In the quiet village of Wessex, there was an old woman named Agnes, whom the villagers whispered had lost her wits in her old age. Many avoided her cottage, calling her a witch, yet the tale of how she silenced the village gossips is still told to this day.
Agnes appeared an ordinary countrywomanaged and a touch eccentric. She helped those in need, though her pension was a mere pittance, and she never turned away lost travelers. The wealthier villagersfor Wessex was a prosperous placerarely welcomed strangers beyond offering a drink from the well. But Agnes was different. She would give them ale, serve them humble fare, and offer a place to sleep if night fell. For this, they called her odd, saying she let strangers in while keeping a granddaughter of marrying age under her roof. Some even threatened her:
“Keep this up, and well have your Emily sent to the orphanage. Well call the parish, and theyll take her from you.”
But that was long ago. When Emily came of age, the spiteful tongues fell silent. At first, Agnes had been furiousEmily was her hearts treasure, her only hope and comfort in old age. She had lost everyone else. Her husband, Thomas, had passed young, taken by an early heart attack at just forty-two. Her daughter, Margaret, she had raised alonea sweet, strong girl who married well and moved to London, where she bore Emily. Then came the tragedy.
Margarets husband was a geologist, often gone for months on expeditions. From one such journey, he never returnedvanished without a trace, not even a body found. The search parties sent by the Royal Society lost one of their own, or so Margaret was told.
Grief weighed heavy on her, for she had a child to raise alone. Agnes held her close. “I stood by you when your father died,” she said. “Youll raise Emily, and Ill help.”
At first, Margaret seemed to accept her fate. But in truth, she only wore a mask to spare her mothers heart. Two years later, the unthinkable happened.
Margaret took to drowning her sorrowsfirst occasionally, then daily. “The world holds no joy without my darling Edward,” she would weep. “Ill never see my love again, nor know happiness. What use is living?”
Agnes tried everything, to no availMargaret had bound her life to the bottle. She died young, and the village judged her harshly. But perhaps it was simply fate.
Fifteen-year-old Emily was left an orphan. Agnes took her in, bringing her to the countryside. Emily resisted at firstshe was used to city lifebut Agnes persuaded her. “In London, my pension wont keep us. Here, weve a garden and chickens.”
She often told her granddaughter: “Your fate will be different, my treasure. When youre older, Ill find you a fine husband.”
“And where will you find him, Gran? In this backwater? The only strangers we see are lost travelers.”
“Leave that to me, dear. Let the gossips chatterpay them no mind.”
So they livedAgnes tending the house, Emily attending the village school, helping afterward. The other children mocked her, knowing her mothers fate. The neighbors loved to whisper:
“Her mother was a drunk. What good will that girl turn out to be?”
It pained Agnes to hear, for none of it was Emilys faultnot the loss of her father, nor her daughters sorrow. But she vowed to see Emilys future secured.
She paid the neighbors no mindlet them talk. This only angered them more. How dare she ignore their scorn?
Yet sometimes, when Agnes took in a wanderer for the night, the rumors flared anew: “Mark my words, shes scouting suitors for Emily. No local lad would wed a girl with such a past.”
“Your village boys are nothing to us,” Agnes would retort. “Emilys fate lies elsewhere.”
“Well see about that,” the villagers would sneer, calling her a witch under their breath.
Time passed. The village quietedfewer cruel words were spoken. It seemed theyd been left in peace. But this was merely the calm before the storm, one that began on an ordinary winters eve.
As dusk settled over Wessex, the sound of a stalled engine broke the silence. Voices cursed the weather, the roads, their ill luck. From a neighboring yard, a burly villager stomped out, irked by the disturbance.
“Whats all this racket at night? Folk are trying to sleep!”
“Night? Its barely eight oclock!”
“Who are you, anyway? City folk, by the look of you. What brings you to our godforsaken corner?”
“Hunters, we are. Got lost on our way. Car troubles. Could you lend a hand?”
“And how do I know youre honest men? We dont take strangers innot with two daughters under my roof. And Im no mechanic.”
The hunters exchanged glances. “Then could you at least point us to lodging?”
“No inns here. This aint London.” The villager turned to leave, then paused. “Only place thatll have you is old Agness cottage. Shes a bit touched, mind, but shell take anyone in.” He gestured to the village edge, adding spitefully, “Lives with a young lass. You wont be lonely.”
The hunters, undeterred, made their way to the cottage. At the creak of the door, Agnes welcomed them warmly. “Come in, lads. Ill brew tea and warm you.”
“Thank you, maam. Were huntersHenry, and my friend James.”
James, shy as a maiden, blushed under her gaze.
“Dont fret, boys. They call me odd, but youll be safe here.”
As they settled, Agnes busied herself in the kitchen while the men studied the cottagesimple but tidy. An old Bible sat by the window, framed by embroidered linen. Photographs nearby showed a woman with a manlikely Agness daughter and son-in-lawand a young girl with sad eyes.
Agnes returned with boiled potatoes, pickles, and fresh bread. The scent of it took James back to his childhood. “Just like my grans,” he murmured.
“Eat up. Ill fetch the tea.”
From another room came a weak voice: “Gran water”
The hunters glanced at the photograph. “Your granddaughter? Is she ill?”
“Aye. Chopping wood yesterday, and now shes feverish. No medicines here, and Im too old to fetch any.”
“Waitwe have something.” James dug into his bag and handed her fever powder. “Give her this.”
Agnes hurried off, returning minutes later. “You lads rest. Ill tend Emilyshes all I have left.”
Jamess heart ached. “Let me sit with her.”
“Ill rest when Im dead,” Agnes said firmly. “We manage on our own.”
That night, James awoke to see Agnes take his coat. Puzzled, he waited till dawn, then inspected ita torn sleeve, neatly mended. He was moved. He could buy a hundred coats; at twenty-seven, he owned a thriving London tavern. Yet Agnes, unaware, had sewn it with care.
At daybreak, he chopped wood, lost in thought. Agnes appeared, beaming. “Bless you, lad. Its been years since a mans hand helped here.”
“Just habit. Did the same for my gran.”
“Stay for Shrovetide,” she urged.
James flushed. “Id like that.”
His friend Henry scoffed. “Youre mad. Im leaving.”
Their argument drew the neighbor, whod heard James was a tavern owner. “A mechanic can fix your motor,” he said, then sneered, “Best steer clear of that madwoman and her pauper girl. My daughters are better suited for you.”
James declined coldly. “Ill return for Shrovetide.”
At breakfast, Emily joined them, her fever gone. James couldnt take his eyes off her. “May I invite Emily to London?” he asked Agnes.
“If she wishesonce shes well.”
Henry left that evening, but James lingered, talking with Emily as if theyd known each other forever. At parting, he whispered, “Ill return for you.”
She dared not hopewhy would a city man want her?
Shrovetide came. Agnes and Emily baked, awaiting James.
On the third day, the neighbor taunted, “Your fine guest isnt coming. Hes a rich manwhat use are you to him?”
Emily fled inside, but Agnes stood firm. “Dont gloat too soon.”
Just then, a carriage appeared. James stepped out with roses and a basket of treats. “Agnes,” he said, “Ive fallen for Emily. May I marry her?”
“If she agrees.”
Emily rushed out, radiant. From that day, they were never parted.
And the village whispered for yearshow the mad old woman had bewitched a wealthy suitor for her granddaughter. The neighbor seethed most of all, for James had spurned his daughters without a glance.
