**Diary Entry**
Those were different times. Many, many years ago, life was entirely different—especially in the countryside. There were strict rules, customs, superstitions, and ways of doing things. Children’s fates were decided by their parents. Whomever they chose, that was who their son or daughter would marry. Love between the young meant nothing. Parents lived as their own parents had, and so it went on.
Sophie grew up in a family of four children, the youngest of them all. By seventeen, she was already skilled at running a household. That was when she fell for Peter. He lived on the other side of the village but often lingered near her home. Their eyes would meet, and in those silent glances, volumes were spoken.
Then came her father’s stern words.
“Sophie, what’s that Peter lad doing hanging about our house? He lives clear across the village—why’s he always here?” asked her father, Thomas, though she had tried her best to hide her feelings. Nothing escaped him.
“How should I know, Dad?” she murmured, eyes downcast, heart pounding.
“How indeed? Thinking of marriage? I’ll find you a husband, but not that layabout Peter. Him and his mother live in a crumbling cottage. You deserve better,” he declared firmly.
Thomas decided then and there—Sophie needed a husband, and quickly. If he didn’t act, she’d end up with Peter, whom he inexplicably despised.
“Mother, have we got Sophie’s dowry ready?” he asked his wife, Margaret.
She stared at him, alarmed.
“Tom, what’s brought this on? There’s a bit saved, but she’s still young. Surely you’re not planning to marry her off so soon? She’s our youngest!” Margaret wailed, knowing her husband’s stubborn nature. Once he set his mind to something, there was no swaying him.
Margaret herself had been married off to Thomas without a choice. She didn’t love him—she feared him. Harsh and unyielding, he’d never tolerated disobedience.
“Not too young. She’s nearly seventeen—high time she wed before she gets ideas. That Peter lad keeps lurking about, and he’ll never be my son-in-law.”
Margaret’s heart sank. Sophie had confided in secret—she fancied curly-haired Peter, and he fancied her.
“Mum, I can’t help it—when I see Peter, my heart races. I want to speak to him, but I’m terrified Father will catch us.”
“Oh, love, don’t you dare. You know how your father feels about Peter.”
**Married to a Stranger**
The moment Sophie turned seventeen, suitors arrived—John, whose parents lived just two doors down. They were well-off, owning a cow and a horse. Three sons, and John, the youngest, still unwed. He needed a wife.
She had never liked John. Red-haired and freckled, always untidy, yet he’d pause by their gate, peering into the yard, hoping for a glimpse of the pretty, graceful girl who always hid from him. He was three years older, and even as children playing by the river, she’d avoided him. She’d once declared she couldn’t stand redheaded boys—though once, when she was seven, he’d saved her from drowning.
“Don’t tell my parents,” she’d begged, teeth chattering from the cold.
“Won’t say a word,” John had muttered, nudging her home.
He never told. Her parents never knew how close she’d come to being lost.
The night before the betrothal, Thomas confronted Peter near their home.
“Stop lurking around here. You’ll never marry my daughter. Suitors are coming tomorrow—she’ll be wed soon. Stay away.”
Peter stared, uncertain if it was a bluff. But the resolve in Thomas’s eyes was clear. Without a word, he turned and walked back to his side of the village. Heartbroken—there was nothing he could do. If her father had decided, that was that. Yet how he adored her, how her cheeks flushed when their eyes met. But this was the way of things—no courting, no choice. Parents decided, and children lived with it.
That evening, as Sophie finished her tea, Thomas fixed her with a hard stare. She shrank under it, knowing nothing good would follow. Wiping his spoon, he spoke.
“Mother, Sophie—prepare for the suitors tomorrow. Time you wed. New dress, ribbons in your hair—all sorted. Understood?”
“Yes, Father,” she whispered. “Who’s the groom?”
“John. Hardworking lad. Their house is tidy, they’ve got livestock—you’ll never go hungry. His mother’s easygoing too. So what if he’s redheaded? He’s a good worker—that’s what matters.”
“But Father, I don’t like him—I don’t like redheads,” she ventured.
His glare silenced her.
“Enough. Who’s asking your opinion?”
**A Mother’s Comfort**
Sophie cried all night. She didn’t want to marry redheaded John, but defying her father was unthinkable. She had to accept it. Her mother soothed her.
“Darling, it’s God’s will. What your father says, goes. You must endure.”
“But Mum, I can’t stand John. How will I live with a man I don’t love?”
“You just will. I’ve lived that way all my life.”
**The Betrothal**
The next day, the suitors arrived. John, polished like a new penny, wore fresh trousers and a pressed shirt, his hair neatly cut. He even looked handsome. Sophie stepped out in a new dress, her fair hair in two braids tied with red satin bows, head bowed. Seeing her up close, John flushed—she set his heart racing.
“We’ve a buyer, you’ve the goods,” the matchmaker announced grandly.
Thomas noticed John’s nervous excitement and smirked.
“Well then, here’s our goods,” he said, nodding at Sophie.
The betrothal was settled. A small wedding followed, and Sophie moved into John’s home. His parents, who’d long admired her, treated her kindly. They’d arranged this match with her father long ago—only the young couple had been kept in the dark.
No one asked how Sophie felt. Her heart was heavy. She loved another but had married John. She prayed.
“God, help me accept this. Help me love John as my husband. Forgive me for loving another. I swear I’ll forget Peter. John is my fate now.”
Time passed. She adjusted. Love became a forgotten notion. She bore a son—redheaded like John—but adored him, calling him her little sunbeam. And John? He was a good man. Kind to her and their child. Never cruel. She saw the goodness in him and learned to live with it. Peter, she heard, had married too.
Her parents visited often, doting on their grandson. Margaret sighed in relief—her daughter was safe, cared for.
“You’ve a good life, love. Safe and sound.”
**Tragedy**
Sophie bore three sons. But when she was thirty-five, disaster struck. John and his father were haymaking when a storm rolled in. Lightning struck the hayrick they’d sheltered under—both died instantly.
Grief filled the house. Sophie’s mother-in-law, unable to bear the loss, followed them two months later.
“God, how will I raise three children alone?” Sophie wept.
“You’ve a fine house,” Thomas said. “Another man will come.”
“Father, I don’t want anyone else. John was good to me.”
“Remember how you didn’t want him? Yet you lived well, bore his children,” he mused, making her uneasy.
**A Second Marriage**
A year passed. Then Thomas announced:
“Found you a husband. Young, but never mind. You can’t manage alone at your age.”
Sophie didn’t know who he’d picked this time. Margaret was just as clueless.
“You know your father. He decides these things.”
A villager, Ephraim, offered his twenty-year-old son, Clem.
“He’s young,” Thomas mused.
“Aye, but he’s got the falling sickness. Fits, now and then. No young lady would have him—but your Sophie, a widow with children, won’t fuss. Who’d take her now? He’s younger, but he’ll need a wife to look after him.”
Thomas agreed.
He and Margaret broke the news.
“Sophie, you’re to wed Clem from down the lane.”
Her eyes widened.
“But Father, he’s just a boy!”
“Twenty-one. You’re not old. You need a man’s help with the children. Who else would take you? Clem’s willing—his parents proposed it.”
**Unhappy Union**
Again, her father married her off—this time to a man much younger. Soon after, Clem’s parents died, content their son was cared for.
Life with Clem was misery.
