For the past fortnight, you’ve barely touched your food—what’s got into you, Emily? Has love struck you blind? Mrs. Whitmore, the housekeeper, eyed her with a knowing look.
Emily sighed, pushing her breakfast around the plate. *Might as well admit it.* “There’s this boy, William. He’s in my year at university, but he barely notices me. I don’t know how to make him look my way.”
“Don’t you go chasing after him,” Mrs. Whitmore tutted. “In my day, girls didn’t go running after lads—it wasn’t proper.”
“Oh, come off it, Mrs. W! Things are different now,” Emily shot back, gulping her tea. “Anyway, I’ve got to dash—Professor Higgins will have my head if I’m late again.”
“Go on, then,” Mrs. Whitmore sighed, crossing her as she hurried out the door.
Emily had grown up in privilege, never wanting for anything. Mrs. Whitmore—her aunt, really—had raised her more than her own parents, who were always busy. They called her “Annie” between themselves, but to Emily, she was always “Mrs. W.”
Mrs. Whitmore had her own sorrows. Married young to a village lad, Thomas—a good, hardworking man—she lost him barely a year later when he drowned in the marsh. They never found his body. Grief nearly drove her to a convent, but she couldn’t bear the silence. “What kind of nun would I make?” she’d say. “Too fond of a sharp word.”
Her younger sister, Margaret, married well—a man with a government post in London. When Emily was born, they built a grand house and asked Mrs. Whitmore to come live with them. She leapt at the chance, throwing herself into cooking, gardening, and doting on Emily like her own.
One evening, Emily burst through the door, cheeks flushed. “William asked me out! We had ice cream by the Thames!”
Mrs. Whitmore arched a brow. “Clever lad, knowing girls fancy sweets. So what’s next?”
“We’re seeing each other now,” Emily grinned.
“Bring him round, then. I’ll tell you if he’s worth your time.”
When William finally visited, Mrs. Whitmore watched him like a hawk. The moment he left, Emily pounced. “Well? Isn’t he lovely?”
“Handsome, yes,” Mrs. Whitmore said flatly. “But his eyes lit up like a magpie’s the second he saw this house. Mark my words—that one’s after more than your heart.”
Emily huffed. “You’re being ridiculous!”
Four months later, Emily’s gold ring vanished. Only William had been in her room.
“He stole it,” Mrs. Whitmore said. “Tell your parents.”
“No,” Emily whispered. “Let it be. I know what he is now.”
When she confronted him, he sneered. “You’re off your rocker. Why would I want your trinkets?”
That was the end of William.
Years passed. At a friend’s birthday, Emily met James—charming, well-spoken, with a good job. He wined and dined her, took her to the theatre, brought flowers. Even Mrs. Whitmore softened. “Bring him round,” she said.
But one evening, overhearing James on the phone, Emily froze. *”Wait till you see the house. She’s alone now—just her and the old woman. I’ll propose fast, get my hands on it all.”*
She fled, sobbing into Mrs. Whitmore’s arms. “Why can’t anyone love me for me?”
“They will,” Mrs. Whitmore murmured. “Next time, don’t let them see the money first.”
After university, Emily worked for her father’s old friend, Mr. Harrison. There, she met Daniel—quiet, sharp, kind. He blushed when they spoke. One day, he stammered, “Fancy dinner sometime?”
She smiled. “I’d love to.”
Daniel never pried about her family. When she finally brought him home, his eyes widened at the grand house—but he said nothing. He gave Mrs. Whitmore flowers, chatted like she was his own gran.
“That’s your man,” Mrs. Whitmore declared. “Decent through and through.”
They married. Mr. Harrison, overjoyed, gave Daniel his trust—and in time, his company.
Now, at forty-two, Emily sits in her garden, watching her twin boys chase butterflies. Mrs. Whitmore, though frail, still fusses over her roses. Daniel, now financial director, kisses Emily’s cheek.
*All that’s yours stays with you.*
