**Cursed Love**
“What happens now?” whispered Ophelia, more to herself than to her beloved.
“Why, I’ll send matchmakers, of course. Be patient,” the lad replied with calm assurance.
…Ophelia returned from their meeting—the one that would turn her life upside down—radiant and secretive. To her two younger sisters, she recounted every detail of her time with Bartholomew.
They knew she was hopelessly in love with him. Bartholomew had promised to wed her come autumn, once the harvest was in. And now, after their intimate tryst in the hayloft, he was surely bound to propose.
Yet… the fields stood empty, the grain stored away, the New Year drew near, and still, no matchmakers came.
Ophelia’s mother, Aunt Hattie, noticed the change in her eldest. Once lively, Ophelia grew sombre, her figure altering unevenly. A heart-to-heart followed. After Ophelia’s tearful confession, Aunt Hattie resolved to look this would-be son-in-law in the eye herself—and to demand why his promised matchmakers had gone astray.
Without delay, she marched to the neighbouring village where Bartholomew lived. His mother answered the door, oblivious to her son’s misdeeds. Aunt Hattie spoke her mind, and the two women united in outrage. But when confronted, Bartholomew shrugged.
“How am I to know who fathered Ophelia’s child? Plenty of lads in the village. Must I claim every babe as mine?”
Furious, Aunt Hattie stormed out, but not before hissing a curse:
“May you marry and marry again, you villain!”
As if the heavens heard, Bartholomew wed four times in his life…
From her mother’s face, Ophelia guessed the meeting had gone ill. Aunt Hattie warned her daughters sternly:
“Not a word to your father. We’ll manage this ourselves. You’ll go to Norwich, to our kin. When the babe comes, you’ll leave it at the foundling home. Else, the village tongues will never cease wagging. What’s done is done—may the Lord mend it. Ah, girls, sweet is the sin, but bitter the reckoning.”
Aunt Hattie’s husband, Denis Whitmore, was the village schoolmaster, a stern and just man respected by all. To think his own daughter would bring shame upon the family! Such scandal could not be borne. So Ophelia was sent away, and when Denis inquired, Aunt Hattie lied:
“Let her find work in the city. She’s twenty—old enough.”
She watched her younger daughters—all close in age—with sharper eyes. But who could keep them tethered? Soon, the middle girl, Beatrice, left for apprenticeships in York, and the youngest, Evelyn, for London.
…In villages, words spread like fire. In time, the whispers reached Denis’s ears—even his pupils knew of his family’s disgrace.
One cannot bar another’s lips. Denis confronted his wife in a fury.
“How could you conceive such a plan? Abandon a child—your own granddaughter? Fetch her home at once!”
Aunt Hattie had not expected his outrage, though she had wept through the year, knowing the babe lay in the foundling home. Fear had kept her away—fear of the pull of kinship. “The child tastes the berry, but the mother bears the bitter aftertaste,” she lamented.
…Soon, Ophelia and Aunt Hattie brought the babe home. They named her Annie. For a year, Annie had known no family—a sin Ophelia would carry forever. No matter what mischief Annie wrought, Ophelia bore it without complaint.
Annie was raised by her grandfather, grandmother, and mother. Often, Ophelia recalled that last meeting with Bartholomew—the scent of dry hay, the heady sweetness of reckless love. She still loved him, though he had shamed and scorched her soul. Ah, this cursed love! Love is no potato—you cannot toss it out the window.
So Ophelia became a lone mother. In Annie’s face, she saw Bartholomew’s features, his fiery spirit too. Life passed in a haze; even merry little Annie brought her sorrow. Ah, a fatherless child…
At twenty-five, a suitor came courting—her foster brother, Frederick. Raised as kin, he had adored her since childhood. Though Ophelia resisted at first, the struggle of raising a child alone wore her down. And Frederick would make a fine husband—if only she knew how he’d treat Annie. He knew the whole story, yet worshipped Ophelia still. He’d have wed her with three children, let alone one.
…Their village wedding was merry. To escape prying eyes, the young family moved to London, carrying their fragile secret with them. Ophelia soon bore another daughter, Lucy. To Frederick, both girls were his. He adopted Annie without hesitation, treating the sisters as equals.
He breathed life into their home, into Ophelia’s weary soul. Peace and understanding reigned.
…Ten years flew by.
One summer, while visiting Aunt Hattie, Annie and Lucy stumbled upon Ophelia’s old diary in a dusty attic chest. Within its pages, they found the truth: Annie’s father was not Frederick, but Bartholomew.
The secret spilled at once. Annie, clutching the damning diary, demanded answers from her grandmother. With a heavy heart, Aunt Hattie confessed all, wishing she had burned the wretched book.
Annie reeled. How could they hide her true father from her? She insisted on meeting him at once. Reluctantly, Aunt Hattie gave his direction.
Bartholomew’s mother answered the door, recognising Annie at once—she was the very image of her father. The old woman wept, confessing she had longed to know her, but Bartholomew forbade it. Then Bartholomew himself appeared.
Studying the two girls, he asked, “Well, which of you is my daughter?”
Annie snapped, “I might have been—had you claimed me!”
She followed him outside, only to return seething moments later. His mother, sensing the storm, urged them to dine, even pouring strong ale for the girls. They laughed:
“We’re too young for this!” Yet they drank.
The walk home was a blur.
Later, Lucy pressed Annie: “What did he say to you out there?”
“Nothing worth hearing. He offered me coin—as if that could mend it. I refused, of course. He didn’t even know me! Yet I’m his mirror. What a father!”
Aunt Hattie fretted: Should Frederick and Ophelia be told?
Annie cut her short: “I have no father but Frederick.”
Yet bitterness festered. She scorned Ophelia for bowing to gossip, for abandoning her. Ophelia begged forgiveness all her life:
“Forgive your foolish mother, Annie!”
Years passed…
Annie and Lucy married. Annie bore two sons—the eldest the very picture of young Bartholomew.
And Bartholomew? He never forgot Ophelia. They met sometimes in London, she dressed finely just to prove she wanted for nothing. She never told him Annie barred her from seeing her grandsons for ten long years. Some shadows never fade.
Yet Ophelia had solace: Frederick, who had loved her without reproach. Before their wedding, he had joked, “A worm in a rosy apple is no true flaw.” In time, she loved him deeply. Such a man was impossible not to cherish.
They reached their golden anniversary, surrounded by children, grandchildren, and kin.
During the celebrations, Annie drew Ophelia aside, eyes brimming:
“Forgive me, Mother! I had no right to judge you.”
Bartholomew called too, lamenting:
“I’ll never see fifty years with one wife. This is my fourth… Why did I ever let you go?”
Ophelia silenced him:
“Hush. If you had loved me, you wouldn’t have. But I am happy—blessed with Frederick. I blame no one. I forgave you long ago.”
Farewell, Bartholomew…
