At the Well…
Agnes Whitmore heaved the wooden yoke onto her shoulders and trudged 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 the journey to the far end of the lane every day, stubborn and sturdy, brushing off her daughter-in-law’s scolding.
“Mother, must you? We’ve water at the house—plenty of it! Folk must think you’ve gone soft. Isn’t it too much for you?” fretted Eliza, rolling her eyes.
But Agnes paid no mind. The tap water wouldn’t do, not even for cooking—”tastes of the pipes,” she’d mutter. The well water was different. Fresh. Alive. Sweet as the memory of old tears.
She paused, setting the buckets down, straightening her back for a moment. A breeze stirred the leaves of the young lime tree—planted not long ago beside the well. Once, an old walnut tree had stood there, broad and mighty, where Agnes had once met Frederick in her youth.
How her cheeks had burned then, how her heart had raced as she hurried to the well! And there he stood—tall, dark-eyed, leaning against the wooden frame, waiting for her. Every girl in the village envied her. Especially Olive, her dearest friend.
“Try to take him from me, Olive,” Agnes had warned, “and I’ll give my soul to keep him.”
But Olive had only smirked, glancing sideways.
“Mark my words, he’ll be mine. The fortune-teller said so… Only jesting!” she’d teased, though the words had lingered.
Agnes had waved her off—but unease settled in her chest. Then came the fever, burning through her like wildfire. She lay weak as a ragdoll and begged Olive:
“Go to the well. Tell Fred not to wait for me today. Say I’m ill—tell him tomorrow.”
Olive had smiled… oddly. Then vanished, her shoes clicking down the lane. What she told Frederick, Agnes never knew. But when she returned the next day, she found them standing together beneath the walnut tree.
She had turned away, breath frozen in her throat, and fled. Tears choked her; her heart threatened to burst.
A week later, Nathan, the quiet farmer next door, asked for her hand. Humble, gentle, he’d always looked at her as though she were a marvel.
“Send the matchmakers, Nathan,” she’d said, voice steady while her chest ached. “Before I change my mind.”
Olive had come later, weeping.
“Nothing happened between Fred and me, Agnes. Please…”
“You got what you wanted. And you’ll never be happy. Neither will I. Now go. Don’t come back.”
The wedding had been a funeral for her dreams. Her parents fretted, but Nathan… Nathan made sure she had no cause for regret.
He cooked, he scrubbed, he cared for the children at night. The whole village knew him—kind hands, a warmer heart. But Agnes… Agnes never loved him. She lived with respect, but no fire.
Olive married Frederick. And he—did not stay. Left soon after the vows, claiming he’d build their home. Didn’t want to live with parents or in-laws. Truth was, he ran. From her. To York, to Newcastle, anywhere far enough.
From York came the word: Frederick had died in a logging accident. Crushed beneath a felled tree.
The village buried him together. Agnes didn’t attend—couldn’t bear to show her grief. But that evening, she went alone to the fresh grave. Stood, prayed—though she scarcely knew for what. Cried quietly, endlessly, as though she hadn’t breathed until then.
Then—a hand on her shoulder. She turned. Olive. In black. Their eyes met in silence. And they parted without a word.
Years passed. Olive died. Now Agnes walked often to the churchyard—where husband, parents… and that grave lay. Side by side.
She tended them. Wiped the stones. Plucked weeds. One evening, she met Olive again—fading, like dusk.
“You still come to him, Agnes? Even now?” Olive whispered.
“You knew he loved you. Only you. Perhaps that’s some comfort…”
And then Agnes understood—she hadn’t loved Frederick. Not truly. Only the dream of what might have been. She had loved the dream. While beside her all along stood a man—real, steadfast, tender. Nathan. Husband, friend, shelter. And she had hidden in memory, like an old trunk, searching for the scent of what was gone.
She bore no grudge now. None of it mattered. Not anymore.
…Agnes lifted the buckets. The marigolds’ spice hung in the air. They were wilting—she’d cut them, take some to the churchyard. Olive had loved them. That rich, bitter fragrance… like the promise of something just out of reach.
From the path, she called:
“Nate! Nathan, there’s something I must tell you!”
“What’s wrong?” he answered, alarmed.
She smiled, pressed her face to his chest, and whispered:
“I love you, Nate…”
Her cheeks flushed like a girl’s. He held her tighter, wordless. His gaze said it all—astonishment, tenderness… and the love he’d carried through all their years.
Agnes no longer passed those two graves without stopping. She wiped the stones, murmured prayers. As if hoping—somehow, beyond—there was peace at last. True peace. And always.
