The Mercy Of Paper

One fleeting encounter binds Abigail Whitmore and Rhett Wylder through letters of longing, faith, and desire. Years later, Rhett attempts to hand deliver a final letter from jail only to learn she married months before. A story of love deferred, secrets kept, and hearts tested by fate, told entirely through letters.

Letter 1

March the 11th, 1790

Miss Whitmore,

I do not know if you will forgive the liberty of this letter. I tell myself that paper is less dangerous than speech, and still my hand has hesitated over your name longer than I will admit.

I have kept quiet the way you asked. I have not returned to the road where you stopped, nor to the place where you stood as if the world had narrowed just enough to let a stranger in. I haven't went back to that place of pure peace and beauty.

But silence has begun to feel like another kind of theft.

I did not mean to keep you. I meant only to ask the time, or the way, or nothing at all. Instead, you looked at me as if you were not afraid of what might happen next, only of what might not. That was the moment I understood I would remember you longer than was decent.

I have known women who knew exactly what they were offering. You were not one of them. You gave me only a breath, only the space between steps, and I have not found a way to return it.

I want you to know that I did not touch you because I wanted to. I did not touch you because I knew I would not stop. If that sounds like a confession, then let it be one you never answer.

You told me your name like it was nothing dangerous. I have carried it carefully since.

If I am wise this letter will be the last mark I make on your life. If I am not, then I hope you will forgive me for writing once, and only once, as the man I was in that moment- still, listening and already undone.

- R

Letter 2

March the 14th, 1790

Sir,

I have set my hand to this letter three times now and torn it twice, which I was raised to believe is the proper conduct of a young woman who knows right from wrong. Whether this third attempt is wiser or only bolder, I cannot rightly say.

I did not ask you to hold your tongue because I was afraid of you. I asked because I was afraid of myself. That truth feels needful even it it marks me as less obedient than my father would hope his daughter to be.

I have replayed that moment more than I care to confess- not because of what you did, but because of what you did not. You stood so still that I could hear the creek behind us finish what it had been saying before you spoke. The air smelled of damp leaves and iron, and only later did I realize I had been holding my breath as though sound of a single breath itself might give us away.

I ought to tell you that I am not in the habit of answering letters like yours. I should also tell you that I was not raised to pretend a thing held no weight simply because it passed quickly. If that renders me foolish, then I will bear the title.

You asked me for nothing, which made it impossible to refuse you.

I will make you no promise of another letter. I will promise only this-that I do not regret the way I stood beside you, nor the way the memory returns to me now, when the house has gone still and my name belongs only to myself.

Respectfully,

Abigail Whitmore

Letter 3

March the 18th, 1790

Miss Whitmore,

I have read your letter more times than I care to count, each reading I set as a reminder in my brain that honesty can be heavier than any sin I have carried. I will try to meet it as a man might, though I have never been much for doing things the right way.

You should know plainly: I am not a good man. Not in the way a preacher might describe goodness, and not in the way your father would approve. I have spent my life on the roads that do not lead to salvation, learning the turns and the shadows along the way.

And yet... I do not approach the women who speak honestly to me with deceit. I do not touch what I cannot bear to leave untouched. That is the closest I have to a rule, though it is a fragile one, and I make no claim that it will endure.

It may worry you that I write of rules at all. I cannot tell you what I have done, only what I carry, and it is heavier for the silence I have kept. Know this: even when a man stands at the edge of something he cannot name, there are moments, when he may be trusted, and moments when he cannot. I am both.

If you choose to write again, I will read your words with care, and perhaps a restraint that is unusual in me. If you choose not to, I will honor that, though the memory of your name will remain, and with it a weight I cannot set down.

I remain still,

Rhett

Letter 4

March the 25th 1790,

Mr. Rhett,

Your letter troubled me more than I can rightly say, though I am unsure whether it should frighten or fascinate. I have spent nights reading your words and feeling the stirrings of questions I am not certain a young woman ought to ask.

You say you are not a good man. I cannot tell what that means, yet I find myself wishing to understand it. My father has taught me that a soul can be mended, that even the wayward may find their path to redemption. I wonder, then, what redemption looks like to you. Is it something earned, or something given? Can a man like you hope for it, or is it a dream for those of us with easier hearts?

I must admit—I am curious about you in ways I should not be. There is danger in the roads you travel, yet I am drawn to the spaces where your rules meet your restraint. I felt it when I saw you that day, and I feel it now in your letters: a careful softness that tempts me to lean closer than prudence allows.

If I seem forward, forgive me. I ask only because the Lord has placed in me a mind and heart that wish to know, even as they strive to obey. Perhaps, in seeking to understand you, I will learn more of His design than I imagine.

I await your thoughts, though I pray you write with care, and with the same honesty that you promised before.

Respectfully,

Abigail Whitmore

Letter 5

April the 2nd, 1790

Miss Whitmore,

Your letter lingered in my hands long after I had read it, and I confess it unsettled me more than I care to admit. There is a daring in your questions, a courage in your curiosity, that pricks at something in me I thought long dead.

You ask of redemption, and I find I cannot answer fully—not because I would hide, but because some truths are heavier than a young woman’s heart should carry. There are shadows in my life that I cannot name here, and yet I do not wish to frighten you. Perhaps it is for this reason I write: to let you know there is softness, even tenderness, beneath the roads I have chosen.

I will tell you, cautiously, that your words stir me more than propriety allows. I think of you often—of the way your eyes hold both faith and mischief, of the courage in your step, of the flutter I feel in my chest when I imagine you near. There is a longing in me I scarcely understand: for you, for the kind of home a man like I may never deserve, for a tenderness that I can almost touch when I think of you.

I do not presume, Miss Whitmore. I know the line I must not cross, and yet your presence, even in memory, tempts me toward it. I spare you more than you imagine—not because I do not wish to share all, but because the truths I keep are not fit for a girl’s innocence.

I will not ask for reply. I ask only that you know this: there is a part of me that aches for you, that carries the thought of you with a care and reverence I have not known for any other, and that hopes—even against better judgment—that you might be a place of safety and warmth in a life that has known little of either.

Rhett

Letter 6

April the 10th, 1790

Mr. Rhett,

I write with a heart both heavy and restless, though I pray the Lord will give me courage as I do. Forgive me if these words are hurried or uneven, for I am unsure how to speak what weighs upon me.

Since I las wrote, questions have come where I hoped there would be none. My father asks of my movements, of my acquaintances, of the letters that pass unseen. I cannot tell him the truth of you-not yet, perhaps not ever. And yet the secrecy tears at me, making the days longer and the nights sharper.

I confess I have feared before, but never like this. My fear is not only for myself, but for you, and for the consequences that linger like shadows on the edges of our brief encounter. And yet, even with caution pressing upon me, I cannot deny a longing- a wild, restless wish to see you again, even if only for a fleeting moment. There is a daring in you, a freedom that calls to the parts of me seldom allowed to breathe. I feel it in my chest, as if some part of me insists that my spirit must meet yours, if only briefly, in the sunlight or in the shadow of the creek.

Still I pray for guidance. I pray for a steadiness of heart, for the wisdom to honor both my faith and the stirrings of my curiosity. And yet, I confess quietly, as much prayer as a confession: I ache to see you, to know the man beneath your words, and to let the the wildness I keep hidden in check only by circumstance meet the freedom I sense in you.

If it is not too forward, may I know your full name? That I might hold it in thought as I do in prayer, and speak of you with the respect your courage deserves.

Yours in truth,

Abigail Whitmore.

Letter 7

May the 1st, 1790

My Sweetest Abigail,

I write from a place the sun does not touch, and yet you are nearer to me than any warmth I feel. I have thought of that brief moment by the creek more times than I care to admit, and in every shadow, your name rises before me like a warning I cannot resist.

I have never been a man of virtue, you know this. The roads I walk are rough and the corners I frequent are dark. Yet even here, in the midst of all I have chosen and cannot undo, thoughts of you ignite something I thought long dead: a longing for tenderness, for trust, for a heart that might endure mine.

Do not mistake me, Abigail—I have felt desire before, but never like this. Not for a woman I have barely met, yet whose presence lingers in memory like fire. I imagine the warmth of you, the courage behind your eyes, the mischief in your smile, and it is enough to make me ache for a life I cannot claim. I long for you, for the safety I might find in your steadiness, for a freedom I might never deserve but cannot help wishing for.

I will not presume to speak beyond what is safe, nor will I ask for more than your thoughts and prayers. But know this: even in hiding, even among the roads that would swallow me whole, there is a part of me that carries you constantly, and it will not be erased. To answer your question, you sure are asking for a lot. I can't give you my full name because the sound of it out loud is enough to bring problems to the lips from which it left. What I can offer is my middle name, Wylder. This is something my ma and pa only knew. Now I am trusting you ma'am.

Always,

Rhett Wylder

Letter 8

July the 3rd, 1790

My Wylder,

I have prayed long before setting pen to paper, for I would not have these words written lightly. Time stretches heavier than I imagined it might, and yet I remain, as I promised.

There are days when the silence presses so firmly I feel it in my bones, when the waiting itself seems a trial no one sees but the Lord. Still, I hold fast to it. I believe He does not place longing in the heart without purpose, even when that purpose is revealed only through endurance.

I have not forgotten the promise I made in my own quiet way. I will not pretend the waiting has been easy, nor that fear has not crept beside hope. But I have chosen to remain steady. If the roads have carried you far, I will trust they may one day bring you back again.

You once spoke of rules, of restraint, of the weight a man carries even when unseen. I think of that often, and I pray that wherever you are, you are kept from harm, and that mercy may yet find you. I speak no name aloud, for even a whisper might summon danger, yet in my heart I carry you always.

If this waiting asks much of me, I give it willingly. I would rather remain faithful than be spared the ache. Should this letter reach you, know only this: I have not turned away. I am here. I am waiting.

In His keeping,

Abigail Whitmore

Letter 9

December the 17th, 1790

Walnut Street Jail

Abigail Whitmore,

They have given me paper because they believe a man cannot do further harm once his hands are already claimed. I will not argue with them. This page will not wound anyone who has not already loved me.

I am not angry. Not at you, and not at the world that moves so slowly when a man is trying to do right. I write only to tell you what I hope, what I dream, and what I would do if the Lord allows me my freedom once more.

When I am released, I will find you. I will make a life with you on a small parcel of land, just enough to call our own. A couple of acres, a well-trained dog at our side, and a home where kindness and faith guide our days. You, Abigail, so steadfast and gentle, deserve no less than that—and I intend to give it to you. I would make you my bride, not in haste, not recklessly, but with the care and love that your patience and faith have earned.

If this letter reaches you before I do, know only this: I carry the hope of you constantly. I have planned for a life that honors your heart, your sweetness, and your steadfastness. There is nothing I wish more than to stand beside you in a life built properly, as you deserve.

Yours Always,

Rhett Wylder