Ethel Pennington opened the pot and gasped in shock.
Margaret Wakefield had risen at dawn, as was her habit, and made her way to the kitchen of her countryside home just outside Bath. To her surprise, her daughter-in-law was already bustling about by the stove.
“Good morning,” smiled Eleanor, stirring something in the pot.
“Morning,” muttered Margaret, wrinkling her nose. “What on earth are you making?”
“Vegetable soup,” replied Eleanor without looking up. “William adores it.”
“Vegetable soup?” Margaret sniffed suspiciously. “Since when does vegetable soup smell like that?”
“How should it smell?” Eleanor shrugged, placed the lid back on the pot, and left the kitchen.
Not one to hesitate, Margaret darted to the stove, lifted the lid, and peered inside. What she saw made her recoil in horror.
“What sort of concoction is this?” she muttered, stepping back as if from some foul potion.
Eleanor returned with bowls and, noticing her mother-in-law’s reaction, calmly explained:
“It’s vegetable soup, Margaret Wakefield. Fresh vegetables from our garden—straight from the earth. Cooking with homegrown things is such a joy.”
“A joy?” Margaret scoffed, folding her arms. “That garden of yours is nothing but drudgery! Wasting time on planting when you can buy everything at the market? I don’t understand you.”
“But I love it,” Eleanor answered gently, ladling the soup into bowls. The scent of beetroot, cabbage, and herbs filled the kitchen. “The soil gives so much when you work with it.”
“Gives what?” Margaret rolled her eyes. “A pastime for those with nothing better to do, perhaps. Decent folk have—” She broke off when she saw Eleanor merely smile, as if deaf to her jabs. “And why have you made so much?”
“For us,” said Eleanor. “Enough for a few days. William always asks for seconds.”
Margaret drew back theatrically, as if the very aroma made her ill.
“I shan’t touch a drop!” she declared with great drama. “The smell alone turns my stomach! What have you put in there?”
Eleanor sighed, avoiding Margaret’s gaze. From the corner of her eye, she noticed her husband, William, standing in the doorway, watching the scene tensely but saying nothing.
Margaret could not fathom what had come over her son. Only two years ago, William had been a sharp young man in London, a promising solicitor. They had attended concerts together, discussed fine dining, dreamed of his bright future. And then—this rural exile, this garden, this unrefined Eleanor! Even the name made Margaret shudder with irritation.
William had always been a prime catch—tall, clever, charming. How many fine young ladies from good families had sighed over him! Why had he chosen this country girl and this backwater cottage? Margaret had hoped he would outgrow this phase and return to the city, to a proper life. But time passed, and William only sank deeper into this “rustic fantasy.”
She had decided to act. Eleanor’s invitation to supper had been the perfect opportunity. Margaret had a plan: remind her son of who he truly was and pull him back from the countryside before it was too late.
William entered the kitchen, kissed his wife, and turned to his mother.
“Mum, try the soup. Eleanor makes it splendidly.”
“William, you know your father and I never ate such peasant dishes,” Margaret dismissed him. “I recall you scowling at soup as a boy, calling it old folk’s fare.”
Eleanor couldn’t help but smile at the thought of little William wrinkling his nose at his plate. But now her husband was a grown man, and his tastes had clearly changed.
“Times change, Mum,” he chuckled. “Eleanor’s soup is a masterpiece. Taste it—you won’t regret it.”
“A masterpiece?” Margaret gasped in outrage. “William, you call a pot of cabbage a masterpiece? True masterpieces are gallery paintings, theatre performances, not this… slop!”
Eleanor tried to let the words wash past her, but something inside stung. She knew Margaret saw her as nothing but a country wife, unworthy of her son. Still, she wished just once her mother-in-law might acknowledge her efforts.
“Mum, enough,” William said firmly. “Eleanor does so much for us. We’re happy—that’s what matters.”
“Happy?” Margaret pursed her lips. “We’ll see how long that lasts. You’re a city man, William. London calls to you, and this… this farmhand life is absurd. You’ll remember my words.”
William looked at her reproachfully.
“I’m a grown man, Mother. Eleanor and I chose this life, and I’ve no regrets.”
“Not yet,” Margaret shot back. “But you’ve forgotten what real living is. This wife of yours has enchanted you with her vegetable patch, but it won’t last.”
Eleanor could stay silent no longer.
“Margaret Wakefield, what’s so wrong with our life? We harm no one. William is content—can’t you be glad for us?”
“Glad?” Margaret flared up. “I see how you’re dragging my son into this backwater, away from society! You’ve got him trapped here. No doubt you’ll have a child soon to tie him down completely!”
Eleanor froze, stunned by the cruelty. William stood, his expression darkening.
“Mother, you’ve gone too far.”
Margaret did not relent.
“I speak the truth, my son. You can’t live like a hermit forever. Tell me—how can a man of your upbringing find pleasure in digging dirt and slurping soup?”
William suddenly smiled.
“You know, Mother, I was raised a city man because I knew no other way. Eleanor showed me a new life, and I prefer it.”
Margaret scoffed but said no more. She saw her plan had failed, but another was already forming. She would not give up.
When Margaret had gone, Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, staring at the half-empty pot. She was warmed by William’s defense, yet hurt still gnawed at her. She had wanted so badly for Margaret to accept them. Tapping her spoon against the pot, she sighed.
William came in, sat beside her, and took her hand.
“Let it go, Eleanor. Mother has always thought she knows best. But I chose you and this life. If she can’t understand, that’s her loss.”
Eleanor nodded, leaning into him.
“I only wish she’d accept us. But perhaps that’s too much to ask.”
“Maybe one day she’ll see,” William said gently. “And if not, we’ll still have our happiness.”
Eleanor smiled, the warmth returning. Their little world, their home, their soup—it was their joy, and no one could take that.
“Here,” she laughed softly, “let’s finish this soup. To us, to our life, however simple it may seem.”
William raised his spoon.
“To us, to our soup, and to all that lies ahead.”
