ONE TRUE LOVE

The rain hammered the thatched roofs of Ashford as the funeral of Eleanor Harper slipped by in a gray hush. Frederick Harper stood beside the open grave, his hands clasped around his wife’s cold fingers, not a single tear escaping his stoic stare.

Look, I told you he never loved Zinnia, whispered Tess, his neighbour, leaning close. Shhh, what does it matter now? Hes left his children orphaned and thats the cruelest part.

Give it time, replied Lila, her voice sharp. Hell end up marrying Catherine, youll see.

Catherine? Tess scoffed. What could she possibly offer him? Gwendolyn was his true love. Remember how they used to wander the hayfields together? Catherine wont even give him a glanceshes got a family and has long forgotten him.

Lila nodded. Exactly. Catherines husband is a war hero; she doesnt need a drifter like Frederick. And Gwendolyn? Shes still tangled up with that rogue, Mick Cherry. Theyll spin their own tragic romance, mark my words.

Eleanors burial drew the village together; the two small children clutched each others hands tightly. Michael Harper and Lucy Barnes were just eight, twins born after a brief, sorrowful marriage between Frederick and Eleanor. Nobody in the village could say whether Frederick ever truly loved Eleanor; the gossip was that shed become pregnant, forcing his hand, and that shed died in childbirth after a precarious sevenmonth labor. The couples attempts at a family had been barren, and Frederick earned the nickname Grim Fred for his dour silence and frugal affectiona reputation that followed him like a shadow.

Yet a miracle fell from the heavens: within a year, Eleanor gave birth to twins. Michael grew into a gentle, caring boy, while Lucy mirrored her fathers reticence, sealing herself behind invisible walls, her thoughts a mystery even to him. Frederick would work in the barn, the rhythm of his tools punctuated by Lucys soft whine as she hovered, trying to learn what he said about life. Michael scurried about, fetching water in a tiny bucket, sweeping the floor, eager to help his mother in any way she could.

When Eleanors health waned, she called Michael to her side. Son, Im going soon. Youll be the man of the house now. Look after your sister; shes fragile, and its your duty to protect her.

Will Dad protect us? Michael asked, his voice trembling.

Eleanors eyes clouded. I dont know, love. Time will tell.

Then dont leave us, he sobbed. What would we do without you?

She smiled weakly. If it were up to me, Id keep you both. By dawn, she was gone. Frederick stood over her still form, his hand still on hers, his face a mask of grief that never cracked into tears. The world seemed to dim around him.

Life in the little cottage settled into a new rhythm. Lucy, though still quiet, took on the responsibilities of keeping the home, fumbling through cooking and cleaning, still too young for proficiency. Aunt Natalie, Fredericks sister, visited often, her husband Victor a steady presence, and together they guided Lucy through the chores.

Will Dad remarry, Aunt? Lucy asked one afternoon, stirring a thin broth.

Natalie brushed a strand of hair from her face. I cant read his mind, dear. Hes a private man.

The village buzzed with whispers that Frederick and Gwendolyns old flame had reignited. Shes lost her mind, going after Fred again, muttered Tess at the shop. Shes forgotten her husband entirely. The collective farms chairman, Mr. Lawrence Whitfield, halted the gossip with a sharp voice. Stop spreading rumors. You know nothing about your neighbours.

Indeed, Frederick and Gwendolyn had once shared a passionate love, strong enough to inspire poetry. But when Frederick was posted to a distant farm in Lancashire to aid a struggling collective, he spent two months away, while Gwendolyn fell into Micks reckless world. Upon his return, Frederick confronted Mick, their quarrel ending in a bruised cheek for Mick, and Gwendolyn fled to marry him. Mick proved a wild, destructive husband, and Gwendolyn wept for the loss of a stable man like Frederick.

In Ashford, people began to notice Fredericks lingering glances at Eleanors photograph, the way the light seemed to catch his eyes when he spoke of her. Love does strange things to a man, they said.

Eleanor had loved Frederick in silence, never daring to mention Gwendolyn. Their secret meetings turned into a quiet marriage, overseen by the villages old parish council, presided over by the stern Mr. Proctor. Eleanors mother, a stoic widow named Margaret, had given birth to her late, and the villagers speculated about Eleanors father, but no one spoke aloud.

The years passed without a single major quarrel between Frederick and his children. Then, one bitter winter, Eleanor fell ill with a disease no doctor could cure. The situation felt hopeless.

Frederick returned home from the fields one evening, his boots mudcaked.

Freddy, could I pop over for a cuppa? Ive baked scones for the children, called Gwendolyn, holding a tin of fresh pastries.

No thanks, Gwendolyn. Weve already got scones from Aunt Natalie, he replied curtly.

She persisted, Im just trying to help, love.

He sighed, My sister will help too.

She pressed, Meet me at the mill at dusk.

Why now? he asked.

Did you forget what we once shared? she whispered, hope trembling in her voice.

Fredericks reply was flat. That was long ago. My children are my world now. Eleanor is gone.

Love never truly dies, she murmured.

You married her out of spite, he snapped.

Go home, he said softly, turning and walking away, leaving Gwendolyn standing alone on the village lane.

Years later, the twins were grown. Aunt Natalie still visited, now fully aware that her brother was a onewoman man.

Lucy, I heard youre seeing Gareth Vorn, she called from the doorway.

Yes, what of it? Lucy answered, arms folded.

Just be careful, Natalie warned. Youre not a child any more.

I love him, Aunt. I know its forever, Lucy declared.

Time will tell, Natalie replied, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

That night, Michael and Lucy waited for their father to return from the fields.

Hes late, Michael muttered. Its Friday.

Lucy shrugged, He always visits Mums grave on Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends.

Whered you hear that? Michael asked, eyebrows rising.

Because you dont feel his heart, you simpleton.

They slipped quietly to the cemetery, Lucy guiding Michael down a hidden path between the hedges.

There, she said, pointing to a hunched figure near the stone.

Michael strained to listen. He heard his fathers low voice, a ghost of the man he once knew.

Dear Zinnia, my heart is heavy. Soon Lucy will be wed, and Ive gathered her dowry with Natalies help. We live quietly now. Forgive me, my love, for the words I never said. My heart spoke louder than my tongue.

Fredericks hoarse whisper faded as he shuffled toward the gates. Lucy watched the tears freeze in Michaels eyes, the weight of their fathers lingering love finally laid bare.