Fate favours those who give thanks
By the time I reached my thirtieth year, Stephen had already logged a decade of service in faroff trouble spots. Hed been wounded twice, yet God had kept him safe. The second, serious injury kept him in a military hospital for many months, after which he was sent back to his hometown village in the English countryside.
The village had changed in those years, and its folk had changed with it. All his schoolmates were married, but one autumn Stephen caught sight of Emma, a girl he could barely recall. When he left for the army she had been a shy lass of about thirteen; now she was twentyfive, a striking beauty, still single. No suitor had yet seemed worthy of her hand, and she had no desire to settle without love.
Stephen was broadshouldered, sturdy, with a keen sense of right and a confidence that would not let him ignore Emma.
Are you waiting for me, still unmarried? he asked, smiling at the pretty girl.
Perhaps, Emma replied, a flush colouring her cheeks, her heart quickening.
From then on they met in secret. It was late autumn; they walked along a narrow lane, leaves rustling beneath their boots.
Stephen, my father will never allow us to marry, Emma said sadly, though Stephen had already asked her twice. You know my father.
What can he do to me? Im not afraid of your father, Stephen declared boldly. If he harms me, the law will deal with him, and he wont trouble us any longer.
Stephen, you know nothing of my father, Emma whispered. He is a hard man, and everything he touches is clenched in his fist.
Edward March was the most influential man in the village. He had begun as a modest entrepreneur, but rumours now linked him to shady dealings. He was stout, with a cold, calculating gaze and a reputation for cruelty. Edward had built two farms on the outskirts, raising cattle and pigs, and employed more than half the village. Folks bowed to him, almost as if to his feet, and he fancied himself a god.
My father will not consent to our wedding, Emma said, and he wants me to wed the son of his old friend from the district, a rotund drunk called Victor. I cant stand that man, he only knows how to drink ale. I have already told my father a hundred times.
Emma, we live as if in the Dark Ages. Who in our day could force a girl to marry someone she does not love? Stephen mused.
His love for Emma was absolute; he adored everything about her, from her gentle glance to her fiery temper. She could not picture life without him either.
Come, lets go, Stephen said, taking her hand and quickening his step.
Where to? Emma began to guess, but could not stop him.
In the courtyard of the large March manor, Edward was speaking with his younger brother Simon, who lived in the adjoining cottage and was always ready to act.
Edward, I wish to marry Emma, Stephen announced. I ask for your daughters hand.
Emmas mother stood on the porch, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with fear at the sight of her tyrannical husband, who had long been a source of her own misery.
Edwards eyes hardened at Stephens audacity, but Stephen met them squarely. The old man could not fathom where such boldness had come from.
Get out of here, Edward thundered. Youre a wounded fool. What were you thinking? My daughter will never be yours. Forget this road, you soldier.
We shall marry nonetheless, Stephen replied, his tone steady.
The village held Stephen in high regard, while Emmas father never understood the hardships of a soldiers life. To him, money was everything. Stephen felt a sting of insult. He clenched his fists, but his brother Simon stepped between them, sensing that neither would yield.
While Simon ushered Stephen out, Edward forced his daughter back into the house as if she were a child. He never forgave any challenge to his authority.
That same night, a fire roared through the village, lapping at the workshop Stephen had only recently opened.
Wretch, Stephen muttered, certain who had set the blaze.
Ten minutes later they were on the road, heading away.
The following night Stephen slipped quietly to Emmas cottage. He had sent her a note earlier, asking her to pack a few belongings so they could leave together. She agreed. From her bedroom window she handed him a bag, then slipped out, landing gently in Stephens arms.
By dawn well be far from here, he said. You have no idea how much I love you, Emma murmured, pressing close.
I feel uneasy and frightened, she admitted.
Within ten minutes they were already driving down the main road. Emmas breath caught, a chill running through her at the thought of the future. The headlights of a car behind them flashed, startling her, but soon the black Mercedes belonging to her father appeared, pulled up, and blocked their way.
No, not this, Emma whispered, her body trembling.
Her father stepped out, flanked by two burly men. He seized his daughter by the arm. Stephen tried to intervene, but was struck hard, knocked to the ground and beaten in silence, his mouth forced shut. The men then climbed into Edwards car and drove off, leaving Stephen sprawled on the roadside.
He barely managed to crawl home and spent the next week nursing his wounds. The investigation into the workshop fire was closed, blamed on faulty wiring. Stephen understood the truth, but what haunted him most was Emmas fate. She stopped answering his messages; her line was dead.
Edward sent Emma to his sister Violets house in the city, leaving her a modest sum of £5,000 and a stern warning:
Do not let Emma leave this house, and give her no phone. Keep her under my watch. If she returns to the village, Ill see to it that she never sees the light of day again.
Good heavens, Edward, Violet scolded, why are you ruining your daughters life?
She took Emma to a spare bedroom, knowing she must bide her time until her brothers temper cooled.
Edward spread the rumor that Emma was to wed Victor in the city, that a wedding was imminent, and that she would never come back to the village.
Time will heal, Emma, Violet said. Youll find work and build a life.
Without Stephen?
Without him, she replied.
A few weeks later Emma discovered she was with child. Violet comforted her, her heart aching for her niece.
Your father must never know, Violet whispered.
Emma wept; the thought of her father no longer mattered. She yearned to tell Stephen about the baby, but she could not remember his numberEdward had destroyed her phone. Even if Violet offered hers, there was nowhere to call.
I hate my father! Emma shrieked in a fit of hysteria. He is no man. Violet stayed silent; there was indeed much to despise about him, for he broke destinies with ease.
Time passed. Stephen could not forget Emma. He went through his days listlessly, shunning other women, working hard, even turning to drink, which he soon abandoned. Meanwhile Emma gave birth to a healthy boy, whom she named Mason. He was the spitting image of his father, Stephen. Emmas mother visited sometimes to dote on the grandchild. Edward never learned of the child; he never visited, unaware of his grandsons existence.
Four years slipped by, and Mason grew into a bright, lively lad. One spring, when the countryside was in full bloom, Emmas mother arrived at Violets, weary but determined, and sank into a kitchen chair.
Oh, woe, she sobbed.
Mother, whats wrong? Emma asked.
Edward is dying. The doctors say he has cancer, discovered too late. He was always robust, never a sick man.
Her mother wept, remembering the bruises and abuse she endured at his hands, which had taken her health.
How will I survive alone? she asked.
No one offered sympathy; Edwards fate drew no pity. Soon the attention turned to Mason, who captivated everyone with his charm. Edward passed away in June, his wife at his side, wanting to say many thingsincluding that she had a grandsonbut she kept them shut. He had spent his strength on the wrong things.
He was buried that summer. Emma did not attend the funeral; she could not forgive him and did not wish to see his corpse. Few came, mostly his cronies, whispering merrily:
The way he treated people was his punishment. God sees all. He treated folk like rubbish; now heavens justice has caught up with him.
Emmas mother gradually recovered from her sorrows. Stephen, meanwhile, was away on guard duty, returning now and then, living with his own mother. When Emma returned to the village after five long years, her mothers health had improved, the scars of the tyrants rule finally fading. The portrait of Edward was taken down; his memory was banished from the walls.
Two weeks after Emmas arrival, she learned Stephen was on another posting, her mother telling her so. A few days later she walked with Mason along a hedgerow. The boy romped through the tall grass, chasing butterflies, while Emma rested against a fallen oak, a light breeze brushing her face.
She thought back to her childhood, to her love for Stephen. Suddenly she felt his presence nearby.
Emma, a voice whispered. She leapt, and they both ran toward each other.
Stephen had changed; the hardships had made him more solemn, a touch of sorrow lingering in his eyes. Emma remained as beautiful as ever, her femininity softened by time. They stared, silent, each remembering the love that had never truly faded, only dulled by pain.
Stephen, Emma said, forgive me for everythingmy father, the lies, the child I never told you about. I never married Victor; that was a story you made up. I lived with Aunt Violet in the city.
Stephen was stunned, his heart pounding as Mason, now tumbled into the grass, ran to them. Without explanation, Stephen recognised his son instantlyso much like his own younger self that the resemblance was uncanny.
Boy, he lifted Mason high, laughter spilling from the child. My own son! I will never let you go.
Father, Mason asked, will you buy me a football?
Of course, lad. Well go to the shop straight away, get you a ball and whatever else you need. He looked tenderly at Emma, who nodded through tears.
Emma felt gratitude surge for the fate that had brought Stephen back into her life, for destiny indeed favours the thankful, and now blessed them with a renewed family happiness.
