Fate favours the grateful
By his thirtieth birthday Stanley had logged ten years in the worlds hot spots, twice shot, yet somehow God had kept him whole. The second wound kept him in a military hospital for months, and when he was finally discharged he was sent back to Littleton, the tiny village where he had grown up.
The village had changed, and its people had, too. All his schoolmates were married, yet one afternoon his eyes landed on Eleanorhe could barely remember her face. When he left for the service she had been a shy girl of thirteen. Now, at twentyfive, she was a striking beauty, still single, with no man in sight who could tempt her into marriage.
Stanley was broadshouldered, solid, with an unbending sense of right and a confidence that would not let him walk past Eleanor.
Are you really waiting for me, and still not married? he asked, a grin tugging at his lips as he looked at the radiant girl.
Maybe, she replied, cheeks flushing, her heart suddenly racing.
From that moment they were inseparable. It was late autumn; they walked along a woodland lane, leaves rustling beneath their boots.
Stan, my father will never allow us to marry, Eleanor said sadly. Ive already turned him down twice. You know my father.
What can he do to me? Im not scared of him, Stanley declared, his voice steady. If he tries to hurt me, the law will have him behind bars, and hell be no obstacle.
Stan, you dont understand my father, Eleanor whispered, eyes wide. Hes ruthless, and everything he touches is ironclad.
Harold Whitcombe was the most powerful man in Littleton. Once a thriving businessman, rumors now whispered of his shady dealings. He was stout, with a belly that jutted out, a cold, calculating stare, and a cruelty that chilled the marrow. He had built two farms on the outskirts, raising cattle and pigs, and employed more than half the village. Everyone bowed to him, almost reverently, and he fancied himself a god.
My father wont consent to our wedding, Eleanor said, especially since he wants me to marry the son of his old friend from the district, a rotund drunk named Vince. I cant stand that wretched fellowhe only knows how to guzzle ale. Ive told my dad a hundred times.
Eleanor, we live as if were in the Stone Age. Who in this day and age can force a woman to marry someone she doesnt love? Stanley replied, bewildered.
He loved Eleanor completelyher gentle glance, her fierce temper, every part of her. She, too, could not imagine life without him.
Come on, he said, grabbing her hand and quickening his step.
Where are you taking me? she began to guess, but she could not halt him.
In the courtyard of the grand Whitcombe manor, Harold was deep in conversation with his younger brother Simon, who lived in the adjoining cottage and was always ready to do his brothers bidding.
Mr. Whitcombe, Eleanor and I intend to marry, Stanley announced boldly. I ask for your daughters hand.
Eleanors mother stood on the porch, hand over her mouth, eyes flickering with fear at the sight of her tyrannical husband. She, too, had suffered his blows.
Harolds face darkened at Stanleys audacity. He glared, trying to crush the young mans spirit, but Stanley met his stare headon. The old man could not fathom where such nerve came from.
Get out of here, you daft fool! Harold thundered. Youre nothing but a wounded soldier. My daughter will never marry you. Forget this road. Youre not welcome.
Well marry anyway, Stanley replied, his tone icecold.
The village respected Stanley; Harold, on the other hand, knew nothing of war. Money was his only god. Stanley felt a surge of anger. He clenched his fists, and Simon stepped between them, understanding that neither would give ground.
While Simon ushered Stanley out, Harold forced Eleanor into the house as if she were a child. He never forgave any challenge to his authority.
That very night, a fire roared through Littleton, consuming the garage where Stanley had just opened his own garage.
Scoundrel, he muttered, certain it was the work of Harolds men.
Ten minutes later, they were back on the highway.
The next night Stanley slipped quietly to Eleanors cottage. Earlier that evening he had texted her, urging her to gather what she could and leave with him. She had agreed. From her bedroom window she tossed a bag to him, then slipped out, landing in his waiting arms.
By sunrise well be far from here, he whispered. You have no idea how much I love you. Eleanor pressed against him, trembling.
Im scared, she admitted.
Within ten minutes they were hurtling down the road. Eleanors breath came in short gasps, a shiver of excitement running through her. Behind them, headlights flickered; the sight made her heart pound. Soon a sleek Mercedes, belonging to Harold, surged ahead, cut them off, and slammed the brakes.
Nono, not this, Eleanor cried, her body curling in fear.
Harold and two henchmen stepped out, seized Eleanor. Stanley tried to intervene, but a heavy blow knocked him to the ground. He was beaten fiercely, silent and brutal, then the men climbed into the car and drove off, leaving Stanley sprawled on the roadside.
He staggered home, collapsed into bed, and spent a week convalescing. The garage fire was ruled an electrical fault. Stanley understood everything. But the fate of Eleanor haunted him. She did not answer his messages; her line was dead.
Harold shipped Eleanor to the city, to his sister Vera, leaving a modest sum of £2,000 and a stern warning:
Dont let her leave the house. No phone. If she returns to Littleton, Ill Ill make sure she never sees daylight again. He thrust a finger at Vera, his voice low and threatening.
Harold, Vera sighed, why ruin her life?
She tucked Eleanor into a spare room, knowing she needed a safe place while her brothers anger cooled.
Harold spread the rumor that Eleanor was to marry Vince in the city and would never come back. Vera tried to soothe her niece.
Soon your father will calm down, youll find work, and build a life, Vera said.
Without Stanley? Eleanor asked, eyes wet.
Without him, Vera replied.
Weeks later Eleanor discovered she was pregnant. Vera comforted her, pity filling her voice.
Your father must never know, she whispered.
Eleanor wept, more concerned about telling Stanley than about her cruel father. She could not remember his number; Harold had smashed her phone. Even if Vera offered hers, there was nowhere to call.
I hate my father! Eleanor shrieked. Hes no man. Vera stayed silent, aware of the justified hatred.
Time dragged on. Stanley could not forget Eleanor. He drifted, working without joy, turning to drink and then quitting. Meanwhile Eleanor gave birth to a healthy boy she named Matty. He bore a striking resemblance to Stanley. Occasionally Eleanor would visit, spoiling the child, while Harold remained oblivious, never suspecting the boys true parentage.
Four years passed. Matty grew into a clever, lively lad. One spring, as blossoms scented the air, Eleanors mother arrived at Veras house, slumped into a kitchen chair and burst into tears.
My husband is dying, she sobbed. The doctors say its too late; they found cancer. He never went to a doctor.
She had lived with bruises from Harolds blows, his contempt having eroded her health.
How will I survive alone? she cried.
No one said a word. Nobody mourned Harold; his friends gathered, mocking his fate.
How you treat people, thats how youre judged, they said. He dealt with others like trash, and now the heavens have struck him down.
Harold was buried in June. Eleanor never attended; she could not forgive him, and few mourners came, only his cronies. Some whispered with spiteful glee:
He got what he deserved. God sees all.
While the village mourned Harold, Stanley was away on a guard post, returning only sporadically. He lived with his mother, who, after years of abuse, had finally shed the shadows of her husbands tyranny. She removed his portrait from the wall, refusing to let Eleanor see it.
Two weeks after Eleanors return to Littleton, she learned Stanley was on a shift away from the village. Days later she walked with Matty through a sundappled lane, the boy chasing butterflies while she rested against a fallen branch, the wind brushing her face.
Memories of her own childhood surged, and suddenly she felt a presence nearby.
Eleanor, a voice called softly. She sprang up, and both lunged toward each other.
Stanley had changed; his eyes held a deeper sorrow, but his resolve was steadier. Eleanor remained as beautiful as ever, her femininity softened by years of hardship. They stared, silent, the love between them never truly dimmed, merely dulled by pain.
Stan, forgive mefor my father, for everything, she whispered. I never married Vince; that was a lie Harold spread. I lived with Vera in the city.
Stanleys breath caught. Matty, darting through the grass, ran to them. Without a word, the boy clambered into Stanleys arms. The resemblance was uncanny; Stanley saw himself in the childs eyes, recalling his own boyhood photographs.
My son, he crooned, lifting Matty high. I wont ever let you go.
Dad, Matty giggled, will you buy me a football?
Of course, lad. Well go to the shop right now, Stanley replied, turning his affectionate gaze to Eleanor, who nodded through tears.
Eleanor felt a swell of gratitude toward fate. The man she loved had returned, and destiny, favouring those who give thanks, was about to reward them with a fresh, hopeful happiness.
