Love is sweetest and fairer still

When 'tis budding fresh and new.

Unexpectedly it fills our hearts

Like the arrival of morning's dew.

With wonder anew and intoxication

Within the rapture of its allure

We are wrapped in love's fulfillment

Sure forevermore our joy will endure.

Thus, each step we make is light-hearted,

Each thought filled with the utmost delight,

As with anticipation we rise and tread

Fully eager, our love to requite.

My heart sings a tune of happiness amidst all things great

As it heralds the dawn of a new day that draws nigh

The roses of summer grown on the fence’s main gate

Whilst the birds sing their lovely tunes with a sweet cry.

I love the breath of the flower’s fragrance so strong,

The smell of freshly mowed grass lingering in the air,

As in green pastures I roam and lie therein ever long

Within the flowering bushes and animals so fair.

I will whistle a song of love and purest delight

As I weave along my merry way and explore

With no one and nothing barring my sight

Until my eyes feast on my dear Geordie, whom I adore.

’Tis no wonder the delight of summer days well spent

Are the dearest of times filled with joy, knowing no discontent.

Lovely heather on the moors

Sight of you so dear and sweet

You beckon my heart and soul

Fill my senses when we meet.

Oh, heather divine scattered

Across the vast hillside moors

You haunt my days and long nights

With growing mist at my door.

Our hearts, they beat together

’Spite the distance betwixt us

Like a union of true love

Steadfast and true, always thus.

When my life leaves, stay with me

Take my body, heart, and soul

To your flower strewn gardens,

Keep me there and make me whole.

Distract me with words

Idioms of art

Silencing all but the beauty of prose,

Tailoring the library of my soul,

Reaching its dusty corners

And abridging the story therein.

Catalyst of imagination,

Tantalizing the real and unreal with

Idealistic words of conveyance and

Opulent recitations,

Never, please, cease to amaze.

Dancing across the parallel universes

Intuition tells me you are out there

Skirting the edges of my mind

Timing your arrival in microcosms

Racing through the galaxies

And stealing into my heart,

Carousing through my dreams

To serendipitously fill the void

In my soul.

Opulent, star-studded one,

Numbingly distract me into oblivion.

He opened the small book in his hands and moments later, the smoothness of his velvet-lined voice soon drifted across the expanse of the small room:

“The rose is fairest when ’t is budding new,

And hope is brightest when it downs from fears"

Entranced, Zelda listened to the words wrap fluidly around his eloquent tongue and spill forth into the stillness of the dimly lit room. Despite the silliness of it, all her mind could seem to think upon was the ‘swooning’ that was often detailed in Romance novels she had read in younger years. She was certain at this moment in time, she might swoon and faint fast away upon the floor of The Prose & Wine, so overcome was she by his lovely recitation of Sir Walter Scott’s prose. Fleeting thoughts of him bent over her lifeless body, attempting to resuscitate her lingered pleasantly in her mind until she forced herself to focus again on the beautiful words and timbre of his voice as he continued to read. Ah, but she could live life in such a way, listening to such beautiful recitations by such a one as he.

Thus, the night ensued with readings from various excerpts of the famous poem. Once they had ended, the waiter made his rounds, replenishing drinks. As he poured a new glass of Merlot for Zelda and stepped away, she gasped for he was standing there, behind the waiter and directly in front of her small table.

“Good evening,” he said with a brilliant smile and voice of velvet that made Zelda’s heart skip a beat. “I hope you enjoyed the reading this evening.”

Zelda found her voice, returned his smile, and managed to answer him without stammering like a timid schoolgirl. “I thoroughly enjoyed it. Sir Walter Scott’s writings are so beautiful.” As are you, she thought.

“Excellent. I am so pleased.” He looked about the room for a minute before his gaze found hers again. As if unsure what to say, he cleared his throat before he continued, “I’ve noticed that you’ve managed to attend all of my readings.”

Zelda felt a blush creep across her cheeks. He had noticed her repeated attendance at his recitations after all. Well, she could only hope that was a good thing. “Yes,” she nodded. “I have enjoyed each one of them very much, too although I think tonight was my favorite.”

For mere moments, the two stared at one another, seemingly frozen in time. Blue eyes met green ones, and in a microcosm of time, connected. Zelda felt a small shiver run through her that had nothing to do with the cold weather outside.

“May I join you?” he gestured to the empty chair at her table.

“Yes, of course. Please forgive my manners,” she said as she quickly moved her wine glass and copy of Lady of the Lake. He motioned to the waiter for a drink, and Zelda watched him from beneath her lashes, wondering if she was dreaming. If so, it was a beautiful dream, and she hoped never to awaken.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he told the waiter.

Zelda was suddenly self-conscious as the waiter brought her companion’s wine. Her slim, woolen skirt seemed shorter and tighter by the minute, and the burgundy turtleneck she wore seemed to bind her chest tightly, preventing an adequate flow of air. Nervously, she tugged at the hem of her skirt and then fidgeted with the stem of the wine glass, glancing up at him to ensure he was, in fact, still there. She refrained from the temptation to pinch herself just to be sure she was awake.

“You like Merlot then?” she asked, and then mentally kicked herself. Why of course he liked Merlot. He had ordered it, hadn't he? Stupid, silly question!

“Yes, I do,” he smiled, and a big dimple grew in his left cheek. “It’s a favorite. I find it to be such an approachable wine. It is full-bodied and elegant while it pairs with nearly every kind of food but also manages to stand alone quite well. I enjoy the sleek softness of it: fruity, velvety, and so rich,” he added, taking a deep sip from the glass the waiter had placed before him.

And softly sensual, much like the way in which you partake of its sweet richness, Zelda could not help but think to herself, watching his throat as he swallowed. My God, but had anyone ever been able to describe the deliciousness of a glass of Merlot in such a way? Zelda was sure not. Indeed, the enunciation and the beauty in his description, rhythm, and flow of words were like the velvety, rich smooth sensuality and taste of the wine personified.

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. With their arrival, came a knowledge of things well beyond the average person’s ken. Such was not the case with Aoife. Even though she had turned sixty-four last October, Aoife still searched the purple clouds each night for she knew they held a mysterious power and could change the pattern of her life. It was only a question of when they would choose to point in her direction and say, “It’s your turn.”

From the bedroom window, Aoife could hear the chirping of crickets and the soft coos of owls floating across the dew-filled air, both heralding the midnight hour. In anticipation, she stood completely still. The flimsy curtain billowed in the breeze, floating about her to mimic the advancing clouds.

Bong….Bong…..Bong. From below, Aoife heard the triumphant chime of the grandfather clock. Two more strokes, and it was midnight....again. Aoife held her breath as she peered at the rose-hued sky, a fervent prayer from her lips. Despite the plea, however, only the crickets and owls responded, seeming to mock her long-awaited desire for something more.

Disappointed, Aoife sighed deeply. She was about to seek the solace of her bed when from below, the slightest movement caught her eye in the deepening darkness as the clouds receded. She squinted, attempting to identify who or what had created the movement, but any further sight of it eluded her. She closed the window, sure it had been only an animal.

From below, the distinctive sound of a knock broke the silence. Startled, Aoife quickly pulled the shawl from her rocking chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. Who in the world was here to see her at such a late hour? Carefully, she made her way down the old staircase. A light rap on the heavy paneled doors sounded again, assuring her that she had not imagined the first.

Pausing in front of the door and attempting to sound unafraid, she asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s Seamus. I’ve come a long way to see you.” A man’s voice, thick with a Celtic brogue, responded.

Aoife took three steps backward as if to escape. Who the devil was Seamus and what could he want with her? Surely he did not expect a woman all alone, such as herself, to answer the door for an absolute stranger.

In a sudden attempt at bravado, she barked, “I don’t care who you are – be on your way, I’ve no need of you this night.”

Nothing but quiet ensued for long minutes before the man spoke again, his voice oddly laced with humor. “Are you quite certain, Aoife? I’ve heard that you’ve been desiring something new. I am prepared this eventide to help you with just such an endeavor.” When the silence continued, he added, “I assure you, another opportunity will not present itself beyond the dawn’s light.”

Surprise flickered across Aoife’s face and a million questions surfaced in her mind. How did this stranger know her name? And how did he know anything about her innermost desires?

Suddenly, enlightenment struck. The clouds, the wondrous purple clouds, had surely sent this man named Seamus to her, whomever he might be. She was sure of it. Without further contemplation, she swung the door open wide.

Aoife studied the man who stood before her in the moonlight. He was unlike any other she’d seen. His hair was thick, a vibrant red, and his emerald eyes overflowed with glee as he returned the look she gave him. He was tall, lean, and dressed immaculately in dark clothing with knee-high boots. He held a riding crop at his side though there was no horse in sight. Her mind raced with doubts. Was he here to harm her or to help her? There was only one way to know.

“Well, come inside if you must,” she said, moving aside so the man could enter. “I’ll put the kettle on for some tea.”

“Oh, sweet Aoife, do you not have something a wee bit stronger than tea? It’s been a tumultuous journey this night,” the stranger said, doffing the hat he wore and laying it upon the table.

Aoife eyed the man with skepticism, but then nodded as she pointed for him to take a seat at the table. If indeed the purple clouds had sent this man her way, she had no time to waste and would gift him with nearly anything his heart desired. From the cupboard, she pulled a bottle of amber-colored liquid and two glasses, which she proceeded to fill. She’d likely need a strong drink of whiskey herself, she surmised.

As she placed the drink before him, she noticed that despite removing his hat, the man still held the riding crop across his lap. Why was he holding it as though his life depended on it? Keeping her thoughts to herself, she took a seat across from him and drank from her glass of whiskey. It would help to steady her nerves and allay her fears.

“Oh, but you’re a good woman, Aoife,” Seamus said with delight, following suit and drinking deeply of the whiskey.

Aoife studied him. While somewhat odd in appearance, he was still attractive, and certainly charming to say the least. She cleared her throat. “About the purple clouds, Mister…ah, Mister Seamus….”

“I insist you call me Seamus." He smiled, an engaging one full of mirth. "Indeed, Aoife. Your time has come. The purple clouds have at long last favored you, and I, Seamus, am at your service.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Whatever could you possibly do?” Aoife asked, perplexed as to how Seamus could help fulfill the long-held desires of her heart.

“Do you not know, Aoife?” Seamus gave her a playful wink before continuing, “I am a goblin and ready to make your desire a reality.” He suddenly grew serious. “Ah, but I’m guessing you’ve not met a goblin before, have you, dearie?”

Aoife slowly shook her head. She had, of course, heard many a story about goblins, but nary one goblin had ever made an appearance at her door before this night. Ah, well, it was about damn time.

Aoife picked up her glass of whiskey and drained it. “Well, I am ready, Mister Seamus. I have been ready for a very long time,” she said emphatically.

“I like your spirit, Aoife,” Seamus said and with one final swallow, he drained the last of the whiskey from his glass as well. He held it out for a refill. Aoife generously served him ample more.

Aoife’s heart soared. Here, at last, was her chance. In sixty-four years, she’d lived mostly alone, fending for herself despite the fact she’d married at sixteen but had to bury her husband ten years later. Despite ten years together, he had never proved to be more than a friend. She’d given birth to and raised three sons, but now they seldom spared a moment for a visit. Her life had mostly been lived alone, holding dear to her heart the memory of a long lost love named Paddy. How different things would have been had she married Paddy instead of her husband! Foolishly, she’d thought her husband could offer her so much more. But now, she had been gifted the opportunity to recapture what had been lost to her – the truest of love. Aoife’s heart swelled with joy. She could be young again and life offer so much more. In anticipation, she stood and smiled at Seamus.

“Let’s hurry and get this thing done. I told you I’m ready,” she urged the goblin.

“Are you sure you want to go back, Aoife?” he questioned. “You will not be able to travel back and forth between the two lives. Your children won’t be around for you to see again. Your life will be completely changed,” he cautioned.

Aoife’s smile turned to a scowl. “My sons aren’t around now! I’ve got my own life to live, and I told you, I’m ready.” Her heartbeat soared with excitement; she could scarcely wait to be young and with Paddy again.

Seamus stood and carefully lifted the riding crop. “All right, my dear Aoife. If you’re absolutely, positively sure, I’ll give you your heart’s desire and make you young again, and you'll be wife to Paddy, your true love.” His eyes grew steadily more serious with the words he spoke. “May you be happy, Aoife.”

With a wave of the riding crop, time changed in a purple-tinted flash.

****

Aoife awoke to the sound of roosters. The sun was breaking through the dingy window curtains as she opened her eyes. Confused for only a moment, Aoife bolted upright in the bed. She remembered full and well where she was supposed to be. Long, brown hair in lieu of gray strands fell about her shoulders. Joy encompassed her; she was young again. Still, this was not what she had expected; she was all alone in the bed.

Suddenly, Paddy burst through the door, his hair disheveled, his clothes rumpled and dirty. He was unshaven even though it was well past dawn.

“Aoife, the kids are hungry,” he barked, seemingly irritated by the fact she was still abed. “Why have you slept so late?”

“Pad...dy,” she stuttered. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Paddy spun about and glared at her in disbelief. “Happy to see me, are you? Well, how about being happy to see your six youngins in the next room! We have been ready for breakfast since sunup!” His irritation with unmistakable.

“Of course, Paddy. I’ll see to it right away.” Aoife smoothed her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck and threw the covers wide, suddenly self-conscious as she emerged from the bedsheets. Six children? How in the world had that happened? She blushed a bright red. Well, she knew precisely how it had happened, but still, six children?! She and Paddy were evidently very much in love. He had obviously just forgotten how much in light of the lack of breakfast.

Aoife was greeted by six bright-eyed, red-faced children between the ages of one and twelve when she entered the adjoining room. Small fingers tugged at the apron she hurriedly tied around her waist while tears streaked the faces of at least two children who begged to be held. Not taking the time to address their individual needs, Aoife quickly started breakfast. It wouldn’t do to upset Paddy any further. She smiled amidst the chaos. After all, they would have this evening to reacquaint themselves.

Aoife spent the day performing a variety of chores: cleaning, cooking, gardening, tending the kids, washing and mending clothes. In addition, Paddy expected her to help him in the fields where he grew potatoes and barley. Aoife assumed he had decided to farm instead of helping with his father’s mercantile business. While it didn’t make much sense as the mercantile business had been lucrative, Aoife told herself that money wasn’t everything. The love she remembered sharing with Paddy had been something spectacular that would surely carry them through thick and thin. Still, she couldn’t wait to sit down after supper and find out a bit more about what had transpired, leading them to this place and time. It was all very unexpected.

It was late in the evening before Aoife felt as though she had a moment to breathe. The children had all been fed, washed, and were now abed following dinner. She glanced at Paddy, who sat slowly rocking before the hearth, smoking his pipe, and reading a book. He seemed completely oblivious to her presence.

Aoife pushed stray strands of hair back from her face. She was sure she must look a fright for she was hot and tired after the stressful, busy day. She hurried outside where the air was cooler and gathered her thoughts. Pulling the kerchief from her head, she dipped it in the water pail and used it in an attempt to clean up a bit. She’d change for bed and then sit down for a very long, much anticipated conversation with Paddy. She could hardly wait. Butterflies of anticipation filled her stomach.

Quietly, so as not to interrupt Paddy in his reading, Aoife reentered the house and moved to the bedroom. She quickly changed into her bed clothes. Combing her hair, she decided to leave it down. Paddy had always loved her long hair, stroking it affectionately in their early years together. She couldn’t wait for him to stroke her hair again.

Upon entering the room, she thought Paddy still read from the book in his lap, but on closer inspection, Aoife learned that his head hung down upon his chest. Paddy had fallen asleep. Aoife's heart warmed at the sight. It had been a very long day. He must have been so exhausted after the long day - she knew she was. Still, there was so much she needed to say to this man. She must awaken him.

Aoife knelt down before the rocking chair. “Paddy. Wake up. Please wake up, dear Paddy,” she said, lightly laying her hand atop and stroking his knee.

Startled, Paddy jumped, opened his eyes, and sputtered. “What’s wrong? Why’d you wake me?” He stood upright, dislodging Aoife’s hand from his knee in the process. “How many times do I have to tell you not to wake me, woman?” he asked loudly, clearly exasperated by her actions.

Surprised by his anger, Aoife stood and studied the man in front of her. This was not someone she remembered so fondly from her youth. This was not the Paddy who had lingered in her memories for so many years. Who had he become?

“Paddy, dear, I just want to talk for a bit,” Aoife said, lightly touching her arm in an effort to reassure him.

“Talk? You want to talk when you know how tired I am, Aoife?” He pried her fingers from his arm before he continued. “What is it now? What could you possibly want to talk about? This better be good, Aoife, because I’m growing tired of your nonsense.”

Aoife stepped back and stared at Paddy in disbelief. She knew that despite giving birth to six children, she still made a pretty picture. She had believed that their reunion would be much more pleasant than it currently was, especially in view of the six sleeping children in the room next to them. But it seemed that time had not been a friend in other ways. Never had she been spoken to in such a disrespectful way.

Aoife squinted an eye at Paddy and poked his chest with a hard finger. “Just who the devil do you think you’re talking to, Paddy McLeod? How dare you speak to me like that! I’m your wife and the mother of your children - six children, that is! And while we’re at it, please tell me just why we’re working so hard on this farm to make ends meet instead of you helping with your father’s store?”

Paddy was clearly confused. “Are you daft, woman? You know we lost the store after my Pa died five years ago. This farm is our only means of putting food on the table and a roof over our heads. Why are you talking nonsense?” Still shaking his head, he headed toward the bedroom. “I’m tired and I’m going to bed. I’ll hear no more questions from you tonight, Aoife McLeod.”

Shaken, Aoife sat down in the rocking chair and stared into the fire. It blazed in a purple hue, taunting and reminding her of the purple clouds. She had truly believed they would bring a new destiny to her life. She had been so hopeful, but now that hope was gone.

She didn’t know how long she sat there after Paddy left the room. A dawning awareness filled her that love was so much more than butterflies in the stomach, affectionate strokes of the hair, and daily visits. She remembered the serious gravity she’d seen at the last moment in Seamus’ eyes as he’d lifted the riding crop. He’d known full well that she would learn her lesson far too late.

Deciding she needed something to give her courage to face each day forward, Aoife went in search of whiskey. She found it hidden high in a cabinet and poured herself a generous measure, wondering all the while if one bottle would do the job. Sitting at the table, she downed the glass and poured another. The amber liquid burnt as it traveled through her body, but hopefully, it would serve to warm the chill that had invaded her body and had nothing to do with the weather. Curse the bloody purple clouds. Never had she been in need of such drink so badly before.

****

Dawn was breaking, light streaming in through the long draperies that filled the window when Aoife stirred the next morning. She lifted her head from the table, still groggy from the amount of alcohol she had imbibed the previous night. The table was hard beneath her arms and head. She must have fallen asleep there instead of the bedroom. Well, that was all well and good. She had no desire to lay next to Paddy in the same bed anyway after the brief conversation - if one could call it that - they’d shared the night before.

Rubbing her eyes, Aoife wondered why the sound of roosters and hungry children was not yet filling her ears. Looking around, she stared wide-eyed at her surroundings. Loosening the bun at the nape of her neck, she found gray-streaked strands of hair. Relief encompassed her. She was no longer at the farmhouse, no longer Paddy’s wife, and no longer a young woman and mother of six. Instead, she was back at her home, back where she belonged. It must have all been a dream!

Utterly exhausted and relived at the same time, Aoife sank down into her seat again. Oh, but she could not wait to see her sons! Never would she have thought she would be so happy to be sixty-four years old again, living her mundane life in her all-too familiar home, and looking forward to seeing her children, but she was. Thank the heavens above that it had been nothing more than a dream, - albeit a horrible dream, but still only a dream.

Tears filled Aoife’s eyes. She knew she had been so foolish. She would never wish for anything more again, and she would never give Paddy McLeod another thought as long as she lived. Her husband, God rest his soul, had always treated her with the utmost care and affection, his respect for her all too obvious in everything he said or did. She wanted to weep, so intense was the breath and scope of her regret. Her husband had assuredly loved her even though he didn’t stroke her hair or whisper sweet nothings in her ear every day, and more to the point, she had loved him, too, more than she’d ever dreamt possible. The irony of it all did not escape Aoife. She would never forget the lesson she’d just learned. Life and love were so much more than the trivial, small things; they were the depth and dimension of a years well-lived and shared with someone else. They were respect and devotion, loyalty and friendship.

Aoife sat at the table for a long while. Perhaps she ought never to drink again, she thought, stifling a small laugh. She stood, and as she reached to put away the bottle of whiskey that had been left on the table, she stopped, her hand in mid-air. Before her on the table was not only her own glass, but another empty one, and along beside it lay a black hat.

Carefully, Aoife reached to lift the hat from the table. As she held it closer, she could see bright red strands of hair stuck to the dark material. Seamus. Seamus, the goblin, had been real. Did that mean what she had experienced had also been real? Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to damn the purple clouds. If they had truly brought Seamus to her world, giving her the opportunity to revisit a lost youth, at least they’d seen fit to restore her life when she’d realized her mistake. Yes, she’d never look at those purple clouds in the same wistful way again. They were far stronger and wiser than she'd ever recognized.

A loud knock sounded, and Aoife could hear laughter coming from the other side of the heavy doors. Perplexed, she quickly opened them. As she watched, six men and women entered, each hugging or kissing her in greeting.

“Morning, Mum. What’s for breakfast?” they all shouted in unison. “We’re starving.”

Poppy stood in the moonlight, her slender frame shivering at the unexpected cold of the late summer weather. Pulling her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, she stared at the stone cottage before her from where she stood behind the massive oak tree, its heavy branches masking her image. Her eyes filled with tears. How she longed to enter the cottage and see the people who resided therein. How much she missed them. It had been two years since she'd last seen her family. Still, she knew she could not go inside the cottage. Despite the fact that things were different for her now, and she had a home and a family who loved her, she could never return to her homestead. If her mum and siblings knew the truth, for the rest of her life she would wear the shame of what she had done, and the shame would carry over to her family. Poppy had done the forbidden: she had had a baby out of wedlock. It was best to keep her distance and that her family was none the wiser.

********

Poppy left home once her stomach had begun to swell. She did not want to bring shame and embarrassment to her widowed mum, who was struggling, working hard as a laundry woman to secure a roof over the heads of her children. No, it would not do to have stayed and broken her dear mum’s heart. Therefore, she'd left, even though at the time, she did not know where she would go or to whom she would turn for help.

The year was 1884, and Poppy was sixteen years old when she'd first learned she was with babe. While she knew she was not ready to be a mother, she also knew that was not going to stop her from becoming one. She had loved a local farmer’s boy by the name of Jamie and foolishly believed all of his lies. In her naiveté, she had assumed Jamie would be eager to marry her and excited about the wee one, but foolishness had been hers to claim. Jamie had scoffed, refusing to even acknowledge the babe was his. Instead, he had accused her of sleeping with other men and called her names that to this day, she would not repeat even to herself. She had wept for days before she had packed her meager belongings and left home. The only note that she had left her sweet mum had been, “Please don’t worry. I have a housemaid’s job in Cornwall. I love you.” Of course, none of it was true beyond the fact that she did love her mum. She had no job and no place to go. The only money she had to her name were the few coins she had earned during the last two years from sewing handkerchiefs for young girls who were to be married. If she were frugal, the coins would cover at least a month's worth of lodging and food.

It was when she’d run out of money that she’d sat in the streets with her hand out, begging for help. It was the fourth day that she had not eaten, and she had become quite weak. Most ignored her unless they chose to stare, whispering about her to their companions. Weary and hungry, as she leaned against a building, an older woman had stopped to inquire as to her well-being. The woman had just exited the butcher’s shop and carried a small basket on her arm.

“Are you unwell? Do you need help, my child?” she had asked Poppy, her voice laced with concern.

Knowing it was all too obvious she was with child despite her thinness, Poppy had looked at the older woman, thinking of her own mum, and tears had sprung unbidden, falling from her blue eyes. She had been so strong for so long, but all she could think of was her unborn child. She knew the lack of food was harming the babe she carried.

“Ah, sweet child, please don’t cry,” the woman had implored, concern clearly etched across her wrinkled face and deep within warm, green orbs. “Can you stand, dear? Here, allow me to help you.” The old woman reached out an arm in hopes of helping Poppy rise to her feet.

Slowly and painstakingly, Poppy was able to stand, cradling her small baby as she did so, clutching the woman’s arm for support. The tears came full force as she did so, rolling down reddened, dirty cheeks.

“Sweet child, you mustn’t cry or you will be sick,” the old woman said. “Come along, and we will get some hot food inside you. Can you walk for a bit?”

Poppy had nodded. She still remembered that there was no judgement in the old woman’s eyes, only concern and something more that she had not been able to lay a name to at that moment. Slowly, the two had made their way on a path that led out of town and to a small cottage situated on the outskirts of the village. Poppy remembered thinking it was the most beautiful home she had ever seen, with the exception of her own, which seemed a lifetime away.

Once inside, the woman had Poppy sit down while she pulled together a plate of cheese, bread, and fruit from the cupboard and then poured a very large glass of milk from a pewter pitcher.

“Daisy, my cow, gave me this fresh milk just this morning. It will be good for both you and the wee one. Eat this, child, and in just a little while, I’ll have something much better and warmer to fill your stomach.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, missus,” Poppy had murmured, shame flaming her cheeks a bright red at the realization that the woman knew she was with child as well as also hungry and homeless.

The older woman had patted Poppy’s hand. “Hush now. There is no thanks needed. The good Lord says we are here to help one another, and that is exactly what I am doing, because my dear, sweet child, you look as though you are in much need of it.”

She smiled at Poppy as she spoke, and Poppy remembered thinking that it was the most beautiful smile she had ever seen despite the fact it was old and crooked. The woman’s green eyes were aglow with a light that Poppy had seen in very few people’s eyes in her short lifetime, but most especially, not very recently.

“I am simply Abigail, my dear,” the woman said. “What do they call you?”

“I am Poppy. Thank you, Abigail.”

Poppy had been six months along at the time, and Abigail was insistent that she remain with her, residing at the cozy cottage where shelter and food would not be a problem. Poppy thought there was little doubt Abigail was an angel. She was one of the kindest, sweetest souls Poppy had ever encountered.

Abigail did not talk much or ask many questions of Poppy, but while staying with her, Poppy had learned that Abigail had lost a nine-year old daughter, Lucy, many years ago. She also knew Abigail had a son, Angus, but he was out to sea and not expected to return home for a long while. Poppy had visions of Angus as a weathered, older gentleman since she was sure Abigail was in her late sixties at the very least.

Three months later, a sweet little squalling girl was born, and with Abigail’s permission, Poppy had named the child Lucy or Lucille Abigail. Abigail had cried as she held the precious baby for the first time, remembering her own sweet child that had long since departed the earth. It had filled Poppy with so much happiness to give something back to the woman who had saved her and her child's lives.

Once delivered of the baby, Poppy was able to help Abigail with much more, including chores and gardening. The two women lived isolated lives since Poppy was afraid to go into the village for fear she would be ostracized or that her condition would affect the way the villagers treated Abigail. Abigail had made a point of telling everyone in the village that her widowed and expectant niece had come to live with her all the way from Ireland, but Poppy still worried.

Abigail had a fabulous garden that would soon need tending since spring was just around the corner, and Poppy could not wait to stick her hands in the warmth of the earth's soil. She loved gardening and had often helped her mum. She was anxious to help Abigail in more ways than she had been able while she was still pregnant. Although thoughts of home would sometimes invade Poppy’s thoughts, she did not miss home nearly so much because of Lucy and Abigail. Abigail was very much a mother and a grandmother in every possible way.

One night, as Lucy lay sleeping in her cradle, the two women sat before the blazing warmth of the fire, knitting quietly. Abigail was humming contentedly as her arthritic fingers weaved the wool into a delicate pattern. Poppy was most content on evenings like this with a full stomach, the warmth of a cozy fire, and Lucy and Abigail beside her. She had never though that life would offer her so much happiness.

Abigail abruptly stopped her humming, looking up from her knitting. “You know that heaven sent you and Lucy to me, don’t you?” she asked. “The two of you have given my old heart so much joy.”

Poppy reached out a hand and lovingly placed it atop Abigail’s’ frail, wrinkled one. “Oh, Abigail, I know that heaven sent you to me and to Lucy. Who knows where we would be without your kindness,” she smiled through her tears.

Abigail’s crooked smile grew. “We are a family, my dear child, and we shall always be a family. Soon enough, Angus will return, to meet you and our precious Lucy and then our little family will be complete.”

Poppy’s smile faded with Abigail's words. She had to wonder what Angus would think of an unwed mother and her babe living with his mum. Would he throw them out on the street again or would he be kind like his mother? She wasn't, but fear gripped her heart. Her experiences with men, including her own father, had not been the best from which to form an opinion about any man, so she could only guess at what sort of man Angus might be.

********

Spring turned to summer. It was late June as Poppy tended the garden, kneeling on the ground, her face streaked with dirt and reddened from the sun despite Abigail’s straw hat that she wore. She was determined to have carrots and cabbage to go with the stew on the stove. She was pulling the vegetables from the earth when she heard a gentleman clear his voice directly behind her. Surprised, she stopped what she was doing, wondering who could have approached the house so quietly.

With a bit of trepidation, Poppy stood, adjusting her hat and wiping her hands on her apron before turning around to greet the visitor. As she did so, surprise lit his face. It was obvious, because of the hat and Abigail's altered dress that she wore, he had mistaken her for Abigail.

“May I help you, sir?” Poppy asked.

“Who are you?” Concern was evident in the man's his voice. “Where is Abigail? Where is my mum?” However, he was already heading toward the cottage, not waiting for Poppy to answer.

“She’s fine. Abigail is fine,” Poppy whispered after him, watching as he disappeared through the cottage door.

Evidently, Angus had returned. And evidently, Angus was no weathered, old sailor. Indeed, he could not have been more twenty-five years of age. Perhaps Abigail was not as old as Poppy thought. She wondered what Angus would think of her and Lucy? Would he want them gone now that he was home?

Steeling herself, Poppy slowly removed the hat and gloves. As she entered the doorway, she came upon a touching scene. Angus his mother still embracing, tears streaming down the older woman’s face. Abigail was so happy. Her son was home, and Poppy could see that little could have made the old woman happier.

Without saying a word, anxiously, Poppy waited. Eventually, Abigail and Angus parted, smiles on their faces. Abigail lovingly stroked her son’s bearded face. Poppy looked down at her feet, feeling as though she was intruding on a very private moment.

From the corner of the room, nine-month old Lucy gave a squeal, demanding attention. Angus’ eyes flew wide as his head spun in the direction of the squealing babe.

Abigail laughed and quickly headed to the cradle. “Angus, dear, please meet the newest addition to our family. This is Lucy,” she said with as much pride as Poppy.

Amazed by the baby, Angus reached out a large, sun-kissed hand to touch Lucy’s cheek and smiled at the cooing child. Lucy giggled, breaking into a toothless smile. Poppy's heart warmed at the sight.

“It’s as if she knows you, son,” Abigail said with pride. “Oh, but she’s a bright one, she is. She’ll be walking before you know it, too.”

From the doorway, Poppy uncomfortably shifted her position, and Abigail immediately turned to face her. “Oh my goodness, Angus. You have not met Lucy’s mother. This is our sweet, Poppy. They have been such a great help and comfort to your lonely, old mum while you've been away. They're our family now, son.”

Poppy smiled shyly at Angus before her gaze shifted to her feet. Her heart beat so strongly in her chest that Poppy was sure everyone could hear it.

Angus stared at Poppy for a long moment, and then asked, "May I?" Poppy looked up, unsure as to what he was asking. Angus then turned to his mother and reached to take Lucy into his arms. He walked toward Poppy until he stood before her, holding the cooing babe. Hesitantly, Poppy watched, surprised by the smile Angus wore as Lucy tugged on his beard.

“Thank you for helping my mum while I was away at sea,” Angus said quietly, his green eyes filled with a kindness that were reminiscent of Abigail’s eyes. “I do believe your sweet little Lucy is heaven sent. Welcome. Our family may be little, but we have a great deal of love between us.”

Soon and without a doubt, Poppy realized Angus was as kind-hearted and loving as his mother. Moreover, it was only four months after his return that the two of them were married in a small ceremony. It had taken very little time for the two to fall in love. In fact, Poppy believed it had been love at first sight, at least for her. when Angus had picked up Lucy. Now she and Lucy were finally a part of Abigail’s family, and Poppy wished never to leave. Maybe one day, much further down the road, though she would be able to return her own mum. Until then, she would write home to let her know she was well.

Despite everything, Poppy was at peace and much happier than she had ever been. She now understood the importance of true love, kindness, and family. There was no doubt heaven had sent her to where she was supposed to be, and she gave thanks every day for the good fortune that had come from something so unexpected and something that many would have considered unfortunate.

********

It was a fine summer evening many months later. Poppy contentedly rocked her sweet Lucy to sleep as her husband, Angus, sat before the fire, smoking his pipe as he read. His mother, Abigail, hummed as she knitted, quietly working on a sweater for Lucy. Poppy turned her gaze to the tabletop and studied the vase of lovely white summer roses in its center. They were beautiful flowers and seemingly flawless.

In the quiet of the evening, Poppy could not help but think upon the path life had taken since her unexpected pregnancy. She was suddenly aware and filled with newfound knowledge that blessings, much like the pure, white roses, surfaced in one’s life when needed, but most especially when least expected. Blessings came from all types of people and in many surprising ways. She would never stop being thankful for the blessings that had unexpectedly filled her heart, creating a new found home for her and her child. Her joy was very much like an overflowing abundance of pure, white roses. Indeed, her life was akin to the perfection found in the beautiful white flowers. Poppy's heart swelled. She felt she could weep tears of joy for all eternity so profound was her contentment and joy. Life was as perfect as the white rose in its splendor.