**Wednesday, 15th March**
“Lost your appetite for two weeks now—fallen for someone, have you, Emily?” asked Agnes, our housekeeper.
“I suppose so,” I admitted. “There’s a boy in my parallel seminar at uni. He barely notices me, though. No idea how to get his attention.”
“Don’t go chasing him, love. In my day, girls didn’t make the first move—”
“Oh, Agnes, spare me the ‘back in my day’ lecture. Times have changed,” I said, finishing breakfast. “Anyway, I’m off—can’t be late for Dr. Fletcher’s lecture, or he’ll lock me out.”
“Go on, then,” she said, crossing me before shutting the door.
I was born into comfort—never wanted for anything. Agnes, Mum’s elder sister, raised me with old-fashioned wisdom. The adults called her Annie, but to me, she was always Agnes.
Her own story was bittersweet. Married young in the countryside to a hardworking man named Frederick, she lost him barely a year later—a forester who vanished in the marshes. No body was ever found. Grief nearly drove her to the cloisters, but she changed her mind. “What sort of nun would I make? Still young, still quick to swear when cross.” So she stayed with her parents until Mum, married to a well-off civil servant, built a grand house in London and asked Agnes to join them.
“You’ll look after Emily, keep house for us,” Mum had said.
“Gladly,” Agnes replied. “Frederick was good to me, but I’ve wept my fill. I shan’t marry again.”
And so she came—cooking, gardening, doting on me. I never lifted a finger. She’d chide gently, “Learn to cook, love. A woman’s best trick is a meal made with heart. Every cook has her secrets.”
“Mum’s the word,” I’d tease.
Then there was Anthony. Handsome, tall—a scholarship boy raised by a single mother. I thought he didn’t notice me, but he did. One evening, I burst in, giddy: “Agnes! We walked home together—he bought me ice cream!”
“Clever lad, playing to a sweet tooth,” she chuckled. “What next?”
“We’re courting properly now. You’ll meet him soon.”
“Bring him round. I’ll know if he’s worthy.”
When he came, Agnes watched like a hawk. After he left, I pressed her: “Well? Isn’t he lovely?”
“Handsome, yes,” she said evenly. “But not for you. Saw our house, and his eyes lit up like Christmas. There’s greed in him.”
I scoffed. “Rubbish! It’s my choice.”
Four months later, a gold ring vanished from my drawer. Only Anthony had been upstairs.
“Told you,” Agnes said. “Report him.”
“No. Let it be our secret.”
When I confronted him, he spat, “Mad, are you? Why would I want your trinkets?” And just like that, it was over. Agnes held me as I wept, but I knew she was right.
Years passed. After uni, I met Robert at a friend’s birthday. Charming, cultured—theatre trips, roses, whispers of love. Agnes insisted I bring him home.
“Don’t like him,” she declared afterward. “Shifty eyes, tapping foot—nervous, that one.”
“Honestly, Agnes! He’s gentle as a lamb.”
Then the unthinkable: Mum and Dad died in a crash coming back from Brighton. The funeral blurred by in a haze. That night, Agnes held me close. “I’ll never leave you, love. What’s yours stays with you.”
One evening at a café, Robert stepped out to take a call. I followed, overhearing: “*You should see her house. Orphaned now, just that old woman left. I’ll propose fast—get my hands on it all.*”
I fled, sobbing into Agnes’ arms. “Can no one love me just for me?”
“Some will. Next time, play poor.”
Time healed. I took a job at Dad’s old friend Mr. Whitcombe’s firm. There, I met Sebastian—quiet, clever, blushing whenever we spoke. Months of shy glances before he asked me to tea.
“Come meet my mother,” he said later.
Mrs. Whitcombe was warm, her cottage cosy. “Sebastian’s smitten,” she confided. “Girls these days want everything handed to them—not like you.”
When Sebastian finally visited our home, he paled at the grand hall but said nothing. He chatted with Agnes like she was his own gran, brought her flowers.
“*That’s* your man,” Agnes said after. “No greed in him.”
We married. Mr. Whitcombe, thrilled, groomed Sebastian to take over the firm. Now, at forty-two, I’ve twin boys, a husband who adores me, and Agnes—frail but still fussing over her roses.
Sebastian’s CFO now, trusted implicitly. Mr. Whitcombe once mused, “No son of mine to inherit—just a divorced daughter abroad. He’ll take my place one day.”
And so, Agnes was right all along. What’s truly mine stayed with me.
