Grace stomped out onto the porch, slamming the garden gate so hard it sent next door’s spaniels into a barking frenzy. Another row with Grandma—same old tune: “Weed the vegetable patch,” “Help stew the blackberries,” “Put that phone down.” As if an eighteen-year-old girl had nothing better to do with her summer!
“Grace! Get back here this instant!” Margaret Holloway called after her. But Grace was already marching down the dusty lane, not bothering to glance back. Nowhere to go, really—but going home was absolutely out of the question.
She reached the pond and slumped onto the bank, watching the sun sink lazily behind the treeline. Resentment gnawed at her—at her parents, off working in France and leaving her behind; at Grandma, who’d dragged her to this backwater instead of letting her stay in London. She’d already got into uni—a whole new life waiting—and here she was, lugging jam jars about like some Victorian housemaid.
The next morning came with a knock at her door.
“Grace, love, lend a hand? Need these jars down to the cellar. My knees won’t manage those stairs.”
Grumbling, Grace hauled herself up, washed her face, and got to it. The jars were weighty, the cellar steps creaky. It took her a few trips. On her last descent, she spotted it—a battered old suitcase tucked in the corner, coated in decades of dust.
“Gran! What’s this trunk doing down here?”
“Goodness knows… Must’ve been your granddad’s. Haven’t set foot down here since he passed.”
Curiosity got the better of her. Ignoring Gran’s protests, Grace dragged the trunk into the light. The fabric was frayed, the latch rusted shut.
“Leave that tat alone,” Margaret muttered. “Could be anything in there.”
But Grace was already rummaging—yellowed shirts, faded photographs, scribbled notes. At the very bottom lay a neat envelope. Scrawled on it in unmistakable handwriting: *”For Emily. Forgive and understand.”*
“Can I?” Grace asked, glancing up.
Gran gave a stiff nod. Grace unfolded the letter—a heartfelt apology from Granddad James, begging forgiveness from someone named Emily. How he’d loved her, how he’d ruined it with suspicion. Dated 1969. Gran went pale.
“That’s… a year after we married,” she whispered.
“Maybe we should leave it,” Grace said softly.
“No. I need to see it. That place he wrote about—‘where I broke her dreams’.”
That evening, Gran asked Grace to book train tickets to a village near Bath.
“Just do it. I need to stand on that street.”
The next day, they rode the train in silence for most of the journey—until Gran started talking. About meeting James at a village dance, marrying for love. Yet always, somewhere, a quiet fear he’d never been fully hers.
Arriving, they hailed a cab to the address in the letter—a tidy cottage with roses round the door. As they hovered at the gate, a voice called out:
“You lost, dears? Pensioners’ club’s over the road.”
They turned. A spry woman in her eighties stood there, sharp-eyed and sturdy.
“Hello. Sorry—would you know an Emily Hart?” Margaret asked.
“My daughter,” the woman smiled. “Moved to Edinburgh years back.”
“Did she ever know a James Holloway? I’m his widow…”
The woman—Nan Rose—invited them in. Years ago, James had been stationed here. Emily, her daughter, worked as a nurse. They’d been sweethearts, set to marry—until gossip spread that Emily had been unfaithful. James believed it. Left. Emily never forgave him, but never stopped loving him either. Two years later, she was engaged. Then came James’ letter—but Nan Rose intercepted it.
“I wanted her to move on. And I don’t regret it. She’s happy. And you, Margaret—you’ve lived well. So perhaps it was meant to be.”
Outside, the air was still. Gran’s eyes shone.
“What if she’d forgiven him?” she whispered later in their B&B.
“Gran,” Grace said gently, “no point in ‘what ifs.’ You were his wife. He loved you. You loved him.”
Margaret nodded, pulled Grace close, and smiled—for the first time in years.
