She trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. He must break her heart. Dear, gentle Prosperity deserved the best after all she had suffered, not another loss.
Unable to bear not seeing her, he lifted the image once more. He traced the curve of her cheeks to the dimpled chin. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her resonant voice, surprisingly deep for one so small. He could still feel the softness of her hair, a lock of which was buried deep in his trunk. He could still smell the freshness of the sea upon her, as if she’d just climbed the dunes to look for her father’s lost whaling ship.
“You deserve better,” he whispered.
The cricket he’d not managed to evict from his room answered with a shrill taunt.
He ought to destroy the daguerreotype. That part of his life was over. But he could not bear to lose this last link to her, so he tore apart the frame and removed the silvered plate. He tucked the image between the pages of his Bible. Then he closed the volume and slid it into the bottom desk drawer beneath his engineering manuals and the Army regulations that ordered his days.
The time for regret was over. A man accepted his responsibilities, no matter how distasteful.
He picked up the pen, his hand steadier.
Dearest Prosperity, he scrawled, forgoing the initial “my.” She was dearest to him still, though he could no longer claim her affection.
I cannot ask your forgiveness, nor do I deserve it. Though I am tempted to soften the blow, your honest, practical nature would not wish me to couch what I must tell you in false cheer. Thus I will be straightforward, trusting that your affections have so sufficiently dimmed over the two years of our separation that this news will not inflict great suffering.
I fear that I must break our engagement.
The trembling began again, so violently that he had to set down the pen. Driven by torment, he sprang to his feet and paced to the darkened window. Yanking off his spectacles, he stared into the night. In the distance, a few lanterns dotted anchored vessels. Nearer, lamps brightened the commander’s windows and glowed dimly at one end of the soldiers’ barracks. Soon they would be put out, leaving only the moon and the stars to light the post.
No light could illuminate David’s soul. Such sooty blackness could never be scrubbed clean. She was better off without him, but he was lost without her.
Despair welled again. Once more he pushed it down. Honor dictated but one course. Lives would be wrecked no matter which path he took, but only one protected the innocent.
Once again he sat at his desk and picked up the pen. He could not profess what was in his heart, that he loved her still, that he would love her until the day he died. That would be cruel. No, this letter must sever their bond in a single stroke, break every connecting sinew, and leave not even a ray of hope. Only then could the wound heal. Only then could his beloved let go of the future they had planned together and turn her gaze toward another.
He dipped the nib in ink and touched it to paper. The words did not come easily. His unsteady hand bore witness. He scratched it out as best he could.
I will marry tomorrow.