By the Well…
Agnes Whitmore, heaving the wooden yoke onto her shoulders, walked steadily along the narrow village path, the iron buckets clinking softly in the crisp morning air. The water from the well—clear, icy, pure—was something sacred to her. Though she was well past seventy, she made this journey every day, all the way to the end of the lane. Stubborn and strong, she paid no mind when her daughter-in-law scolded her.
“Mother, must you still do this? We’ve water right at home! People talk—does it not tire you?” grumbled Lucy, rolling her eyes.
But Agnes acted as if she hadn’t heard. The tap water smelled of pipes, she insisted—she wouldn’t even cook with it. The well water was different. Fresh. Alive. Sweet as the tears of memory.
She paused, set the buckets down, straightened, and briefly closed her eyes. A breeze rustled the leaves of a young linden tree—someone had planted it near the well not long ago. Once, an ancient walnut tree had stood there, broad and mighty, where Agnes had met Fredrick in her youth.
How her cheeks had burned then, how her heart had raced as she rushed to the well! And there he stood—tall, dark-eyed, leaning against the well’s stone rim, waiting for her. Every girl in the village envied her. Especially Olive, her closest friend.
“Try anything with him, Olive,” Agnes had warned, “and I’ll fight for him with my last breath.”
But Olive had only smirked, glancing sideways.
“Mark my words, he’ll be mine. The fortune-teller said so… Oh, I’m only jesting!” she’d added quickly.
Agnes had brushed it off, but unease had taken root. Then came the fever—raging through her, leaving her limp as a rag doll. She begged Olive to go in her place.
“Tell Freddie not to wait. Say I’m ill—I’ll meet him tomorrow.”
Olive had smiled then—a strange, secretive thing—before vanishing, her heels clicking sharply on the cobbles. Whatever she told Fredrick, Agnes never knew. But when she returned the next day, she found the two of them together beneath the walnut tree.
Standing side by side, they barely noticed her. She turned on her heel and fled, tears choking her, her heart breaking silently.
A week later, her neighbour—Nicholas—asked for her hand. Quiet, unassuming, he had always looked at her as if she were a marvel.
“Send the matchmakers, Nick,” she said coldly, her chest tight with grief. “Before I change my mind.”
Olive came later, pleading through tears. “There was nothing between Freddie and me! Agnes, please—”
“You got what you wanted. And you’ll never be happy. Neither will I. Now go. And don’t ever come back.”
Her wedding felt like a funeral for her dreams. Her parents fretted, but Nicholas… Nicholas spent the years ensuring she never regretted it.
He cooked, he cleaned, he rose in the night for their children. The neighbours all said he was a man of gold—kind, patient. Yet Agnes could never love him. She lived with respect, but without fire.
Olive married Fredrick. He didn’t stay. Left right after the wedding, claiming he needed to build a house. Said he wouldn’t live with his parents or in his wife’s home. Truth was—he ran. From her. To York, to Durham—anywhere but here.
Word came from York: Fredrick had died in a logging accident, crushed beneath a falling trunk.
The whole village attended the funeral. Agnes did not. She couldn’t bear to show her sorrow. But that evening, she went alone—stood by the fresh grave, praying silently, weeping without sound.
Then—a hand on her shoulder. She turned. Olive. Dressed in black. Their eyes met. Not a word was spoken before they parted ways.
Years passed. Olive died. Now Agnes often walked the churchyard—visiting her husband, her parents… and that grave. Two markers, side by side.
She tended them. Wiped the stones clean. Plucked away the weeds. And one day, she met Olive again—not truly, but in the haze of twilight.
“You still come to him, Agnes? Even now?” the ghostly voice whispered.
“You knew he loved you. Only you. Perhaps that’s some comfort.”
And then, suddenly, Agnes understood. She hadn’t loved Fredrick—not the man, but the dream he’d once been. All this time, a real man had stood beside her—faithful, gentle, true. Nicholas. Her husband, her friend, her rock. While she hid in memories, rifling through them like an old chest, searching for a scent long faded.
She no longer held bitterness toward Olive. None of it mattered now. Not anymore.
…Agnes lifted the buckets. She breathed in the scent of marigolds. They were wilting—she’d cut some later, take them to the churchyard. Olive had loved them. Their spicy, bittersweet perfume—like a promise never kept.
From the path, she called out:
“Nick! Nicholas, I’ve something to tell you!”
“What is it?” her husband answered, startled.
She smiled, pressing her face to his chest, and whispered:
“I love you, Nick…”
She flushed like a girl. He only held her tighter, saying nothing. His eyes held it all—surprise, tenderness… and the love he had carried through all their years.
Agnes never walked past those two graves again without stopping. She wiped down the granite, murmured prayers. As if hoping, somewhere beyond, there was peace at last. True. Eternal.
