What would become of us now? Emily Whitaker whispered, more to herself than to the man she loved.
What? he replied calmly. Ill send the matchmakers. Wait for me.
When Emily returned from that fateful afternoons meeting the one that would overturn the rest of her life she was bright and mysterious. She recounted every detail to her two younger sisters, Hannah and Evelyn. They all knew how terribly Emily had fallen for Henry Carrington. He had promised to wed her in the autumn, after he finished the essential work on the farm.
Now that a close encounter had taken place in the hayloft, it was only proper for the young man to ask for her hand. Yet the fields were already reaped, the grain stored in the barns, Christmas was drawing near, and no matchmakers could be found.
Emilys mother, Mrs. Whitaker, and her sisterinlaw Aunt Margaret began to notice a change in the elder daughter. Normally cheerful, Emily grew melancholy and her health seemed uneven. A heartfelt talk followed. After Emilys bitter confession, Aunt Margaret insisted on looking the prospective soninlaw straight in the eye and, at the same time, finding out whether the matchmakers had simply vanished.
Without hesitation, Mrs. Whitaker travelled to the neighbouring village of Brookfield, where Henry lived. There she was received by his mother, a woman entirely unaware of her sons private affairs. Aunt Margaret poured out all her thoughts, and the two women turned against Henry. He answered with cold indifference:
How am I to know which woman will bear my child? There are plenty of lads in the village. Must I claim every babe as my own?
Aunt Margaret fumed. As she left the house forever, she cursed him:
May you, wretched rogue, spend your whole life in marriage!
Perhaps those words reached some higher court of fate, for Henry would later marry four times.
Emily, watching her mothers pale expression, sensed the grim outcome of the two womens confrontation. Aunt Margaret issued a stern warning to all her daughters:
Speak not a word to the father! Well settle this ourselves.
She instructed Emily to travel to York to stay with relatives. When the child was born, she should leave it at the infirmary; otherwise, the village women would gossip ceaselessly, and no one would ever forgive her. God will see to it, she added, though sin is sweet and people are fickle.
Aunt Margarets husband, Arthur Bennett, was a modest schoolmaster respected by the whole parish. He was known simply as Mr. Bennett. When he learned that his own daughter had given birth in secret, he was outraged.
This is a disgrace to the whole community! he thundered, and sent Emily away to the city for work, noting that she was already twenty years old.
The middle daughter, Stacey, soon left for a teachers college in Leeds, while the youngest, Evelyn, was sent to London. In that small English village, every spoken word echoed long after it was uttered. Rumours eventually reached Mr. Bennett, who heard from his pupils that trouble brewed within his own household.
He confronted his wife with a fury he had never shown before:
How could you think of sending a child to a home? Thats my first granddaughter! Ill have her back in our house soon!
Aunt Margaret, who had spent the whole previous year in tears, had not expected such a storm. She knew the baby had indeed been placed in an orphanage, and she dreaded visiting her. Its like a mother eating berries while the mother herself coughs, she lamented.
Soon, Aunt Margaret and Emily returned the infant to the village. The girl was christened Annabelle, though she would not know her family for a year. This secret would be a weight Emily would bear forever. Whatever Annabelle might become, Emily would accept her with patient, silent devotion.
Emily often recalled that last meeting with Henry in the hayloft the intoxicating scent of dried straw and the heady, sweet minutes of reckless love. She still loved Henry, despite the shame, the deception, the sting to her soul. This cursed love, she would say, is no simple thing you can throw out the window.
She became a single mother. Looking at Annabelle, Emily saw Henrys features and his stubborn temperament. Life hung in a mist for her; nothing felt pleasant. Even Annabelles laughter could bring a quiet sorrow. Oh, the curse of fatherlessness she would sigh.
When Emily turned twentyfive, a familiar suitor began to appear: a boy named Frederick Freddy Hardy, who had grown up alongside her. Aunt Margarets own sister had once married a widower with three children; Freddy was one of those children, and the whole parish knew each other well.
Emily reluctantly accepted Freddys attentions. With a child already in her care, she was still young, and Freddy seemed a fine husband, except for Annabelle. He worried how he would treat her. Freddy knew the whole tragic tale of Emilys love with Henry, yet he had adored her since childhood. He would have married her even with three children, let alone Annabelle.
They staged a bustling village wedding, and Freddy moved his new family to London, away from prying eyes. The young couple now held a fragile secret.
Soon Emily bore a daughter, Lucy. To Freddy both girls were his own; he adopted Annabelle outright, making no distinction between the sisters. He lived and breathed his new family.
Emily proved a capable housekeeper, mother, and wife. Freddy breathed new life into her broken spirit. Their home was filled with peace and understanding.
Ten years passed. One summer, Annabelle, Lucy, and four other grandchildren were staying with Aunt Margaret at her cottage. The old woman walked proudly through the village, three married daughters, each with children, and now three grandchildren of her own.
One day, the middle daughters granddaughter was tidying an abandoned loft. Among dusty newspapers and her grandfathers old notebooks, the child found a small diary. She settled down to read and gasped the pages were filled with entries about a Henry Carrington, each line bearing his name. It turned out to be Aunt Emilys private journal.
The secret could not be kept. The girl rushed to tell her cousin Annabelle, who snatched the diary like a crucial clue and fled to Aunt Margaret for answers. The kind-hearted aunt poured out everything, regretting she had never burned the cursed notebook.
Annabelle could not comprehend the revelation: that the man she thought was her father had been hidden for years. She begged to meet him at once. Aunt Margaret gave her the address of the man shed never known.
Annabelle, taking her sisterinlaw as a sort of avenger, set off for the neighbouring village. There she was met at the gate by Henrys mother, who recognised the girl instantly. Without a word, she ushered Annabelle inside. The woman hurried to set a table with tea and biscuits, then wept, apologising to the granddaughter she had always remembered, though her son had forbidden any contact.
From the next room emerged Henry himself, weary yet still proud. He examined the two blueeyed sisters and asked, So, confess which of you is my daughter?
Annabelle answered boldly, I could have been your daughter!
He nodded and invited her out into the garden. She stepped out, but returned a minute later, angry.
Seeing the tension rise, Henrys mother called everyone to the table, poured each girl a small glass of strong whisky, and they laughed, What, you think we drink at our age? Were still too young for spirits! They drank anyway.
Later, on the walk home, curiosity got the better of Annabelles sister, who asked, What did you talk about with father?
It was nothing, Annabelle replied, He offered me money, wanted to buy my silence. I didnt take it, and I never liked him. He cant even recognise his own child.
Aunt Margaret pressed for details, How did you meet? What did he serve? Should we tell Freddy and Emily?
Annabelle said, Besides Freddys dad, I have no other fathers. From that day she harboured a quiet resentment toward her mother, blaming Emily for fearing the village gossip and for giving her away to an orphanage.
Emily spent the rest of her life apologising, Forgive me, Annabelle, for being a wayward mother.
Years slipped by. Annabelle and Lucy grew up, married, and Annabelle bore two sons. The older was named after the young Henry, who had once been a reckless lad.
What of Henry? He never truly forgot Emily. Occasionally he met her in London, where they would share a quiet tea, each pretending the other lived contentedly, prosperous, and unneeding.
Emily never told Henry that Annabelle had barred her from seeing the grandchildren for ten long years, and Annabelle herself kept her distance. Old sins cast long shadows. Emily understood the pain and suffered; her husband Freddy was the solace of her life. He never once blamed her, and at their wedding he joked, A speck on the red apple does not spoil the fruit.
She had, long ago, joined her heart with Freddys. One could not help but love such a man.
Emily and Freddy reached their golden wedding anniversary. Children, grandchildren, and greatgrandchildren gathered to celebrate. In the bustle, Annabelle pulled Emily aside, tears brimming, and whispered, Im sorry, Mother. Forgive me for everything. I had no right to judge you.
Henry called to send his congratulations over the telephone. I wont live to see a golden anniversary. Ive been with my fourth wife ten years now. Forgive me, Emily, for the foolishness that drove me away, he sobbed.
Emily cut him off, Dont continue. You left, so you never loved. I am happy now. Yes, I paid for my youthful mistakes, but now I have everything I need especially my Freddy. I hold no grudge. I forgave you long ago.
And with that, she bid him farewell. The tale of love cursed, of secret children, and of redemption lingered in the villages memory, whispered whenever the wind rustled through the old haylofts.
