Margaret’s voice trembled with fury. “You are not here! Understand? This family no longer has a place for you!”
Albert attempted to interject, “Margaret, please calm—”
“Silence!” she cut him off. “Your quiet tolerance all these years told her she could do as she pleased!”
Eleanor stood in the parlour doorway, clutching a travelling bag. Her face was pale, lips quivering, yet her gaze remained defiant. “Very well, Mum. As you say.”
“Do not call me Mum!” Margaret snapped. “I have one daughter only, and that is not you!”
Albert sank into his armchair, burying his face in his hands. Eleanor watched her father, hoping for defence. The man stayed mute.
“Father?” she whispered.
“Eleanor, must it be so abrupt?” Albert finally lifted his head. “Let us discuss this calmly.”
“Discuss what?” Margaret snatched a photograph from the table and hurled it to the floor. Glass shattered. “She has shamed us! The entire town whispers behind our backs!”
Eleanor stared at the broken frame—a Christmas portrait from last winter, their smiling faces now a cruel mockery.
“Margaret,” she corrected herself, “I bear no blame for what unfolded.”
“No blame?” Margaret stepped closer. “You consort with a married man! Shatter another family! Now carrying his child?”
Eleanor’s hand instinctively cradled her belly. Though early days, the news had spread through Ely.
“I love him,” she murmured.
“Love!” Margaret mimicked bitterly. “A forty-year-old man with three children! What could he possibly see in you?”
Eleanor blanched.
“He loves me. We shall live together.”
“Where?” Margaret sneered. “Here? In my house? Think I’d allow that… that scoundrel beneath my roof?”
“Margaret, enough,” Albert interjected. “She remains our daughter.”
“Ours?” Margaret wheeled toward him. “I bore no such daughter! Raised her, saw her through university, secured her position! And how does she repay us? Takes up with the first philanderer she meets!”
Eleanor set down her bag. “Victor is no philanderer. We have known each other over a year.”
“A year!” Margaret flung her hands up. “So for a year you lied! Claimed late hours whilst running to your paramour!”
“I concealed nothing, merely—”
“Concealment is deception!”
Albert rose and moved to the window. Rain misted the lanes; grey clouds hung low over the rooftops of neighbouring terraces.
“Eleanor,” he said, back turned, “what does this Victor say? Is he truly divorcing?”
“He has petitioned the courts.”
“Petitioned!” Margaret echoed. “Yet the family lies ruined. Children fatherless.”
“Their marriage held no love,” Eleanor explained. “He wed for convenience.”
“Naturally!” Margaret laughed harshly. “All married men claim that! Then, when weary of dalliance, they crawl back!”
“Victor is different.”
“They are all alike!” Margaret shot back. “Do you imagine I know nothing of the world? How many such tales have I heard? He’ll vanish once he learns of the child!”
Eleanor flinched.
“He knows. And he is glad.”
“Glad? Then where stands he now? Why not here? Defending his beloved?”
“He travels on business. Returns in a week.”
“How opportune,” Margaret remarked acidly. “Absolved precisely when scandal broke.”
Eleanor lowered her eyes. Victor’s departure, coinciding with her confession, had unsettled her. He’d insisted the trip was unavoidable.
“Perhaps we should not rush to judgment?” Albert pleaded. “Grant Eleanor time.”
“Time? She has decided for us! Pregnant by a wedded man! Now all Ely knows Albert Hartley’s daughter consorts with another’s husband!”
“We do not reside together,” Eleanor murmured. “Not yet.”
“Not yet!” Margaret gripped her chest. “But the child exists! A bastard child! Grasp what that signifies?”
Eleanor raised her head.
“It signifies I shall be a mother. And neighbours’ talk concerns me not.”
“No concern? But it concerns me! I live and work here! Shall be the subject of tea-time gossip! They will say I raised her poorly!”
“Mum, we’re in the twenty-first century—”
“The twenty-first century!” Margaret interrupted. “Think folk have changed? Backbiting thrives, especially in market towns!”
Albert returned to his chair.
“Eleanor, have you considered practicalities? Your salary is modest. Children cost dearly.”
“Victor will provide.”
“Provide!” Margaret repeated. “And if he reneges? If his wife reclaims him?”
“She will not. They have lived apart a year.”
“A year apart, yet he petitions divorce only now?” Margaret eyed her sceptically.
Eleanor fell silent. Victor’s delays had troubled her too—he spoke of sparing the children pain, but doubt gnawed.
“You see?” Margaret said. “You lack answers. Because it is falsehood—the same tale told every mistress.”
“He lies not! We love each other!”
“Love!” Margaret snorted derisively. “At twenty-six, you should think, not feel.”
“Margaret, curb your tongue,” Albert muttered.
“Curb my tongue? She shames us, and I must curb my tongue? Look at her! Twenty-six and acts a child!”
Eleanor lifted her bag.
“Understood. I shall leave and disgrace you no more.”
“Go,” Margaret said coldly. “Return not until sense prevails.”
“And if sense never prevails?”
“Then I have no daughter.”
Albert stood.
“Margaret, what madness is this? She is our child!”
“Our child would never wreck a home! This one… she is a stranger.”
Tears stung Eleanor’s eyes. She turned toward the door.
“Eleanor, wait,” Albert called.
She halted, facing away.
“Perhaps haste is unwise? Reconsider. This man… his years, obligations.”
“He loves me.”
“Love.” Albert sighed. “And after love fades? After sleepless nights? When the child cries
“You aren’t here!” Eleanor’s voice rang with fury. “Do you understand? You no longer belong in this family!”
“Ellie, calm yourself,” Michael tried to interject, but his wife cut him off sharply.
“Quiet! Your silence all these years made her believe she could do as she pleases!”
Hannah stood in the parlor doorway, her travel bag clutched in hand. Her face was pale, lips trembling, yet pride stiffened her gaze.
“Very well, Mum. Whatever you say.”
“Don’t call me Mum!” Eleanor snapped. “I have one daughter, and it’s not you!”
Michael sank heavily into his armchair, covering his face. Hannah watched her father, willing him to speak in her defence. The man remained silent.
“Dad?” Her voice wavered.
“Hannah, must we be so hasty?” Michael finally lifted his head. “Let us discuss this calmly.”
“What’s to discuss?” Eleanor grabbed a photograph from the sideboard and dashed it to the floor. Glass splintered like ice. “She’s shamed us! The entire neighbourhood points and whispers!”
Hannah stared at the shattered frame – their family portrait from last Christmas, all smiling faces. Now it felt like a cruel jape.
“Mum… Eleanor,” Hannah corrected, “I didn’t choose for things to happen so.”
“Innocent?” Her mother advanced. “Carrying on with a married man! Breaking up his home! Now expecting his child!”
Hannah instinctively pressed a hand to her stomach. Though early days, news had spread through their Surrey village.
“I love him,” she murmured.
“Love!” Eleanor mocked. “A forty-year-old bloke with three children! What could he possibly see in you?”
Hannah whitened further. “He cares for me. We’ll make a home together.”
“Where?” her mother sneered. “Here? My house? Do you imagine I’d welcome that… that scoundrel?”
“Ellie, enough,” Michael intervened. “She remains our child.”
“Ours?” Eleanor whirled on him. “I bore no such daughter! Raised her, sent her to university, secured her employment. And this is her gratitude? Throwing herself at the first bounder!”
Hannah set down her bag. “Charles isn’t just anyone. We’ve known each other a year.”
“A whole year! So you’ve lied to me twelve months! Claimed you worked late while visiting your lover!”
“I didn’t lie, I merely—”
“Mere omission is deception!”
Michael rose and walked to the window. Raindrops traced paths down the pane, grey clouds pressing low over neighbouring rooftops.
“Hannah,” he said without turning, “what does this Charles say? Truly leaving his wife?”
“He’s filed the papers,” Hannah insisted.
“Filed papers,” Eleanor repeated. “After wrecking that home. Leaving children fatherless.”
“There was no affection left,” Hannah explained. “They lived as strangers. Charles says he wed for convenience, not love.”
“Naturally he claims that!” her mother laughed sharply. “All married men spin that yarn! Unloved wives, unwanted children, marriages forced upon them! Then they crawl back once they’ve tired of the mistress!”
“Charles is different,” Hannah insisted.
“All the same!” Eleanor sliced the air with her hand. “Think I’ve no life experience? Witnessed dozens of these affairs! Promise the moon then vanish once they learn of the baby!”
Hannah flinched. “He knows about the child. He’s pleased.”
“Pleased? Then where is he now? Why doesn’t he stand with you? Shield his beloved?”
“He’s… away on business. Returns next week.”
“How convenient,” Eleanor observed acidly. “Departed just when truth surfaced.”
Hannah lowered her eyes. She too had wondered why Charles left precisely when she’d resolved to confess.
“Ellie, mightn’t we reserve judgment?” Michael pleaded. “Allow Hannah time to sort matters.”
“Sort matters?” His wife stared as if he were mad. “She’s decided for us all! Pregnant by a married man! Now the whole county knows Michael Thorne’s daughter trifles with another woman’s husband!”
“We aren’t living together,” Hannah whispered. “Not yet.”
“Not yet! But the child exists! A bastard! Do you grasp what that means?”
Hannah lifted her chin. “It means I’ll be a mother. I care not what neighbours whisper.”
“You care not?” Eleanor clutched her heart. “I do! I live here! Work here! Every glance will carry judgment! They’ll say I failed as a parent!”
“Mum, this is the twenty-first century—”
“The twenty-first century!” Eleanor cut her off. “Think folk have changed? Tongues wag now as ever they did! Especially in villages!”
Michael returned to his armchair. “Hannah, have you considered practicalities? Your wages are modest. Childrearing costs dear in pounds.”
“Charles will provide.”
“Provide,” Eleanor echoed. “And if he reneges? Changes his mind? Takes his wife back?”
“She won’t have him. They’ve lived apart a year.”
“A year apart, yet divorce only now?” Her mother’s voice dripped disbelief.
Hannah fell silent. She couldn’t fathom why Charles delayed either, claiming concern for the children. Doubt now gnawed at her.
“See?” Eleanor pressed. “You cannot answer. Because his lies match those whispered to every mistress.”
For two anxious days Annie rehearsed how to casually encounter Eleanor at the bakery near her office, her stomach twisting each time she pictured Victor’s wife’s face.
Annie waited by the chilled display case, pretending to choose a scone when Eleanor entered, and the older woman’s weary eyes met hers directly with a recognition that instantly spoke silent volumes of betrayal and heartache.
The following silence stretched thin between them, thick with unspoken accusations and shared sorrow over Victor’s duplicity, collapsing Annie’s carefully constructed fantasies about their future and her lover’s honesty.
