In the village, they said old Margaret had lost her wits in her twilight years. Many avoided her cottage, whispering of witchcraft, but the way she silenced the village gossips is remembered to this day.
Margaret seemed an ordinary countrywomanaged and a touch odd. She helped those in need, though her pension was meager, and took in lost travelers. The wealthier villagers (for it was a prosperous place) seldom welcomed strangers beyond a cup of well water, let alone offered a bed for the night.
But Margaret was different. Shed feed any wanderer, serve simple fare, and give them a place to sleep if darkness fell. For this, they called her strangeletting outsiders in when she had a granddaughter of marriageable age under her roof. Some even threatened her:
“Keep this up, and well have young Emily taken to the orphanage. The social workers will come and snatch her away.”
But that was long ago. Once Emily came of age, the cruel tongues fell silent. Still, Margaret had seethed with anger back then, for Emily was her treasure, her only kin, her hope in old age.
She had lost all her family. Her husband had gone young, just forty-two, felled by a sudden heart attack. Her daughter, Alice, she raised alone. Alice was bright and lovely, married well, moved to the city, and bore Emily. Then came the tragedy.
Alices husband was a geologist, always away on expeditions, sometimes for half a year. One day, he never returnedvanished without a trace. Rescue teams searched, but even one of the searchers went missing. At least, thats what Alice was told.
She grieved terribly, left with a child and no father. Margaret held her up:
“I raised you alone after your father died,” she said. “Youll raise Emily too, and Ill help.”
At first, Alice seemed to accept her fate. But she was only pretending, sparing her mothers heart. Two years later, the unthinkable happened.
Alice drowned her sorrows, first occasionally, then daily.
“The worlds not the same without my dear Andrew,” shed weep. “Ill never have him back, never know happiness again. Whats left to live for?”
Margaret tried everything, but Alice was lost to the bottle. She died in her prime. The village judged her harshly, but perhaps it was just fate.
At fifteen, Emily was orphaned. Margaret took her in, bringing her to the countryside. Emily resistedshe was used to city lifebut Margaret persuaded her:
“Wed never survive in town on my pension. Here, weve a garden and chickens.”
And shed often say:
“Youll have a different life, my treasure. When youre older, Ill find you a fine husband!”
“Where would you find one in this backwater? Only lost travelers pass through,” Emily scoffed.
“Never mind that,” Margaret would say. “Your grandmother knows what shes doing. Let the gossips chatterpay them no mind.”
So they lived, the two of them, in a weathered cottage on the village edge. Margaret tended the home, Emily went to the village school, and helped with chores after.
Her classmates mocked herthey knew her mothers fate. Neighbors whispered:
“Her mother was a drunk. What good can come of the girl?”
It pained Margaret to hear it. She bore no guilt for her husbands early death or her daughters loss. But she vowed to shape Emilys fate herself.
She ignored the villagerslet them talk. They resented her for itnothing seemed to faze her, as though their words meant nothing.
Yet sometimes they couldnt help themselves. Whenever Margaret took in a traveler, rumors flew:
“Mark my words, shes scouting strangers for Emilys husband. No local would wed a girl with that past.”
“Your village lads are beneath us,” Margaret would retort proudly. “My Emilys meant for better.”
“Well see about that,” theyd sneer, calling her a witch behind her back.
Time passed. The village grew quieterfewer cruel words. It seemed theyd been left in peace. But it was only the calm before the storm, which broke over nothingyet changed everything.
One quiet winter evening, as darkness swallowed the village, noise stirred beyond the fencea stalled engine, men cursing the weather, the roads, their bad luck.
A burly neighbor, irritated by the disturbance, stormed out:
“Whats all this racket at night? People are trying to sleep!”
“Night? Its barely eight oclock!”
“Who are you? City folk, by the look of it. What brings you to this godforsaken place?”
“Were hunters. Got lost on our way. The cars acting up. Could you lend a hand?”
“And what if youre not who you say? We dont take strangers innot with my two daughters about. Cant help with the car, eitherno skill for it. Youre on your own.”
The hunters exchanged glances. “Sorry to trouble you. But is there somewhere we might stay?”
“No inns here. This isnt the city,” the villager snapped, turning to leave. Then, relenting, he added:
“Theres one placeold Margarets cottage. Shes a bit touched, odd, but lets anyone in.” He pointed to the village edge, malice in his voice. “Lives with a girl. Wont be dull.”
The door slammed behind him, the last light snuffed out.
Undeterred, the hunters trudged toward the cottage and knocked.
“Forgive the late hour! Might we warm ourselves?”
“Come in, come in!” Margaret swung the door wide. “Teas on, and the hearths lit. Where are you from, lads?”
“Were hunters,” they said, surprised by her welcome. “Im Oliver, and this is my friend William.”
William flushed like a schoolboy.
“No need to fret, boys. They say Im mad, but youre safe here. Suppers soonno need to sleep yet.”
They glanced at each other, stomachs growling.
Margaret bustled to the kitchen while they studied the “witchs den.” An old icon hung in the corner, framed by embroidered linen. Photos lined the windowsillAlice and her husband, perhaps. Beside them, a girl with sad eyesEmily?
Margaret returned with boiled potatoes and pickles, then fresh bread, its scent stirring memories.
“Just like my grandmothers!” William exclaimed.
“Eat up! Ill fetch the samovar. Dandelion jam with teayouve never tasted the like!”
“Dandelion jam?” Oliver gaped.
“My grandmother made it!” William said, endearing himself to Margaret.
“Weve a meadow where they bloom in May. The jams sweet as honey.”
The hunters relaxed, charmed by the humble cottages warmth. They marveled at Margarets lack of curiosityshe asked little, only studied William with quiet interest as he praised her cooking.
Then a faint voice called: “Grandmother, water…”
The men frowned. “Your granddaughter? Is she ill?”
“Foolish girlchopped wood yesterday, fever set in by night. No medicine here, and Im too old to fetch any.”
William rummaged in his bag. “Take these. If shes no better by morning, well sort something.”
Margaret returned minutes later. “You rest now. Ill sit with Emilymy only kin, my poor orphan.”
Williams eyes stung. “Let me watch her. You rest.”
“Ill rest when Im dead. Weve managed alone this long.”
Once she left, Oliver muttered, “Why do they call her a witch? Shes just like my gran.”
“People are cruel,” William said. “Maybe she crossed them.”
As they dozed, footsteps creaked. In the dark, Margarets shape moved toward their coats. She took Williams jacket and vanished.
“Odd,” he thought. “Is she a witch after all? Or just checking our papers?”
Questions swirled, but he wouldnt disturb her. At dawn, he slipped outside and found his jacketthe torn seam expertly mended.
How had she noticed? He could buy a hundred jacketsat twenty-seven, he owned a thriving restaurant. Yet this kindness moved him deeply.
He fetched an axe. “Least I can do is chop wood.”
Remembering Emilys photo, he smiled. “A beauty, and hardworking. Id take her to my restaurant.”
Splinters flew as he worked.
Margaret appeared. “What a worker! Years since a mans hand helped here.”
William blushed. “Just habit. Did this for my gran.”
Her eyes lit up. “Thank you! Shrovetides soonwell have fuel for pancakes.” Then, softly: “Stay.”
He flushed again. Barely acquainted, yet invited for the holidayjust like his gran would do.
Oliver balked. “Shrovetide in this dump? No. Im leaving.”
Their argument drew the neighbor whod sent them here. “A mechanics come to fix your car.”
Grateful, William followed, but the neighbors tone shifted. “That cars worth thousands. Youre no pauper. Steer clear of that madwoman and her girl. Paupers, the lot. If you fancy a village bride, my daughters are better stock.”
William understoodthe man wanted a wealthy son-in-law. He demurred. “Ill return for Shrovetide. Then, perhaps.”
At breakfast, Emily joined them, fever gone. William couldnt look awaynor she at him.
“Grandmother,” he ventured, “might I invite Emily to the city?”
“If she wishes it, and when shes well,” Margaret said, her toothless smile hidden.
Oliver left that evening. William whispered to Emily, “Ill return in two days.”
She watched the car vanish, heart aching. How could a city man want her?
Shrovetide arrived. Margaret and Emily baked pancakes, waiting.
For two days, no William.
On the third, the neighbor jeered: “Your fine suitors not coming. He owns a famous restaurantwhats he want with you?”
Emily fled inside. Margaret glared. “Dont gloat. Its not over.”
Thentires on gravel. William emerged with roses and a hamper.
“Grandmother Margaret,” he said. “I love Emily. May I marry her?”
“If shell have you.”
Emily flew to his arms. Margaret hadnt seen her so happy since her parents died.
The village buzzed for yearshow the mad old woman bewitched a millionaire for her granddaughter. The neighbor seethed worst of all, his daughters overlooked.
But William and Emily never parted. And Margaret, at last, could rest.
