**The Proud Bride**
It happened long ago, in the early 1900s. Even then, girls dreamed of comfort and love—especially those who grew up in hardship. Most lived in small villages back then, except for the well-off families.
On the edge of one such village stood a modest cottage where Lucinda lived with her parents. Everyone called her Lucy. She was their only child, and so lovely that the whole village marveled. Where had such beauty come from?
Her father, John, and mother, Agnes, worked tirelessly to dress their daughter finely, hoping to secure her a prosperous marriage. Lucy had known since childhood that she was beautiful. Neighbours whispered to Agnes while she listened.
«Agnes, what a beauty your Lucy is! Eyes like two summer skies, thick golden braids, and lips like rosebuds—who does she take after?»
«My late mother-in-law, Eleanor. Lucy’s the very image of her, though God rest her soul, that woman had a temper like a storm. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy,» Agnes murmured. «I won’t lie—there was relief when she passed.»
«D’you reckon Lucy got her temper too?»
«Lord forbid. She’s headstrong enough, but life’ll teach her.»
As Lucy grew, men couldn’t look away. The lads lost sleep dreaming of winning her hand. Even married men stole glances, much to their wives’ fury. Whenever Lucy walked by, husbands twisted their necks, earning glares and sharp elbows.
One Sunday morning at Trinity service, Lucy and Agnes stood near the altar, listening to the vicar. Among the crowd was Stephen with his wife, Anne. Married ten years, with three children, yet Lucy still haunted his thoughts.
The moment she entered, Stephen forgot why he’d come.
«Lord above, she’s a vision,» he thought. «Tall, shapely as a fresh-baked loaf, eyes bright as morning dew—and those lips! Like roses in Aunt Margaret’s garden.»
He barely noticed the sermon, too busy staring. He wasn’t alone—every man in church stole glances, minds far from God. Only Anne’s sharp jab brought him back.
«Come to pray or gawk at that minx Lucy?» she hissed.
Stephen ducked his head, crossed himself, and tried to focus—until his thoughts drifted again.
«If I ever lose patience,» he mused, «I’ll leave Anne and court Lucy proper. Not rich, but got a sturdy house, a good cow… No horse yet, though.» A glance from Anne made him cross himself again.
The sermon couldn’t hold him.
«Stephen, you fool,» he scolded inwardly. «What’s a cow to her? Lucy’s too fine for village lads. Plenty’ve courted her, and she’s turned ’em all down.»
Among the smitten was Clive, young and unwed, who pined for Lucy in silence. His father had nudged him:
«Clive, time you wed. Pick a lass, or I’ll pick for you.»
But Clive only had eyes for Lucy. His father noticed.
«Fancy Lucy, eh? That one’s trouble,» he’d tease. Clive would scowl and walk off.
One night after a village dance, Clive mustered courage.
«Let me walk you home, Lucy,» he stammered.
«Why? I live three doors down. Won’t get eaten,» she laughed. But she let him.
Walking beside the village beauty, Clive felt like the king of the world. Before she could slip inside, he blurted:
«Marry me, Lucy. I’ve loved you forever.»
She laughed in his face.
«Not you too! What’ve you got? Empty pockets, like the rest. Off with you.»
Crushed, Clive trudged home.
Lucy’s parents saw her pride. She mocked the village boys, waiting for a wealthy match. They’d have settled for a good lad, but Lucy wanted Edmund, the rich merchant’s son.
The village gossiped.
«Lucy’s setting her cap at Edmund. Gold’s all she’s after,» the women clucked. «Her folks haven’t two farthings to rub together. No wonder she’s chasing riches.»
One day, Lucy flounced into Edmund’s shop.
«Edmund, dear,» she cooed, «have you spoken to your father again? What’s wrong with me? I’m the prettiest lass here.»
Edmund flushed crimson.
«I’ve tried. Father says we marry our own kind. ‘She’s poor as a church mouse,’ he says.»
Lucy’s smile turned sweet as poison. «Ask him again, love. For me?»
He promised. She swept out, past Clive and his friends, the rustle of her new petticoats and the scent of rosewater leaving them dumbstruck.
Summer faded into russet autumn, then bitter winter. Lucy waited for Edmund’s proposal—but none came.
Christmas passed, frost hardening the ground. Agnes warned her:
«Lucy, you’ll end a spinster. Plenty good lads about. Edmund’s father won’t have you. Can’t you see?»
«He will. Edmund promised. Who’d refuse a beauty like me?»
Agnes sighed. «Beauty fades, girl. Sense lasts.»
On Christmas Eve, Lucy tried to divine her future with a mirror. Nothing appeared.
«Told you it’s nonsense,» her friend said.
«But Mam swore it worked,» Lucy muttered.
Come summer, Clive tried once more.
«Lucy, marry me. Father’s set to choose a bride, but I want none but you.»
She laughed. «What use are you? Not a penny to your name!»
Defeated, Clive left.
Later, he learned the truth: Edmund was betrothed to Martha, a rich widow from the next village.
When Lucy heard, she stormed into the shop.
«Is it true? You’re pledged to Martha?»
Edmund nodded miserably. «Father’s will. Threatened to disown me. Sorry, Lucy.»
She fled, tears hot. The village ladies clucked.
«Had to learn the hard way, poor lamb. Money matches money.»
Home, Lucy sobbed. Agnes let her cry.
Time passed. Lucy watched former suitors wed. At twenty-five, the village called her a proud, leftover spinster.
Then Clive came—one last try.
«Lucy, will you wed me? You’re all I’ve ever wanted.»
Shame warmed her cheeks. How she’d mocked him!
«Yes, Clive. I will.» Relief washed over her. She wouldn’t be left behind.
John and Agnes rejoiced. They married, raised three sons, and lived content. Lucy learned too late: pride goes before the fall, and love weighs more than gold.