The Mystery of the Old Letter: Love Stronger Than the Past
Edward trudged home from work, exhausted. Over the summer, he’d taken a job on a construction site—he couldn’t live off his mother forever. In a year, he’d finish university, get a proper job, and marry his sweetheart, Emily.
“Mum, what if we go to the cottage this weekend?” he suggested dreamily, finishing his supper. “Relax a bit, maybe do some fishing.”
“I was just thinking the same, love,” replied Margaret, setting tea before him. “Thought you’d be too knackered. Maybe we should sell the place? If no one’s there, it’ll fall apart. We haven’t been since your dad passed. If you don’t need it, the money could go toward the wedding.”
“Emily’s parents have a place near Oxford,” Edward nodded. “I’m for it. Let’s sell. We’ll go Friday evening.”
“And bring Emily,” Margaret added brightly.
Edward had spent every summer at his grandmother’s cottage. After she died, his parents would visit on holiday, even tried keeping a vegetable patch. But after his dad’s accident—he’d been killed—Margaret had let the place go.
Friday evening, they rode the bus. Edward stared out the window while Emily dozed against his shoulder. The journey wasn’t long—forty minutes—but the heat made it drag. At last, the bus halted at the village edge. Passengers grabbed bags, eager to escape. Edward jumped down, breathing in the warm air.
“Blimey, your shirt’s soaked,” Emily sympathised.
“Doesn’t matter,” he smiled. “We’ll drop our things, then head to the river.”
They walked through the village, ignoring curious glances. Women greeted them, eyes lingering, but didn’t ask their business—that wasn’t the way here. Edward carried bags of food, relieved after the stuffy bus.
The old house’s yard was wild with weeds and nettles. “Watch your step,” warned Margaret. Emily squealed, pressing close. The rusted lock gave easily. Inside, the cool air made them pause.
“Like I never left,” Margaret sighed, nostalgia thick in her voice.
Edward recognised every detail: faded photos on the walls, magazine cutouts he’d glued as a boy, short linen curtains. Iron beds piled high with knitted blankets. A table at the centre, covered in worn blue oilcloth.
“Cozy,” Emily said. “Sure you want to sell?”
“I’ll unpack,” Margaret directed. “Edward, fetch firewood—it’s out back. Emily, have a look around.”
The house came alive. Fire crackled in the hearth. Tea, biscuits, porridge appeared on the table. The old electric stove hummed. Edward drew water from the well, Margaret filled the kettle. When heat grew stifling, they flung windows and doors wide. Edward and Emily slipped off to the river.
Night brought no sleep—the house groaned like an old man lamenting his years. At breakfast, Margaret sent the pair to clear the attic while she tackled the wardrobes.
“Ugh, so many cobwebs!” Emily clung to Edward under the sloped ceiling. Ropes sagged with forgotten linens—his mother’s? Grandmother’s? Junk everywhere, nothing of interest. They tossed down a pile of magazines, stirring dust. Emily spotted a fallen page.
“Edward, come!” she called.
“What is it?” He peered over her shoulder. “A letter?”
“Listen,” she said, and read aloud:
*”Dear Thomas, What’s happened? You promised to come, speak to your parents, and return for me. A month’s passed without word. I’m going mad not knowing. Meant to tell you when we met, but perhaps this will hurry you: I’m expecting. If Mum were alive, I’d tell her—she’d understand. But Auntie… I doubt she’ll be pleased when my waist thickens. Love, come soon…”*
The girl wrote of love, longing, waiting. It was signed *”Charlotte.”*
“Why’s this got you so bothered?” Edward shrugged. “Just an old letter.”
“You don’t get it,” Emily sighed. “This isn’t just any letter. You’re Edward Thomas, yes?”
“Yeah?” He didn’t follow.
“And this is addressed to Thomas. See now?” Emily grew impatient.
“So? Maybe Mum knows,” Edward mused. “I’ll ask.”
“Wait!” Emily stopped him. “Charlotte wrote this, not your mum. Why hide it in a magazine? Why keep it at all?”
“Cor, you’re a regular detective,” Edward smirked. “What then? How do we find who wrote it?”
“Shame Gran’s gone,” Emily said. “She’d know. Any elders left in the village her age?”
“Dunno. Let’s ask. Mum!” he called, opening the door.
“What?” Margaret sneezed through the dust.
Stacks of linens covered the bed. “Anyone old left in the village?” Edward asked.
“Old Nora, maybe,” Margaret said, eyeing them. “Why?”
“Family history. Where’s she live?” Edward feigned curiosity.
“Last house at the end. Some relation to your gran. Why?” Margaret called after them.
“Off to the river!” Edward lied, steering Emily away.
The tilting house was half-swallowed by grass. “Now I remember!” Edward said.
“Looks abandoned,” Emily doubted.
The door creaked open. A stooped woman in a white shawl peered out. “You after me?”
“Nora?” Edward stepped closer. “I’m Edward Whitmore. Thomas and Margaret’s boy.”
She squinted, remembering. “Come in. Kettle’s on.”
The cramped cottage was spotless. “Thought it’d be all dust and cobwebs?” Nora chuckled. “Still tidy while I can. Out with it—why’re you here?”
Emily showed the letter, reading it aloud. A heaviness grew in Edward’s chest—this was about his family.
Nora sighed. “Margaret’s not with you, so you’ve not told her. Good.”
She tested their patience with silence, then began: “Margaret was a beauty. Lads trailed after her. Her mother fretted, but she’d eyes only for your dad. Off he went to the army, she waited. I’d ask, ‘Thomas writing?’ She’d laugh: ‘Where’s he to go?’ He came back, and they wed a month later—village partied a week. Lovely pair.”
Nora paused, studying Emily. “You’re a pretty thing. Nice to see you together.”
“After the wedding, they moved to London. Margaret worked accounts, Thomas at the factory, studied nights. Rented a flat, visited weekends. I remember—autumn it was. Your dad’s mother sat knitting by the window, waiting. Then she sees a girl, pregnant, struggling with a bag. Knew at once: here for Thomas.
“Ran out, said: ‘Thomas isn’t here, married now, his wife’s expecting, off with you.’ Girl said: ‘Nowhere to go, my aunt threw me out.’ Your grandmother, strict as she was, took pity. Brought her to me, said call her my cousin. Girl was near her time. By the time the ambulance came, she’d birthed a girl—a beauty. Ambulance took them. Never saw her again. Told the village she was my kin. Thomas confessed later: never thought Margaret would wait, started up with this one, spun tales, then left her. Saw Margaret again—forgot the other. Come spring, Margaret had you, Edward.”
Nora fell silent. “Margaret still doesn’t know. Don’t know if telling you was right.”
“Love her?” She nodded at Emily.
“Desperately,” Edward said.
“And the letter?” Emily pressed.
“Thomas’s mother read it, never gave it to him—he was wed by then. Kept it, God knows why,” Nora sighed.
“Ta, Nora,” Emily said, rising. “We should go.”
“Need water or wood fetched?” Edward offered.
“No. I’ll manage. Glad you came. Tell Margaret to visit. Might not see me again.”
“So your dad wronged Charlotte,” Emily mused by the river.
“Bet she’s married now,” Edward dismissed.
Emily stopped. “What?” he frowned.
She looked at him strangely, as if for the first time. “Doesn’t Nora’s story move you?”
“It does, but it’s ancient history. Nora’s a hundred—might’ve imagined it.”
Softly, Emily said: “My mum’s name is Charlotte.”
“So? Lots of Charlottes. Wait—you think… Nah, rubbish. Doesn’t happen.”
Emily stayed quiet.
“You’re saying you’re that baby, and we’re siblings?” Edward shook his head. “Odds are a million to one. If Charlotte stayed near London, maybe four hundred thousand to one. Madness.”
“What if my mum’s that Charlotte? She married my dad…” Emily began.
Edward tightened his grip around her shoulders and whispered, “Then let’s pretend we never found that letter, and keep loving each other just as we are.”
