THE ACCURSED LOVE
“What happens now?” asked Elspeth anxiously, more to herself than to her sweetheart.
“Nothing unusual. I’ll send the matchmakers. Wait,” the lad replied coolly.
…Elspeth returned from the fateful outing—one that would upend her life—giddy and mysterious. She told her two younger sisters every detail of her time with Alistair. The girls knew Elspeth was madly in love with him. He had promised to marry her after the autumn harvest.
Now, after their intimate moment in the hayloft, he was bound to propose.
Yet… The fields lay bare, the harvest stored, winter crept in, and still no matchmakers came.
Elspeth’s mother, Aunt Hattie, noticed the change in her eldest. Once merry, Elspeth had grown sullen and oddly swollen. One evening, the truth spilled out in tears. Furious, Aunt Hattie marched to the neighbouring village to confront Alistair’s mother—and demand why no suitors had arrived.
But Alistair’s mother knew nothing of her son’s deeds. The women turned their wrath on him. He merely scoffed:
“How do I know the brat’s mine? Plenty of lads in the village. Should I claim every child?”
Aunt Hattie stormed out, hissing a curse:
“May you marry a dozen times, you wretch!”
Perhaps heaven heard. Alistair would wed four times.
Back home, Elspeth read the truth in her mother’s face. Aunt Hattie warned the girls: “Not a word to your father. We’ll handle this.”
Elspeth was sent to relatives in York. “Leave the babe at the hospital,” Aunt Hattie ordered. “Or the village tongues will wag forever. God willing, all will be well. Ah, girls, sin is sweet—but the reckoning bitter.”
Aunt Hattie’s husband, Duncan Wallace, was the village schoolmaster, stern and respected. To disgrace him now—his own daughter with a bastard! Unthinkable.
When rumours reached him, Duncan raged. “Fetch that child home!” he thundered.
Aunt Hattie, who’d wept in secret all year, obeyed. They named the girl Ann.
Elspeth bore the guilt lifelong. She still dreamed of that hayloft—Alistair’s laugh, the scent of dried clover. Foolish, accursed love! Not a potato to toss out the window.
At twenty-five, Elspeth’s foster brother, Fred, began courting her. He’d adored her since childhood. “I’d wed you with three bairns, let alone one,” he vowed.
They married simply, then moved to London—away from prying eyes.
Elspeth bore a second daughter, Lucy. Fred adored both girls alike. Their home brimmed with warmth.
But ten years later, Ann found an old diary in the attic. Within its pages—Alistair’s name, again and again.
Furious, she confronted Aunt Hattie, then stormed to Alistair’s village. His mother recognised her at once—the spitting image of her son.
Alistair eyed the girls. “Which one’s mine?” he asked.
Ann spat back, “I might’ve been!”
Alone in the yard, he offered her money. She refused.
Back home, Ann declared, “Fred’s my only father!”—yet never forgave Elspeth.
Years passed. Ann married, bore sons. The eldest was Alistair’s twin.
Occasionally, Elspeth met Alistair in London—always dressed finely, to prove she wanted nothing from him. She never mentioned Ann’s decade-long silence, nor the grandsons she’d never held. Some shadows never fade.
But Fred was her solace. He’d joked at their wedding: “A wormhole doesn’t spoil the apple.”
On their golden anniversary, Ann finally wept: “Forgive me, Mum!”
Alistair called too. “Four wives,” he sighed. “Still don’t know why I let you go.”
Elspeth cut him short. “You didn’t love me. But I’ve been happy. My Fred’s my world.”
And so she let the accursed love die at last.
