London, 1918

The war had ended and everyone was up to their eyeballs in parties and celebrations and welcoming their beloved soldiers home. All but you.

Alfie, your dear Alfie had gone to France, a captain of a whole platoon no less, but he took the time to write to you every day, even his lofty connections couldn't save him from the draft.

But after some months the letters stopped coming, and you were certain he had perished.

You took up with another young man, your family eager for you to marry. He would bring you small gifts and fancies and speak flowery romance at you.

With no other suitors to speak of, you agreed to marry him, even though your heart belonged to Alfie.

On the eve of your wedding, your groom was hosting a celebration, a formal dance at his families lavish manor.

Quietly nursing a drink in the corner, you barely noticed the doors burst open, Alfie barreling through the crowd and into the ballroom, dropping his green canvas duffle to the floor and calling out to you.

"Turtle dove!" he grinned, his arms open wide.