By the Well…
Margaret Hardwick hoists the wooden yoke onto her shoulders with a grunt, stepping carefully along the narrow path through the village. The rhythmic clang of the tin buckets fills the still morning air. The water from the well—cold, clear, untouched—feels sacred to her. Even at seventy, she walks to this spot at the end of the lane every day. Stubborn and sturdy, she pays no mind when her daughter-in-law scolds her.
“Mum, honestly! There’s water right at the house! People think you’re mad. Doesn’t it tire you out?” grumbles Louise, rolling her eyes.
But Margaret pretends not to hear. The tap water, she insists, “smells of pipes.” The well water, though—that’s different. Pure. Alive. As sweet as the memories it stirs.
She pauses, setting the buckets down, straightening her back. A breeze rustles the leaves of the young oak—planted recently near the well. Once, an old walnut tree stood there, broad and strong, where she’d met Edward 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 stone edge, waiting. All the village girls envied her—especially Elise, her closest friend.
“Don’t even think about him, Elise,” Margaret had once snapped. “I’d give my soul for him!”
Elise had smirked, glancing sideways.
“A fortune-teller told me he’d be mine. Just joking!” she’d added quickly.
Margaret had waved her off, but unease settled in her chest. Then came the fever, leaving her weak and bedridden. She begged Elise:
“Go to the well. Tell Edward not to wait. Tell him I’m ill—we’ll meet tomorrow.”
Elise had smiled—oddly—before vanishing, her footsteps fading. What she’d said to Edward, Margaret never learned. But the next day, she found them standing together under the walnut tree.
Her heart shattered. She turned and fled, gasping for air, tears choking her.
A week later, her neighbour—William—asked for her hand. Quiet, gentle William, who always looked at her like she was a marvel.
“Send the matchmakers, Will,” she’d said coldly, crushing the pain inside. “Before I change my mind.”
Elise came later, weeping. “Nothing happened between us! Please, Margaret—”
“You got what you wanted. And neither of us will be happy. Now go. For good.”
The wedding felt like a funeral for her dreams. Her parents fretted, but William—William spent his life ensuring she never regretted it.
He cooked, he washed, he rose at night for the children. The whole village knew: he had hands of gold, a heart of kindness. Yet… she never loved him. She respected him. But the fire wasn’t there.
Elise married Edward. He didn’t stay. Left right after the wedding—supposedly to build a house. Said he wouldn’t live with parents or in her family’s home. Really, he ran. From her. To Newcastle, then Leeds—always farther away.
From Newcastle came the news: Edward was dead. Crushed by a falling log in the timber yard.
The village buried him together. Margaret didn’t go. Couldn’t bear to show her grief. But that evening, she stood alone at the fresh grave, praying silently. For what, she didn’t know. She wept—softly, endlessly, as if she hadn’t breathed in years.
Then—a hand on her shoulder. Elise. Dressed in black. They met each other’s eyes. And parted without a word.
Years passed. Elise died. Now Margaret often walks to the churchyard. There lies William, her parents… and that grave. Two stones side by side.
She tends them. Wipes the moss away. Plucks the weeds. One evening, she sees Elise again—faint as twilight.
“You still come to him, don’t you?” Elise whispers. “Even now?”
“You knew. He loved you. Only you. Maybe that’s some comfort.”
And then Margaret understands—she hadn’t loved Edward. She’d loved the dream of him. The might-have-been. While beside her all along was a real man—steady, kind, devoted. William. Her husband. Her rock. And she’d hidden in memories, sifting through them like old letters, chasing ghosts.
She holds no bitterness toward Elise now. None of it matters anymore.
Margaret lifts the buckets. The scent of marigolds drifts past—fading. She’ll cut some for the graves. Elise loved their spice, their sharp perfume—like a promise just out of reach.
From the path, she calls out, “Will! William, there’s something I must tell you!”
“What’s wrong?” he answers, alarmed.
She smiles, pressing her face into his chest. “I love you, Will.”
She blushes like a girl. He holds her tighter, silent. His eyes say it all—surprise, tenderness… and the love he’s carried unspoken through all their years.
Margaret doesn’t walk past those two graves now. She stops. Wipes the granite. Murmers prayers. As if hoping, somewhere beyond, there’s finally peace. True peace. Everlasting.
