**The Secret of the Old Letter: Love Stronger Than the Past**
James trudged home from work, exhausted. During the summer, he took odd jobs at construction sites—he couldn’t live off his mother forever. In a year, he’d graduate from university, land a proper job, and marry his sweetheart, Emily.
“Mum, what if we go to the countryside this weekend?” he suggested dreamily, finishing his supper. “We could relax. Maybe I’ll go fishing.”
“I was thinking the same thing, love,” replied Margaret, setting a cup of tea before him. “I thought you were too tired for a trip. Maybe we should sell the house? If no one’s living there, it’ll fall apart. We haven’t been since your dad passed. If you don’t need it, the money could cover your wedding.”
“Emily’s parents have a cottage near the city,” James nodded. “I’m for it. Let’s sell. We’ll drive down Friday evening.”
“And we’ll take Emily!” Margaret added brightly.
James had spent every summer at his grandmother’s countryside house. After her death, his parents had visited occasionally, even tried planting a garden. But after the accident—his father’s death—his mother had let the place go.
Friday evening found them on the bus. James stared out the window while Emily slept, her head resting on his shoulder. The ride was short—forty minutes—but the stifling heat made it feel endless. Finally, the bus wheezed to a stop at the edge of the village. Passengers grabbed their bags and hurried off. James leaped down the steps, breathing in the warm air.
“Poor thing, your shirt’s soaked,” Emily murmured sympathetically.
“It’s fine,” he grinned. “We’ll drop our things, then head to the river for a swim.”
They walked through the village, ignoring the curious glances from locals. Women greeted them, watching silently—no one asked where they were going. That wasn’t the way here. James carried the bags of food, relieved to be free of the stuffy bus.
The old house’s yard was choked with weeds and nettles. “Watch your step,” Margaret warned. Emily yelped and pressed close to James. The rusty lock gave way easily. Inside, the air was cool, and for a moment, they just stood there.
“It’s like we never left,” Margaret sighed, nostalgia thick in her voice.
James recognized every detail—faded photos on the walls, magazine clippings he’d cut out as a boy, the short lace curtains. Iron beds held stacks of pillows under crocheted blankets. At the center of the room stood a table covered in worn blue oilcloth.
“It’s lovely,” Emily said. “Are you sure about selling?”
“I’ll unpack,” Margaret said briskly. “James, get some firewood—it’s out back. Emily, have a look around.”
The house stirred to life. Fire crackled in the stove, and soon porridge, tea, sugar, and biscuits covered the table. The old electric cooker whirred to life. James hauled water from the well while Margaret set the kettle on. When the heat grew unbearable, they flung open windows and doors, letting the warmth escape. James and Emily slipped off to the river.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come—the house groaned, as if lamenting its years alone. Come morning, Margaret made breakfast and sent the two young lovers up to the attic to sort through junk while she tackled the wardrobes.
“Ugh, so much dust!” Emily clung to James beneath the sloped ceiling. Forgotten laundry—his mother’s? Grandmother’s?—hung on a line. The place was crammed with clutter, but nothing interesting. They tossed down a pile of magazines, stirring up a cloud. Then Emily spotted a loose sheet of paper.
“James, come here!” she called.
“What is it?” He peered over her shoulder. “A letter?”
“Listen,” she said, and began to read.
*”Hello, William. What happened? You promised to come back, to speak to your parents and return for me. A month has passed, and not a word. I don’t know what to think—I’m going mad. I meant to tell you in person, but perhaps this will hurry you: I’m carrying your child. If my mother were alive, I’d tell her. She’d understand. But my aunt… I doubt she’d be pleased when she notices. My love, come quickly…”*
The girl wrote of love, longing, and waiting. At the bottom, a name: *Eleanor.*
“Why’s this got you so worked up?” James shrugged. “Just an old letter.”
“You don’t understand,” Emily sighed. “This isn’t *just* a letter. Your name is James William Hart, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, uncomprehending.
“And this is addressed to *William*. See now?” Emily’s voice sharpened.
“So what? Maybe Mum knows,” James frowned. “I’ll ask her—”
“Wait!” Emily caught his arm. “The letter’s signed *Eleanor*, not your mum. Why was it hidden in a magazine in the attic? Why keep it?”
“Christ, you’re a regular detective,” James smirked. “What now? How do we find out who wrote it?”
“Shame your gran’s gone,” Emily said. “She’d have known. Is there anyone left in the village her age?”
“Not sure. Let’s ask. Mum!” he called, heading downstairs.
“What?” Margaret answered, sneezing from the dust.
Stacks of linens covered the bed. “Any old-timers still around?” James asked.
“I think old Nan Peggy’s still kicking,” Margaret said, eyeing them suspiciously. “Why?”
“Just curious about family history. Where’s she live?”
“Last house at the end of the lane. Some distant relation to your gran. Where are you off to?” she called after them.
“River!” James shouted, pulling Emily along.
They reached a sagging house half-lost in weeds. “I remember now!” James said.
“Looks abandoned,” Emily muttered doubtfully.
As they hesitated, the door creaked open. An old woman in a white shawl peered out. “Looking for me?” she asked.
“Nan Peggy?” James stepped closer. “I’m James Hart—William and Margaret’s son.”
Peggy squinted, thinking. “Come in, then. Kettle’s on.”
Her cramped cottage was spotless. “Thought the place’d be full of cobwebs?” she chuckled. “Still keep it tidy while I can. Out with it—what brings you?”
Emily held out the letter. “We found this.” She read it aloud. As she did, a dreadful weight settled in James’s chest.
Peggy sighed. “Margaret’s not with you, so you haven’t told her. Good.”
She was silent so long, James nearly spoke. Then she began: “Margaret was a beauty. Lads trailed after her. Her mother worried, but she only had eyes for your dad. He joined the army; she waited. I’d ask, ‘Does William write?’ She’d laugh: ‘Where’s he going?’ When he came back, they married within the month—whole village celebrated for days. Fine pair.”
Peggy paused, studying Emily. “You’re a pretty thing. Good to see young love.”
“After the wedding, they moved to the city. Margaret became an accountant; William worked at the factory, studied by correspondence. Rented a flat, visited weekends. I remember—autumn it was. His mother sat knitting by the window, waiting. Then she saw a girl—pregnant, struggling with a bag. Knew at once: she was William’s.
“Ran out, said, ‘William’s not here, he’s in the city, married, his wife’s expecting. Go away.’ But the girl had nowhere. ‘Aunt threw me out.’ William’s mother—strict as she was—took pity. Brought her to me, said to pretend she was kin. Girl was near her time. By the time the ambulance came, she’d given birth—a beautiful little girl. They took them both. Never saw her again. Told the village she was my cousin’s girl. Later, William confessed—never thought Margaret would wait. Got tangled with this one, made promises, then left. Saw Margaret again… forgot the other. And come spring, Margaret had you, James.”
Peggy fell silent. “She still doesn’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You love her?” Peggy nodded at Emily.
“More than anything,” James said.
“And the letter?” Emily pressed.
“His mother read it, never gave it to him—he was married by then. Don’t know why she kept it,” Peggy sighed.
“Thank you, Nan,” Emily said, rising. “We should go.”
“Need water or wood chopped, just shout,” James offered.
“Won’t need it. I’ve enough for my time. Glad you came. Tell Margaret to visit. Might not see her again.”
“Your dad wronged that girl,”The wedding was beautiful, the secret buried deep—but some nights, when the wind howled through the trees, James still reached for Emily’s hand, holding tight to the love that had weathered the storm of the past.
