**GUARDED BY LOVE**
The meeting of Lucy and Edward seemed written in the stars.
…Edward had never laid eyes on his father. Raised by his mother and grandmother, he grew up with only vague explanations about the man who had sired him. As a child, when he asked, his mother would murmur something about his father being a geologist, forever off in search of precious minerals. Once, in frustration, she snapped, “You never had a father, Edward!”
Young as he was, Edward accepted these excuses without question, trusting his mother completely. But as he grew older, the mystery nagged at him. After all, he couldn’t have sprung from thin air! Eventually, his grandmother revealed the truth in secret: his mother had returned from a business trip years ago with an unexpected gift—Edward himself.
The revelation brought relief. At least he hadn’t been found under a cabbage patch! Edward vowed then that one day, he would meet his father, whether the man wanted it or not. “I’m his son, not some stranger!” And with that resolve came another promise: “I’ll have a proper family—one wife, many children, and a home full of love.”
…Lucy, too, had never known a father’s love. Her parents separated before she turned two, and a stepfather filled the void. A decent man, but still… He never missed a chance to compare Lucy unfavorably to his own children from a previous marriage. It grated on her. In the end, Lucy had only her mother’s affection to rely on.
When she came of age, Lucy made a quiet decision: “If I ever marry, it will be once and forever. If only I could find such a man.”
And she did.
…It was Christmas Eve. A bitter January evening, frost clinging to the windows of the bookshop where Lucy and Edward stood side by side in the queue, each clutching a volume of Jane Austen. Their eyes met, and Edward, ever bold, struck up a conversation—polite, charming, full of compliments. He couldn’t just let her walk away. She had to be his wife. It had to be her.
Lucy, ever proper, didn’t flirt. But somehow, this lively young man put her at ease, as if she’d known him a lifetime. Still, a well-bred lady didn’t make acquaintances in such a manner. Edward admired her modesty and, as a start, offered his telephone number. Lucy took it but refused to give hers. “I’ll call after the holidays,” she promised vaguely.
Edward couldn’t let such a gift from heaven slip away. They parted, but he quietly followed, determined to know where she lived.
All through the festive season, Edward floated on air. He’d found his true love and would cherish her forever.
Yet when the holidays ended, Lucy’s call never came. Edward wouldn’t wait. He slipped the Jane Austen novel he’d bought that night into her letterbox. Surely, she’d guess who it was from? That evening, the telephone rang.
“Edward! Why didn’t you call? I waited!” Lucy’s voice was indignant.
“Lucy, darling, I didn’t have your number. You never gave it to me,” Edward replied, beaming.
“But you found me anyway!” she argued.
“Woman’s logic,” Edward thought, amused. But her words thrilled him—she wasn’t indifferent after all!
They wasted no time. Soon, Edward and Lucy were wed. What else could they do? They shared so much—a love pure and rare, a longing for children, a passion for Jane Austen’s works. Wasn’t that enough?
On such strong foundations, they built their life together.
Lucy taught literature at Oxford; Edward was a gifted engineer. In time, little Charlotte arrived, followed two years later by William. Life unfolded beautifully.
Yet Edward never forgot his vow to find his father. The search led him to London, where the man—now a distinguished professor of medicine—welcomed him warmly.
“It’s good you found me, son. We’ll stay in touch now,” his father said, embracing him.
Proudly, Edward listed his family: “You’re a grandfather twice over, and it’s only the beginning…”
For a while, letters passed between them. But distance and duty soon made visits rare, and eventually, the connection faded.
Charlotte and William grew. Lucy, inspired by her mother and grandmother—both scholars of repute—resolved to earn her doctorate. Her chosen subject? Jane Austen, naturally.
For three years, she worked tirelessly, while Edward took on extra duties at home. Then, just as Lucy neared completion, little Margaret was born. The dissertation had to wait.
When Margaret started nursery, Lucy returned to her research. Success seemed assured—until Edward fell ill.
The doctors had no name for it, only despair. A disease beyond their ken, eating away at him. At forty, Edward was slipping through Lucy’s fingers.
In private, she wept bitter tears—and kept another secret: she carried their fourth child. She couldn’t tell him; it would only deepen his pain.
“Edward, you can’t leave me!” she pleaded by his bedside. “You must get better!”
Desperate, she summoned his father.
The professor examined Edward, then took Lucy aside.
“My dear, conventional medicine can do no more. I’ll prescribe what I can, but…” He hesitated.
Lucy waited for a miracle, for some magic tincture or profound solution. None came.
Then, unexpectedly: “There’s an old herbalist in the countryside. He saved me once. Go to him.”
The next morning, Lucy stood before the wizened healer. He glanced at Edward’s charts, then handed her vials of greenish liquid.
“Follow the doses. Bring your husband in ten days.”
“But he can’t walk!” Lucy protested.
“He will,” the old man insisted. “Mark my words.”
Lucy nearly tore the instructions in frustration. “Herbs? Nonsense!” But with no other hope, she tried them.
Ten days later, Edward walked into the herbalist’s cottage. In a month, he returned to work. A miracle? Perhaps. The healer never named the illness, only repeated his creed: “Forgive all, envy none.”
…Lucy gave birth to a healthy boy, Henry.
Charlotte, William, Margaret, Henry—straight from the pages of an Austen novel!
Edward and Lucy treasure their love, knowing well that joy is fleeting, while sorrow strides with heavy feet.
And the unfinished thesis? Lucy set it aside without regret.
Family was always the greater work of her life.
