**An Unexpected Guest**
The little village of Windermere was bathed in the warm scent of freshly baked bread as Margaret Whitmore pulled a golden loaf from the old stone oven. The peaceful hum of the kitchen was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Margaret wiped her floury hands on her apron and hurried to answer.
“Mum, meet Emily, my fiancée,” announced her son, Thomas, beaming from ear to ear.
Margaret froze, thunderstruck. Emily was a towering figure, nearly six feet tall, teetering on sky-high heels, her short skirt and bold makeup a stark contrast to the quiet countryside. A massive tote bag swung from her arm, feathers spilling out.
“Hullo,” Margaret managed, masking her shock. “Edward! Come here!” she called to her husband. “Tom’s brought his future wife—come meet her!”
Edward shuffled in, wearing a stretched-out jumper and slippers. At the sight of Emily, his mouth dropped open as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Er… hello,” he stammered before ducking back into the bedroom to change.
Margaret shot him a withering look. Two days ago, when Thomas had mentioned he wouldn’t be coming alone, she’d been thrilled—her son was in his thirties, after all, long overdue to settle down. She’d imagined a demure girl, maybe with braids and a simple dress. But Emily? This was a shock. The stiletto heels, glossy nails, and that bag brimming with feathers seemed like a deliberate challenge to everything Margaret held dear.
“Come in, Emily,” she said stiffly. “Edward, grab her bag! Don’t just stand there!”
Edward, now in a proper shirt, lugged Emily’s things inside. Seizing a moment, Margaret pulled Thomas aside.
“Tom, what on earth? Who *is* this?”
“Mum, don’t start,” Thomas laughed. “She’s not what she seems. Give her a chance—she’s brilliant, really.”
Margaret scoffed and muttered under her breath, “Lord help us—what a surprise.” Chaos followed. The men whispered at the table while Emily commandeered Margaret and Edward’s room, unpacking feathery hats, bikinis, and glittering scarves.
“What’s *this*?” Margaret pinched a scrap of lace between two fingers.
“Lingerie,” Emily said breezily. “Want some? I’ve got spares.”
“No, thank you,” Margaret huffed, flushing. “And why are you in *our* room?”
“Tom’s place is tiny, and Uncle Ed said you wouldn’t mind,” Emily replied.
“Uncle *Ed*, is it?” Margaret shot Edward a glare before dragging him outside.
“Have you lost your mind? Giving up our room? You’ll be on the sofa tonight, you absolute *dolt*!” she hissed.
Just then, Daisy the cow lowed from the barn.
“Blimey—I haven’t milked her yet!” Margaret threw up her hands and stormed off.
Emily darted after her. “Can I try? I’ve never milked a cow.”
Margaret eyed her skeptically. “In *those*?” She nodded at the heels.
“I’ll change!” Emily dashed back and returned in shorts and trainers.
Margaret sighed. “Fine. But wear an apron.”
“Can I wear my hat instead? The floral one—”
“*Apron*,” Margaret snapped.
In the barn, she handed Emily a pail. “Milk her like this. I’ll start breakfast.”
Half an hour passed with no sign of Emily. Margaret set the table and grumbled her way back to the barn—only to burst out laughing. Emily, apron askew, was circling Daisy, muttering to herself.
“I looked *everywhere*!” she protested as Margaret demonstrated the proper technique.
After breakfast, Emily sprawled in the garden to tan. Edward, who’d dodged chores all week, suddenly grabbed a scythe and started hacking at the hedges, stealing glances.
“Emily, fancy helping pick raspberries?” Margaret cooed. “We’ll make jam.”
“Course, Auntie Maggie!” Emily chirped.
In the patch, Margaret handed her a jar. Emily worked with surprising gusto—until Margaret was called away by a neighbour. They chatted for ages, Margaret lamenting her imagined daughter-in-law while the neighbour urged patience.
Returning, Margaret found Emily gone.
“Emily? Where are you?”
“Over here!” came a voice from the nettles.
Emily emerged, hair tangled with burrs.
“What were you *doing* in there?” Margaret gasped. “That’s the old Pritchett place—it’s abandoned!”
“But the berries are bigger,” Emily said proudly, holding up a full jar.
“Oh, you daft girl,” Margaret sighed. “Come on, let’s get these burrs out.”
On the porch, comb in hand, Margaret gently questioned Emily about her past.
“I grew up with my gran,” Emily admitted. “Mum and dad were always away, then… well, they weren’t around. After school, I waitressed, washed dishes. A modelling scout found me, but I hated it. Then I met Tom—he got me a job fetching coffee at his office. Everyone’s lovely there.”
Margaret listened, her heart softening. Beneath the glamour was a girl who’d faced hardship.
That evening, over tea on the patio, Emily said quietly, “Auntie Maggie, will you teach me everything? It’s so peaceful here.”
Margaret winked at Thomas. “You planning to marry my Tom, then?”
Emily blushed. “He hasn’t asked yet.”
Thomas laughed. “Sly, Mum. Guess I’d better propose.”
“Too right,” Margaret sniffed. “And if he doesn’t, Emily, you come back. I’ll find you a better lad!”
Emily smiled. “Thanks, but I love your Tom.”
Six months later, the village celebrated their wedding. Soon after, Emily whispered news of a baby. Gazing at her now, Margaret realized appearances deceived—Emily’s heart was as big as her flamboyant hats.
