He shoved her out of the doorway with a hard thrust and slammed the door behind him. Mabel surged forward on momentum, stumbled, and hit the wooden floor of the back garden. She brushed the grit from her palms, sank onto the damp boards and gingerly pressed a trembling finger to the burning cheek, then traced the line down to her lower lip. A crimson streak lingered on her fingertip. The sight didnt startle her; it merely confirmed a grim suspicionher husband had once again broken her lip. The cheek, however, throbbed even more.
Stephen had lost control of himself again. It happened far too often.
Mabel shuffled back to the entrance, pressing her forehead against the rough timber, trying to catch her breath. From the other side of the door came frantic, sobbing cries. Lucy and Nancy, Stephens daughters, were shouting. Her heart clenched, a tight, painful knot. She would have given anything not to hurt them She licked the swollen, salty lip, the bitter aftertaste of another argument, another flash of blind, raging jealousy.
All of it stemmed from a single foolish smile. At the village meeting earlier that day, the bossa jovial, rosycheeked man in his fiftieshad made a boisterous remark about the harvest. Mabel, standing nearby, laughed out of politeness. Grace, Stephens sister, caught the glimpse. Her gaze, sharp as a needle, lingered on Mabel a fraction too long. That was enough. Without hesitation, Grace spun the incident into a tale for her brother, likely adding her own venom. She always did this, even though she knew exactly what Stephen could become in a fury.
Shivering, Mabel backed away from the jamb and trudged to the shed, collapsing onto a cold log. September evenings were warm by day, but the ground already breathed nights chill. A prickly wind slipped under her thin scarf. She longed for the hearth, for the children but there was nowhere to go. To Stephens family? Grace would meet her at the door with a cutting remark. Her own kin were gone. Her mother had died a year ago. The thought squeezed her heart tighter, and hot, bitter tears welled on her cheeks. She missed her mothers scentdried apple jam, the faint smoke of the kitchen, the soft lullabies that could soothe any ache. Now there was no one to ease her pain.
What am I to do? she thought, staring at the deepening twilight. What have I deserved, to sit behind a locked door in my own house, like a stray dog, with no way out and no light?
It had been only seven years ago seven short years. She closed her eyes and, through the salty blur of tears, saw another imageone where she was happy. A loving husband, two families preparing for a wedding.
The air was thick and sweet, perfumed with cut grass and the approaching dusk. She walked handinhand with Victor, the man who loved her fiercely.
Tomorrow, Mabel whispered, eyes drifting toward the setting sun. I cant even believe it.
Victor squeezed her palm tighter. His large, warm hand enveloped her delicate fingers.
I believe it, he said. Ive believed it since the day you dared to climb that old hawthorn for a ball and were scared to come down. Remember?
Mabel laughed.
I remember. You stood below and shouted, Jump, Ill catch you. And you did.
Their love was spoken of in the whole village, a love that began with a bang. Yet it had never been simple. At the start, GraceStephens sisterhad also liked Victor. With her mischievous eyes and stubborn mop of hair, she tried everything to drive them apart, whispering lies: that Mabel wasnt good enough, that their families were poor. She coaxed other girls to avoid Mabel, called her a touchy and a flirt.
Mabel, however, brushed those slanders off like rain on glass, her surface remaining clear and bright. Graces fury grew, bitter bile corroding her from within. Victor, on the other hand, laughed off the gossip.
Not an angel, hed say when someone tried to feed him a rumor. Mabels different. Dont try to fool me.
Their relationship, despite the whispers, stayed innocentwalks home, talks by the gate, shy kisses on the cheek. Then, a month before the wedding, Victor changed.
Before, hed walked her to the gate, turned with a light heart and waved goodbye. Now he clutched her so tightly it seemed he wanted to swallow her whole, refusing to let go.
Victor, whats wrong? Mabel asked, feeling his muscles tighten.
I dont know, he replied hoarsely, pressing his face into her hair. If I let go, I fear Ill never see you again. My heart aches.
Silence, she whispered, smoothing his shorn head. Well always be together. Tomorrow well meet again.
Tomorrow he sighed, a strange melancholy in his breath.
Later, Mabels mother, sighing, said, He felt it, dear. He knew, with his youthful heart, that a parting was coming.
The night before the celebration, Victor could not hold back.
Mabel, just one night, she coaxed gently. But passion seized him and Mabel melted under his kiss, his touch. They lay halfnaked beneath a towering willow, its branches shielding them from prying eyes. The street was empty; the spot felt secret, intimate. Victors murmurs were hot and broken, his hands trembling as they lifted the hem of her dress.
Doesnt matter, I cant wait any longer. Tomorrow youll be my wife. My wife! he breathed.
She didnt resist; she wanted the same. The starstrewn sky swam before her eyes. Under the willows shade, scented with earth and wildflowers, Mabel felt herself become a woman.
When the moment passed, Victor brushed away her tearslick cheeks, calm and content, and left for home. On the way, his emotions boiled over, and he vanished into the darkness of the river. No one ever learned what happened there. His body was found the next day, the day his wedding was to be held, washed up on the opposite bank.
Grief crashed over Mabel like a wave. She withered, a shadow of herself. Days passed as she sat by the window where Victor once tossed tiny stones to summon her, fingers tangled in the lace of her wedding dresswhite silk with embroidered sleeves, stitched by her own hands during long winter evenings. Her thin, waxlike fingers ran over the lace, as if the rhythm might reveal an answer.
Why? she whispered, the sound barely a rustle of curtains. Why?
Her mother, wiping tears with the edge of an apron, wept silently, fearing her daughter would snap like a dry twig and follow her lost fiancé.
One bleak afternoon, as hopelessness settled in the house, Grace appeared at the doorwayswollen from tears, dressed in a plain cotton dress, her usually sharp eyes full of contrition.
Mabel Mabel, she gasped, falling to her knees, wrapping her arms around Mabels thin legs. Forgive me! For Gods sake, forgive my cruel words! Victors gone theres nothing left for us. Lets be friends again, like when we were children.
Mabel sat unmoving, a doll. Her mother, leaning against the doorframe, watched with dread. She didnt believe people could change in an instant. Then Mabels breath caught, a soft, broken sigh escaped, and tearsbitter, healing, loudstreamed down. She clutched Grace, pressed her head to Graces shoulder, sobbing until the pain seemed to drain away.
Fine, her mother whispered. If it helps. Maybe Grace will look after her now. Otherwise, after Victor, I might not have a moment left.
Thus began a strange, inexplicable friendship. Grace never left Mabels side, staying nights, whispering together for hours. She became Mabels shield, her sole anchor in a sea of sorrow.
Later, Stephen, Graces cousin, entered the picture. He was tall, composed, with earnest eyes. He began to court Mabel, bringing wildflowers and parcels from the nearby town. At first she recoiled, refusing to hear of him.
I cant, Grace. Thats betrayal.
What betrayal? Grace pressed, stroking her hair. Life moves on, Mabel. Victor would not want you like this. Stephens a good, reliable man. Hell love you, I know it.
Whether Stephens persistence or Graces soothing words acted as a balm, Mabel finally gave in. She agreed to marry him. The wedding was modest, without music or prying eyes.
Nine months after Victors disappearance, gossip began to snake through the villagefirst a trickle, then a torrent. People condemned Mabel, pointing fingers, whispering:
Shes flaunting mourning!
Who knows, maybe she was unfaithful to Victor? What happened on that river
She disgraced the family.
The words cut like sickles. The worst came when Mabel and her mother learned, through idle chatter, that the source of the poisonous rumors was Grace herselfher own mouth.
Grace, eyes glinting with venomous pity, sat at the well and sighed to the other women, Poor Mabel, I love her like a sister, but the truth cant stay hidden Victors gone, Stephen rushed the marriage, didnt he? Perhaps Stephen wanted to protect her honour?
Her spite, cold and calculated, finally hit its mark.
The idyll Mabel had painstakingly built crumbled faster than a wedding cake. Stephen turned out not to be the gentle haven shed hoped for. After their first night together, he spat a cruel line:
Youre tainted, he snarled, his eyes full of loathing. I never believed the gossip. Now I see why you fell so quickly.
The word tainted struck Mabel like ice. The kindly suitor vanished, replaced by a harsh, constantly scowling man. The house filled with vile insults and accusations. His jealousy grew monstrous, blind, boundless.
He accused her of flirting with the shopkeeper, the postman, even old Mr. Nicholas, an eightyyearold retiree who simply stepped out for sunshine. Did you give the old man a look again? Stephen hissed, slamming the door. I see everything!
Mabel soon found herself pregnant. The baby was a girl, not the son Stephen had wanted. A girl again? he growled, disappointment etched on his face. I need a boy!
He began shouting that the children werent his, spitting, Who are they? In our line only boys are born! Whos been fooling us? He beat Mabel, yet pretended in public to be a respectable husband, while at home the air grew thick with fear. The daughters cowered in corners whenever his footsteps echoed.
When Mabel mustered the courage to leave, her mother suffered a sudden heart attack, collapsing before she could even speak. The frail woman could not rise, and Mabel was forced to staynot only for the children, but to tend to her mother.
When her mother passed, Mabels resolve finally cracked. The world that once seemed filled with people to confide in shrank to her, her two tiny daughters, and the endless night. Stephens cruelty escalated; he began locking her out of the house at night, slamming the door, sometimes striking her across the face. He shouted, Go warm yourself at old Nicholass! and knew the girls would stay inside, leaving her alone on the cold steps, weeping beneath a starless sky, hearing the faint whimpers of her children.
That night, perched on the icy steps, Mabels terror hardened into steel. Desperation burnt away, leaving a cold, clear determination. At the first crow of dawn, as grey light edged the horizon, she rose. Her legs ached, her body trembled, but fire burned in her eyes.
The door opened. Stephen stood in the doorway, crumpled, his gaze heavy.
What are you doing, standing like a post? he barked. Go make breakfast, he snapped, turning toward the kitchen.
Mabel slipped inside without a word, her calm unnerving, almost eerie. She knew Stephen would be out in the fields until nightfall.
As soon as he shut the gate behind him, the house erupted into frantic activityonly this time it wasnt the usual chores. Mabel moved swiftly, silently, with razor focus. She retrieved an old leather satchel hidden beneath the floorboards and began packing essentials: a modest stash of savings sewn into her belt, a set of spare undergarments for the girls, a few toys, and several photographs of her mother. She dressed the children in the warmest clothes, despite the mild weather outside.
Mother, where are we going? asked her elder daughter Lucy, frightened.
To a new life, love, Mabel replied, steady. Stay quiet.
They slipped through overgrown hedges and broken fences, avoiding prying eyes. Emerging onto the country lane that led out of the village, Mabel glanced back. Behind her lay all her grief, the shattered youth. Ahead lay uncertainty.
They hadnt gone far when a dusty lorry roared to a halt beside them, its brakes screeching. The driver, a cheerful young man named Sam, leaned out.
Need a lift, love? he shouted.
Mabel, scarcely believing her luck, nodded. Sam helped load the satchel into the cab and settled the girls on the sleeper berth.
The journey was long. Sam, talkative and kind, tried to draw the silent passenger from her shell. Mabel stared out at passing fields and, with a steady voice, laid bare her story: Stephens jealousy, the nightly banishments, the constant terror. She hoped the seasoned driver might point her toward refuge.
Sam frowned, then said, Looks like youve got a heros heart under that skirt. He went on, Theres a place not far from here, near a growing town. A big firm bought the land to set up modern glasshouses. Theyre hiring workers, offering accommodation.
Mabels luck turned again. She was among the first to arrive at the sitea sprawling construction yard in the middle of the fields. She first stayed with an elderly local, Mrs. Shirley, who took her in without demanding rent after hearing her tale. Mabel laboured from dawn till dusk in the glasshouses; the work was hard, but honest, and the people valued her.
When the settlement expanded and the first workers cottages were built, Mabel received one of the first modest flats. She wept as she held the keystears of relief.
She rarely thought of Stephen now; those memories are old scars that only hurt when touched. She shuns new romances. Her aim is simple: the girls must be fed, clothed, healthy, and happy. Nothing more.
Enough, she sometimes tells herself, watching the girls play in their new room. It doesnt matter now.
The most important thing is that her children finally have a homea real home where no one shouts, no one is jealous of octogenarians, and no one is thrown out into the night. All the risk, all the fight, was worth it.
