**Diary Entry**
I never imagined my life would take such a turn. Here in the quiet countryside of Devon, among rolling green fields and grazing sheep, lived Thomas Whitmorea seventy-year-old man who had known both wealth and loneliness. Though his hair was silver and his back slightly bent, he was still one of the most prosperous landowners in the village. His estate stretched far, his flocks thrived, and his name carried weight among the neighbours.
But money, as they say, cannot mend a broken heart. A decade ago, Thomas had lost his first wife, Margaret, a woman of quiet strength who had borne him three daughters. They were married now, settled in distant homes, busy with their own families. They visited often, but a gnawing emptiness clung to himhe had no son. No heir to carry on the Whitmore name, no boy to inherit the land he had spent his life building. The thought consumed him, pushing him toward a decision that stunned the village: he would marry again.
His choice fell upon Eleanor, a girl of just twenty, from a struggling family in the next hamlet. Poverty had worn them downdebts mounted, and her youngest brother suffered from an illness they couldnt afford to treat. Eleanor was lovely, with fair hair and eyes as blue as cornflowers, yet shadowed by hardship. Her parents, desperate, agreed to Thomass offer: a substantial sum in exchange for their daughters hand.
Eleanor didnt protest. She swallowed her fears, knowing this might be the only way to save her family. The night before the wedding, she sat with her mother by the dim glow of a lantern. I only hope hell be kind, she whispered, voice brittle. Ill do my duty. Her mother could only hold her, tears falling silently.
The wedding was simple but deliberate. Thomas wanted the village to see that he was still a man of vigour, capable of taking a bride young enough to be his granddaughter. Fiddles played merry tunes, neighbours filled the church, and whispers followed the couple as they exchanged vows.
Poor lass, some women murmured.
Look at himridiculous, others scoffed.
Thomas ignored them, chest puffed with pride. To him, this wasnt just a marriageit was proof he could still secure his legacy.
That night, the scent of roast beef and brandy lingered in the air as the last guests departed. Thomas, dressed in his finest waistcoat, poured himself a glass of tonicsome remedy he swore would restore his youth. He took Eleanors hand, his voice thick with anticipation. Tonight, we begin our new life, my dear.
She forced a smile, heart pounding, and followed him to the bedchamber, where candlelight flickered against the old oak bed.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
Thomas clutched his chest, gasping. His face twisted, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the bed with a heavy thud.
Mr. Whitmore! Eleanor cried, shaking him, but his body was already stiff, his breath gone. The sharp scent of brandy clung to the air, a cruel reminder of his failed defiance of time.
Chaos erupted. Neighbours rushed in. His daughters, draped in black as though theyd known this would happen, found Eleanor weeping beside their fathers still form. A doctor was called, but it was too late.
A heart attack, he declared. His heart couldnt take the strain.
Just like that, Thomass dream of an heir vanished.
By dawn, the whole village knew. Whispers slithered through the lanes.
Didnt even manage to give her a child, some muttered.
Poor girlwidowed before she was even a proper wife.
The funeral was grand, fitting for a man of Thomass standing. Fiddles played solemn tunes, neighbours paid their respects, and his daughters wept. Eleanor stood veiled, caught between rolestoo young to be a widow, yet forever marked as the second wife of a man half a century older.
The money Thomas had given her family erased their debts and paid for her brothers treatment. In that, at least, her sacrifice had meaning. But for Eleanor, the cost was unbearable. She had traded her youth for a marriage that lasted mere hours, leaving her burdened with a reputation she could never escape.
Now, whenever she walks through the village, people staresome with pity, others with curiosity. They call her the young widow or Whitmores last bride. At twenty, she feels as though her life ended before it began.
Thomass wedding night, meant to be the start of a new chapter, became instead his final breathand the beginning of Eleanors lonely existence.
The tale is told now as a cautionabout pride, about times cruelty. But for Eleanor, it isnt a story. Its her life. And she carries it in silence, her gaze always distant, as if searching for something beyond the hills of Devon.
