Fate favors the grateful
By the time he reached his thirtieth year, Stanley Hartley had already spent a decade in the hot spots of the Empire, twice wounded, yet God had kept him safe. After his second serious injury he spent months convalescing in a military hospital and was eventually sent back to his home village of Littlebrook.
Littlebrook had changed in those years, and its people had changed with it. All of his schoolmates were married, but one autumn afternoon Stanley caught sight of Emma, a girl he could barely remember. When he left for the army she had been a shy thirteenyearold; now she was twentyfive, a striking beauty, still single. No man had yet appeared whom she would marry, and she had no desire to settle for anything less than true love.
Stanley was broadshouldered, solidbuilt, with a keen sense of justice, and confident. He could not walk past Emma without speaking.
Do you still wait for me, and still havent taken a husband? he asked, smiling at the pretty young woman.
Perhaps, she replied, blushing, her heart quickening.
From that moment they began to see each other. It was late autumn, and they walked along a narrow copse, the fallen leaves rustling beneath their feet.
Stan, my father will never let us marry, Emma said sadly, even though Stanley had already proposed twice. You know my father.
What can he do to me? Im not scared of your father, Stanley declared confidently. If he harms me, hell be taken to prison and will never trouble us again.
Stan, you know nothing of my father. He is a cruel man and controls everything.
George Whitmore was the most powerful man in the village. He had begun as a modest farmer, but rumors now linked him to shady dealings. He was stout, with a ruddy belly, a cold, haughty gaze, and a reputation for brutality. He owned the two farms that fed Littlebrook, keeping half the villagers in his employ. Everyone bowed to him, almost to the point of reverence, and he fancied himself a god.
My father will not approve our wedding, Emma whispered, especially since he wants me to marry the son of his old friend from the town that rotund drunk, Billy, who knows nothing but how to down a pint. I have told my father a hundred times.
Emma, we live as if in the Stone Age. Who in our day can force a woman to wed someone she does not love? Stanley mused.
He adored Emma, from her gentle glance to her fiery temper, and she could not imagine life without him.
Come on, he said, taking her hand and quickening his pace.
Where to? she began to guess, but could not stop him.
In the courtyard of the grand Whitmore house, George was speaking with his younger brother Simon, who lived in the adjoining cottage and was ever ready to lend a hand.
Mr. Whitmore, I wish to marry your daughter, Stanley announced boldly. I ask for your blessing.
Emmas mother stood on the porch, hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with fear at the sight of her tyrannical husband, who had long been cruel.
Georges eyes flashed with anger at Stanleys daring. He stared down the young man, who met his glare unflinchingly.
Get out of here, you daft fool, George thundered. You think you can come here and demand my daughters hand? Shell never marry you. Forget this road, youre no soldier of mine.
We will marry regardless, Stanley replied, his voice steady.
The villagers respected Stanley, while Emmas father knew nothing of the sacrifices made in war. To him, money was everything, and he could not understand why Stanleys confidence provoked him. Anger rose in Stanleys chest. He clenched his fists, and Simon stepped between them, sensing that neither would yield.
As Simon ushered Stanley out, George forced his daughter back inside as though she were a child. The old man never forgave any challenge to his authority.
That very night, a fire broke out in Littlebrook, engulfing the small garage that Stanley had just opened.
Bastard, Stanley muttered, certain whose hand had lit the blaze.
Ten minutes later they were on the main road, heading away.
The next night Stanley quietly drove to Emmas cottage. He had sent her a note earlier, asking her to pack a few things and flee with him far away. She agreed. From her bedroom window she handed him a sack, then slipped down the back garden and into his waiting arms.
By morning well be far from here, he whispered. You have no idea how much I love you. Emma pressed close.
I feel both frightened and uneasy, she said.
Within ten minutes they were already on the highway. Emmas breath quickened, a chill of excitement running through her. She sensed a new life ahead. Suddenly the headlights of a sleek Mercedes glared behind them, and she tensed.
Theno, not that, she gasped, curling up.
George Whitmore, with two of his cronies, caught up, grabbed Emma, and dragged her from the car. Stanley tried to intervene but was struck down, knocked to the ground, and beaten mercilessly without a word spoken. The thugs then jumped back into their car and drove off, leaving Stanley bruised on the roadside.
He staggered home, barely surviving, and spent the following week convalescing. The investigation into the garage fire was swiftly closed, blamed on faulty wiring. Stanley understood the truth, but what haunted him most was Emmas fate. Her phone went silent; she no longer answered his messages.
George sent Emma to the town to stay with his sister Vera, giving her a modest sum and ordering:
Dont let her out of the house, and dont give her a phone. Watch her, he warned, pointing a threatening finger, and if she comes back to the village, Ill He let the threat hang, his eyes cold.
Goodness, George, Vera chided, why do you ruin your daughters life?
She took Emma to a spare room, knowing she must wait until her brothers temper cooled.
George spread a rumor that Emma was to marry Billy in the town and would never return to the village.
Soon youll find work and build a life, Emma, Vera said.
Without Stanley?
Without him, Vera replied.
A few weeks later Emma discovered she was pregnant. Vera comforted her, pitying her niece.
Your father must never know, she whispered.
Emma wept, the thought of her father a distant pain; she longed to tell Stanley about the child, but she could not recall his numberGeorge had destroyed her phone. Even if Vera offered to let her call from her own line, it seemed futile.
I hate my father, Emma sobbed, he isnt a man. Vera remained silent, for there was much to hate about him; he broke destinies with ease.
Time passed. Stanley could not forget Emma. He drifted, doing the same work, drinking to dull the ache, then quitting. Meanwhile Emma gave birth to a healthy boy she named Matthew. He was a spitting image of Stanley. Emmas mother would sometimes visit to dote on the grandson. The Whitmores never learned of the child; they never visited, unaware of his existence.
Four years later Matthew grew into a bright, lively boy. One spring, as blossoms perfumed the air, Emmas mother arrived at Veras house, fell heavily onto a kitchen chair, and began to weep.
Oh, dear, she sobbed.
Whats wrong, Mother? Emma asked.
George is dying. They found cancer too late; the doctors said it was hopeless. Hed always been robust, never a patient. Her mothers tears fell, although she had endured many bruises from a husband who had never shown her respect.
How will I manage alone? she whispered.
No one offered sympathy. George received no mourners beyond his cronies. As the funeral approached, Matthew captured everyones attention, his innocent charm softening even the hardest hearts. Georges wife, by his side, wanted to speak of their grandson, but kept silent. All his strength had gone to pursuits that mattered little.
George was buried in June. Emma did not attend, unable to forgive him, and few came besides his loyal friends. Some whispered, He treated people like trash; God sees all. His fate is his own making, a punishment from above.
Meanwhile Stanley was away on guard duty, returning now and then. He lived with his mother, who, after the years of hardship, slowly recovered. She even removed Georges portrait from the wall, not wanting Emma to see the tyrants face.
Two weeks after Emmas return to the village, she learned from her mother that Stanley was on another posting. Days later, she strolled with Matthew along a hedgerow. He chased butterflies, rolled in the long grass, while she rested against a fallen oak, a gentle breeze brushing her cheeks.
Emma recalled her childhood, her lost love, and suddenly felt his presence nearby.
Emma, a soft voice called. She sprang up, and the two rushed toward each other.
Stanley had changed, his eyes now carrying a melancholy that spoke of endured suffering. Emma remained as beautiful as ever, a touch more graceful. They stared, wordless. He had never forgotten her; love had not faded, only the sharp sting had dulled.
Stan, forgive me for everythingmy father, for not telling you about our son. Everything could have been different. I never married Billy; that was my fathers fabrication. I lived with Vera in the town, she pleaded.
Stanleys breath caught. Matthew, darting through the grass, ran to them. Without needing explanation, Stanley recognized his son, the boy who mirrored his own boyhood face.
My son, he lifted him high, laughing. My own child! I will never let you go.
Father, Matthew asked, will you buy me a football?
Of course, lad. Well go to the shop right now and get you a ball and anything you want, Stanley replied, turning his affectionate gaze to Emma, who nodded through tears.
Emma thanked fate for the second chance, for its said that destiny smiles upon the grateful, rewarding them with a happiness that finally feels earned.
