**Stolen Happiness**
Im writing these lines as the snow piles up against my window, with the wind rattling the glass and the smell of cold seeping beneath the gaps. Today, something happened I cant shake. It gnaws at me, and so I must put it into words.
It all began in the narrow lane wedged between those old woven fences behind the houses, just where Church Lane curves into the common. There I ran into the two womenone the rightful wife of Henry, and the other, the one I always felt, by rights and reason, should have been his, but never was The cold was biting that day, Februarys chill pressing even the hardiest of villagers indoors.
A bad dream, thats what it is. Nothing more, flickered through my thoughts as I eyed Margarets rosy face, my old rivalthough I doubt she ever saw it that way. Margaret. A plain English name for a plain sort of woman, yet to me, her presence always stung.
Id long ago resigned myself to Henry being beyond my reach, but it was never easy. Margaret had been his wife for years nowMrs Margaret Clarke, mother to his children, grandmother to his grandchildren. The mind can play tricks, though. In dreams, he was mine, or at least not married to her, and the world made sense. In daylight, it felt like a terrible mistake that only I could see.
No, its impossiblesurely to God! I would think, every time I saw Margaret, whether distant or close. She cant possibly live by the same rules as the rest of us! She lives by her own law, a counterfeit! If she had played by the rules, she never wouldve ended up as Henrys wife! Mother of his children! Grandmother to his grandchildren! And the worst of it was, none of this could be provenno shouting, no public outcry, no blazing the village to ashes would make anyone see the truth. No one but me.
People are born with all sorts of burdensblind, deaf, maimed, fated for an early graveand these faults can at least be seen. But this silent, dumb pain was known only to me, Thomas Morris, a secret burning in a world full of blind fools.
But there she wasMargaret in her black woolen coat with white trim, a thick shawl wrapped about her, boots still crisp from the shoemaker, standing on the snowy path, turning this bad dream of mine over in her hands with casual politeness.
How do you fare, Thomas? she asked, tilting her head with genuine interest.
I get by I muttered.
Well so do I, wouldnt you know! Glancing about, as if to show off her vivid lifeher cheeks bright, eyes large and round. Everyone in Ashton knew she never went to bed, married or single, without washing her face with fresh creamher mothers recipe.
It struck me then: Sunday! Id forgotten the day, but Margaret would never let anyone forget she was wearing her Sunday best.
And what brings you to Willow End this afternoon, Thomas? What path of yours leads here?
Truth is, Id ventured into Willow End for one reasonI hadnt seen Henry in three days, and I yearned for a glimpse of the curtains in his living room window, just a sign that he was alive, still Henry Clarke of this village.
Looking through the fence, I couldve seen Henrys housethe two windows gazing into his gardenbut in my anxiety, I didnt dare. Margaret did, though, a quick glance over her shoulder, before asking again: So, which way are you headed?
Oh, just wandering, I fibbed.
She gave a wry half-smile. Hows your chap, Michael? Not seen him about for ages.
Hes well enough, I sighed. Ever the handymanfixes the porch, carves wooden bits and bobs. Quiet sort, our Michael.
Then, suddenly, I blurted out, stepping toward her, And what about Henry Clarke? Well, is he? The famous onethe pillar of the councilkeeping busy, I imagine?
Another woman mightve snapped, mightve shrieked, You wretch! Sneaking about at night with a married man? Luring him out, watching from under his windows? And with your own husband still living, right here for all to see?! Even widows in Ashton wouldnt be forgiven for half as much, and a married woman, never!
But Margaret didnt. She stepped back for a moment; her complexion darkened, but then two snowflakes lit upon her cheeks, melting away any trace of malice, softening her face until her old kindness returned.
She stood there, still elegant, good-natured and kind, asking, But Henry Clarke drops in at the parish council nearly every day, surely? Why ask me?
I just wondered, I replied. He hasnt shown for three days
Truth be told, Margaret did have whatever it is that makes a wife. And the knowledge of that nearly terrified me. I almost wished shed lost her temper, accused me, blasted me with wild words.
Hes always working, always fretting, Margaret said, explaining his absence. Be it council, some other committee always has beennever managed a day idle, not as a boy and not now, as father and grandfather.
Isnt it dull, though? I pressed her. Life with such a serious, caring sortnever a break?
Margarets smile deepened, a private recollection. Sometimes it was dull, yes. When we were young, I hardly noticed my youth. The old folks cared for the children and the cows, left us our peacebut not Henry. Always in the garden, or books, or scribbling at his desk. Even at Christmas or May Day. Never one for games.
So why did you marry him? So serious?
She looked at me then, as if I were a close friend, and spoke softly, My father, God rest him, advised me to. I listened. A little boredom in youth, he said, more than pays back with happiness in the end.
And did it? I prodded.
Oh, yesafter a year or two, I saw his nature was good. And I marvelled at houses where there were shouts, drink, fightswomen with bruises, men who lazed about. Such shame! Not for me. My Henry nevernever in anger nor spite.
That isnt typical womens worka quiet life.
Oh, but it is, she laughed. And I earned it! Henry grew into a man respected and honoured, though as a lad, no one wouldve picked him out. A bookworm! Girls ignored himdidnt understand what there was to him. I married him by my fathers wish. Afterwards, many a woman nearly bit her arm off with regrettoo late! That season passed!
Margaret laugheda clever womans laugh, patient with foolish girls.
There was the truth of itMargaret for what she was, not the Margaret of my dreams. She tugged my sleeve, led me from the icy lane onto the main road, reminiscing about the old days when she lit up every village dance with her yellow-laced heels. Meanwhile, my own father, in his own bitterness, wouldve traded me for a bottle of gin and a pair of worn boots. I kept a pocketknife near my stocking to fend off the wrong sorts.
Looking back, I realise Margaret always thought herself above Henry, marrying him more out of obligation than love, never noticing how all the girls swooned for him, and the lads respected him. As for me, I scarcely dared look his way, let alone admit Id ever carried a torch for Henry Clarke.
Now, here we were, side by side, strolling through Ashton on a Sunday, two grown women who mightve been friends, making the villagers stare after usnot that it was ever a busy street, but the gossips were always about.
For all my youths foolishness and bare feet, I grinned at Margaret and said, You know, you never did invite me in. Never been a guest in the Clarke house!
Margaret tripped a bit on the icy path, but then we were at her gate. She lifted the latch, and there it was: her garden, her porch, the Clarke house in all its respectable, cluttered glory.
The kitchen was what youd expecta long oak table below the family photos, the blue-rimmed range in the hearth corner. There were booksoh yes, books!behind the glass doors of a cabinet. Not as many as Id seen in the big house where, as a child, I was once a maid, but enough to make an impression.
Back then, in the manor, Id carried logs, hauled water, scrubbed flagstones, and even caught the young lordlings eye. He tried to teach me to read, then grabbed me in a way that made me shove him off so hard, he landed at the foot of the old red velvet settee, his nose bloody. That ended my education, and soon, my whole world changed as our family packed and headed north, chasing dreams that never quite arrived.
In the Clarke front room, those old regrets and mysteries pressed in on mewhat had Henry learnt and understood in those books, those stories I never got to read? What did he share with Margaret? Did she care? I wanted so badly to have learnt something, to matter to someone that way.
Margaret shed her coat, her boots, shawl, flinging them over the drying rail, and said, Come, make yourself at home, Thomas. She gestured at the books.
Let him read them, she muttered, as if to herself. Other women would burn the lot, but meId rather have fewer arguments and a house in peace. Its my son-in-law who brings all the noise.
Id just sat down on the old settle when, without warning, the hound barked and bounded in.
Oy, Baron! Out! Margaret scolded, brandishing the poker, but he lay down, shivering, and let out a terrible, mournful howl.
Is Henry in? I asked, my heart lurching.
Margaret didnt sense the concernshe was too busy shooing Baron. Hes in the woods, has been out on horseback since dawnhell be back soon. But Baron wouldnt quit his howling, and when I touched his muddy side, my hand came away wet and sticky.
Blood, I whispered.
Wheres it from, then? Margaret said. Hes always getting into scraps. Last week he tore some poor spaniels ear off, if you can credit it!
This isnt his bloodBarons unscathed, I said, shuddering.
Whose then, Thomas? Go on, say it! she challenged.
Henrys, maybe My words tangled. What if somethings happened
At that, Margarets patience broke. Thats just what you want, isnt it? Here for trouble! Stirrer! She stormed out. The snow beat harder on the windows; I imagined the whole world outside as dark and wild as my thoughts.
Then Lizzie, Henrys daughter, burst inbarefoot, freckled, heavily pregnant, the needle still in hand. Shed believed me. Oh lord, somethings happened! Baron would never
I grabbed her by the arms. Lizzie, what horse did your father ride? When?
Went out on Molly, but Thomas, weve no horses leftonly the old mare is lamenobody to spareoh God, what can we do?
That set her crying, and I bolted from the house.
Not long after, Michael appeared, just as I was harnessing up our skewbald pony, Baron leaping at my heel.
And where are you off to? Michael asked.
I must, I said, just open the gate for me!
***
Henrys face was ghost-white in the snowy dusk, but when he croaked, Whos there? I believed he was still alive. Which horse did I rideMarty? Is he really gone? Poor, good old Marty
Hes dead, I managed, covering the horses frozen muzzle with my hand.
How did you fight them off, Henry? I asked, voice wavering.
If only I knew, he answered, pointing with a torn sleeve at the carcass of a wolf, blood stark on the snow.
He fumbled for my hand and pressed it to the dead animals nosestill warm but fading fast.
Thomas? How did youwhy are you here? he asked, dazed.
Isnt it odd? I muttered. It wasnt supposed to be me, was it? Someone else should be here. But no, Henryno one else. There never was.
He looked at me, his breath turning to mist.
Leave the horse, I said. Hes gone.
Im cold, Henry stammered. So cold
Youre not dead! I snapped. If you were, Id leave you both. But youre mine nowjust a scrap of warmth left, but thats enough for me. Im taking you home, and I wont give you up this time. I bundled him onto the sledge and shouted at the pony, Pull, girl!
Baron howled, licking at the horses cheek, unwilling to believe we had to leave Marty behind. I whipped the sleigh on.
Are your legs alright, Henry?
Ones mangled above the kneewhere are you taking me, Thomas?
Aye, not much left of you now, is there? Men and beasts have done you in good. Perhaps I should tear your tongue, too, I muttered bitterly.
Whats come over you? Henry groaned.
Im done with liesthat youre not mine, that we mustnt Your wife, my husbandwhy should we care? No more pretending, Henry. Im taking whats mine, and let anyone askIll say what I like! I followed you all these years; now youre mine, at last. Ill nurse you myselflike a sister of mercy. Thats how it will be from now on, you hear?
Are you mad? Henry muttered.
No more nonsense, Henry. Enough! I cried, whipping up the pony as darkness fell.
Baron barked wildly; in the distance, another sledge approached. Henry stirred. Hear that? Theyre coming this way
We stopped; Baron stilled.
Was it Margaret? But neither of us believed it. Not today.
The sleigh drew upHenrys son-in-law, Jack stopped his horse and called, Who goes there? Friend or foe?
Baron barked a greeting, but Henry stayed silent. So did I.
Who is it? Jack called louder, anxious.
Its me, Henry replied weakly.
Whyd you keep us guessing, Dad? he said, spurring his horse closer. Thomas, is that you? Wherere you taking Dad from?
Im bringing him homeaway from harm, I replied.
What sort of harm? Jack pressed. And Marty? Wheres the horse?
Hes gone. Im not well, either Henry muttered.
Who sent you, Jack?
Lizzie sent me, Dad. I wasnt drinking, not playing cards either, just so you know! Are you sober, Jack?
Jack huffed. See for yourself, Dad. Now, which sleigh? Yours or ours?
Henrys eyes locked with mineone last, bitter moment. Would he truly come home with me, braving the gossips, throwing off the masks and lies? Would he, at last, let it be known?
Ill go with Jack, he said, looking away.
Jack clambered over, lifted Henry across the runners, past my knees. I sat there, silent and still, until I found myself muttering, And what about me? What about me?
Henry groaned at the pain. Jack fussed, settling him, pulling the reins around. Bleeding, are you, Dad?
And still I repeated, What about me?
At last, Henry was all bundled up in Jacks sledgethey turned the horse and drove off, nothing more said, leaving me in the falling snow, silent and alone.
Looking back, I see the bitterness in wanting what was never mine, and the folly of chasing half-glimpsed dreams. Love stolen cant be happiness; it always leaves you wanting, cold in the snow as someone elses carriage rolls away. Sometimes, what fate withholds from you, it does so for your own good, though you might never know it at the time.
