Love Isnt for Show
Annabel stepped out of the cottage, a brimming pail of pig feed heavy in her hand, and swept past her husband George with a frosty glare. For three days straight, the man had been fussing over the old well, trying to carve it into something fancifulbecause what else could he possibly have to do? While she was busy with chores, feeding the livestock, he just stood there, chiselling away, covered in wood shavings, smiling at her like some village simpleton. What sort of husband had fate dealt her? He never uttered a tender word, never pounded the table in righteous decisionjust worked quietly, only pausing now and then to look deep into her eyes and run his hand down her thick, golden plait; that was all the affection he ever showed. But how she longed for morefor darling this and sweetheart that
Daydreaming about her lot as a wife, Annabel nearly tripped over the old dog, Marley, and nearly pitched headlong into the stony old path. George was beside her in an instant, steadying her, scowling softly at the dog.
What are you doing, getting under her feet? Careful, youll hurt the mistress, he admonished, as Marley slunk away, tail between his legs, to his little wooden kennel. Annabel marvelled yet again at how deeply the animals seemed to understand her husband. Once, shed asked him about it, and hed simply replied: I love them, and they love me back, simple as that.
Annabel couldnt help but dream of loveof being swept off her feet, cherished with soft words whispered at night, wildflowers waiting on her pillow each morning. But George, she suspected, was stingy with affection; shed begun to wonder if he cared for her at all.
Good morning, neighbours! called over Philip from the next cottage, peering through a gap in the old wattle fence. George, you still playing with that carving nonsense? Whos going to appreciate it? he joked.
I want my children to grow up with an eye for beauty, George replied, a faraway look in his eyes.
Children, eh? Philip winked broadly at Annabel, who blushed and hurried into the house. She was in no rush for children herself. Young and lively, she wanted to enjoy a bit more of life, and truth be told, George wasnt exactly the dashing type. Philip, thoughtall, broad-shouldered, and always quick with a kind wordset her heart fluttering. Whenever their paths crossed, hed whisper things as gentle as the English rain: Youre brighter than the morning dew, Annabel She felt her knees wobble, but always scurried away, refusing his advances. Shed promised herself to George, after allher parents, married all their years, had taught her to hold tight to ones family.
But oh, how her heart ached to peer out the window, just to catch Philips eye!
Next morning, Annabel was driving the cow out to pasture and ran smack into Philip at the garden gate.
Annabel, love, why do you always dodge me? Are you afraid? he said, grinning with his captivating smile. I cant stop thinking about you. Come to me at dawn, when your husbands off fishing. Ill shower you with adorationyoull never be happier.
Her cheeks burned, her heart buzzed, but she offered no replyjust hurried past, focusing on the cow as though it might vanish.
Ill wait for you, he called after her.
All day, Annabel couldnt shake thoughts of him. She longed for tenderness, and he was so tempting, his gaze so intense. Still, she couldnt find the courage to yieldnot yet. There was still time before dawn
That evening, George heated the little garden shed into a makeshift bathhouse and, ever sociable, invited Philip to join him. Why bother heating his own, Philip thought, when George would share wood and steam gladly? They lashed each other with birch branches, sighing in the fragrant heat. Eventually, slick with sweat, they drifted into the outer room to rest. Annabel brought them a decanter of homemade gin and a platter of snacks, then remembered the pickled cucumbers stashed in the larder. Ducking below ground, she gathered them up, but as she climbed the steps, the murmur of their voices drifted to her from behind the ajar door. She lingered, listening in secret.
Why so indecisive, George? Philip whispered. Come with methere are widows at the inn whod spoil you rotten, prettier than your Annabel, whos plain as a mouse.
No, mate, Georges voice was soft but resolute. I want nothing to do with them. My wife isnt plain, shes the most beautiful woman in England. Theres no flower nor berry fairer than her. When I look at her, I dont even see the sunonly her dear eyes and her slender form. My love for her is as boundless as the river in spring. My only trouble is I cant find the wordscant show her how much I care. I know shes hurt because of it. Im afraid of losing herI couldnt last even a day without her, couldnt draw a breath if she were gone.
Annabel clutched the pickle jar, tears slipping down her cheek, her heart thumping so loud she feared theyd hear. She straightened her shoulders, strode into the outer room, and declared:
Off with you, Philipgo warm some lonely widows heart. My husband and I have more important matters. Weve no children to gaze on Georges handiworkyet. Forgive me, dear husband, for my foolish thoughts, for not seeing the happiness I already held. Come now, weve wasted too much time apart
That dawn, George didnt go fishing.
