An Unexpected Guest
In the quiet village of Oakbrook, the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air as Margaret Whitbread stoked the old oven in her cottage. The peaceful hum of the kitchen shattered like smoke when a sharp knock echoed at the door. Wiping her hands on her apron, Margaret hurried to answer.
“Mum, meet Emily, my fiancée,” her son William announced from the doorstep, beaming with pride.
Margaret froze, thunderstruck. Emily was tall—nearly six feet—wearing a short skirt, towering heels, bold makeup, and clutching an enormous handbag.
“Hello,” Margaret managed, masking her shock. “Harold, come here!” she called to her husband. “Will’s brought our future daughter-in-law, come and meet her!”
Harold shuffled in, dressed in a stretched vest, his mouth falling open at the sight of Emily as if he’d seen a spectre.
“Er—hello,” he muttered before darting back to change.
Margaret shot him a reproachful glance. When William had mentioned two days prior that he wouldn’t be coming alone, she’d been delighted. At thirty, it was high time he settled down. She’d imagined a modest girl, perhaps in a simple dress, hair neatly braided. But Emily? This was beyond her expectations. Stiletto heels, vibrant nails, a bag spilling feathers—everything Margaret held as proper had just been upended.
“Come in, Emily,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Harold, stop dawdling and help with the bags!”
Harold, now in a clean shirt, lugged Emily’s belongings inside while Margaret seized a moment to whisper to her son.
“William, what on earth have you brought home? Look at her!”
“Mum, don’t start,” William chuckled. “She’s not what she seems. Underneath, she’s pure gold.”
Margaret sniffed, crossing herself. “Lord save us, this is a turn-up.”
Chaos unfolded in the cottage. The men murmured over tea while Emily commandeered Margaret and Harold’s bedroom, unpacking feathered hats, swimsuits, and shimmering scarves.
“What’s this?” Margaret grimaced, pinching a scrap of lace between two fingers.
“Lingerie,” Emily chirped. “Would you like some? I’ve plenty to spare.”
“No, thank you,” Margaret muttered, her cheeks burning. “And why are you taking over our room?”
“William’s space is cramped, and Uncle Harold said you wouldn’t mind,” Emily smiled.
“Uncle Harold, is it?” Margaret hissed, glaring at her husband. She grabbed his arm and dragged him outside.
“Have you lost your senses? Giving away our room? You’ll be on the sofa tonight, mark my words!”
A low moo from the barn interrupted her.
“Oh, Blossom needs milking, thanks to you lot!” She huffed, marching toward the shed.
Emily dashed after her. “Could I try? I’ve never milked a cow.”
Margaret eyed her heels. “In those?”
“I’ll change!” Emily vanished and reappeared in shorts and a blouse.
Margaret sighed. “Fine, but wear this.” She thrust a headscarf at her.
“Could I wear a hat instead? I’ve a lovely floral one.”
“Scarf!” Margaret snapped.
In the barn, she handed Emily a bucket. “Do it like this. I’ll get breakfast ready.”
Half an hour later, Emily hadn’t returned. Margaret set the table and stomked back to find Emily circling Blossom, the scarf askew, muttering to herself.
“Goodness, I’ve looked everywhere!” she exclaimed as Margaret, stifling laughter, demonstrated the proper technique.
After breakfast, Emily stretched out to sunbathe in the yard. Harold, who’d dodged chores all week, suddenly seized a scythe and began trimming the hedge, stealing glances at their guest.
“Emily, fancy helping pick raspberries?” Margaret cooed. “We’ll make jam.”
“Of course, Aunt Maggie!” Emily bounded up.
In the patch, Margaret handed her a jar. Emily worked with such gusto that Margaret left her to chat with a neighbour, lamenting her imagined daughter-in-law and receiving advice to withhold judgement.
Returning, she found Emily missing.
“Emily, where are you?”
“Here!” came a voice from the nettles.
Emily emerged, her hair tangled with burrs.
“What were you doing in there?” Margaret gasped. “That’s the old Miller place!”
“But the berries were bigger,” Emily grinned, holding up a full jar.
“Oh, you daft girl,” Margaret sighed. “Come, let’s get these burrs out.”
On the porch, comb in hand, Margaret worked through Emily’s hair, listening as she spoke plainly of her past.
“Grew up with my gran. Parents were always away, then they passed. After school, I waited tables, washed dishes. A modelling agency scouted me, but I hated it. Then William offered me a job at his firm—fetching coffee. It’s nice there, everyone’s kind.”
Margaret listened, her heart softening. Beneath the flashy exterior was a girl who’d weathered hardship.
That evening, over tea on the porch, Emily turned to Margaret. “Aunt Maggie, will you teach me everything you know? It’s so peaceful here.”
Margaret winked at William. “Will you marry my boy, then?”
Emily blushed. “He hasn’t asked yet.”
William laughed. “Clever, Mum. Suppose I’d better make it official.”
“About time,” Margaret huffed. “If he doesn’t, Emily, you come back. I’ll find you a proper husband!”
“Thank you, but I love your William,” Emily smiled.
Six months later, the village echoed with wedding bells. Soon after, Emily whispered news of a grandchild. Watching her, Margaret realised—appearances deceived. Emily’s heart was as vast as those feathered hats she adored.
