faded and the first light of dawn revealed the emptiness of the crossroads.

You ask for forgiveness, but Clara, what you need to understand is that it was not merely a night you took from me. It was my sense of self, my trust in others, my belief in the promises people make when they claim to love you. I stood in the cold at that lonely place, clutching your letters and replaying every word you ever said, every smile you ever gave me, trying to convince myself you would come. And when you didn’t, it felt as if the world itself had collapsed around me.

For months after, I wandered in a fog, questioning everything. Was I not enough? Had you never intended to come? Had I imagined the love I thought was between us? Your absence became a hollow ache that gnawed at me in the quiet moments, an open wound I thought would never heal. I stayed in Charleston longer than I should have, hoping for a word, a sign, some explanation. None came.

When I finally left, it was not for New England. That dream had died along with the man who believed in it. Instead, I drifted from town to town, taking whatever work I could find, trying to forget the sound of your voice, the way you laughed, the way your eyes shone when you spoke of freedom. But forgetting proved impossible. The only way forward was to rebuild myself from the rubble you left behind.

It took years, Clara. Years to scrape together the shards of my broken heart and piece myself back together. And now, I am someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who understands that love is only as good as the actions it inspires.

I am writing this from my home in Boston, where I have built a life I am proud of. I have a wife, Elizabeth, whose love is as steadfast as the earth beneath my feet. We have three children who fill our days with laughter and chaos and light. I am happy, Clara—truly happy—and I would not trade this life for the dream we once shared.

Your letter was too late. Whatever we might have been, whatever life we could have built together, is long gone. You made your choice when you stayed in Charleston, just as I made mine when I chose to leave that pain behind. I ask you now to respect the life I have made. Do not write to me again.

I wish you well, Clara. I hope you find the peace that eluded you then, and perhaps still does now. But our story ended years ago, at a crossroads where you never came.

Sincerely,

Nathaniel