The bus rattled down the gravel road, its windows streaked with dust as the late summer sun slanted across the fields. Clara pressed her thin hands against her lap, clutching a small cloth bag that carried her few belongings. At thirty-one, she had long accepted that she was considered “unmarriageable” in her town.
Not because she lacked grace—Clara’s delicate cheekbones and thoughtful eyes hinted at a quiet beauty. But since childhood, a dark birthmark had spread across one side of her face and neck, a stain that made her the subject of constant whispers. Neighbors smirked, children pointed, and adults shook their heads with pity.
“You’re lucky anyone would want you at all,” her aunt had hissed that morning. “Mr. Harold may not be a prince, but he has land, steady work, and he’s willing. This is your chance to stop being a burden.”
Clara said nothing, but the words cut. She had spent years helping in her aunt’s shop, living under the shadow of ridicule, believing her only value was silence. Now, she was being “sent” to marry a man she had never met—a farmer with a reputation for being large, slow, and unrefined.
When the bus ground to a halt before a small farmhouse, Clara’s heart raced. She stepped down, her figure slender as a reed, her pale dress clinging in the summer air. Standing in the yard was a stout man with sandy hair and round glasses that slid down his nose. His shirt strained against his belly, and his cheeks flushed easily, giving him the look of a man more at home in the field than in town gatherings.
“Miss Clara?” His voice was warm, careful. “I’m Harold Turner. Welcome.”
Behind him, an older woman with kind eyes—his mother, Edith—smiled and waved. Clara braced herself for the disgust she had come to expect. But Harold’s gaze did not linger on the mark across her face. Instead, he looked directly into her eyes as though he had been waiting for her all along.
The wedding was quiet, almost perfunctory. Clara endured the murmurs of the townsfolk who joked about “the marked woman marrying the plump farmer.” Yet Harold never flinched at their words. He simply held her hand with a steady firmness, as if making a silent promise.
At first, Clara prepared herself for disappointment. But as the days turned into weeks, she discovered a different truth. Harold rose before dawn, his laughter booming across the barnyard as he worked with his animals. Despite his size, he was tireless, feeding cattle, mending fences, and carrying heavy loads with ease.
More than that, he was attentive. Every evening, he asked after her day. He noticed when she was tired, bringing her tea without a word. He built shelves in the kitchen because he saw her struggling to reach the higher cupboards. He even planted marigolds by the window because she had once mentioned she liked their color.
Clara, in turn, revealed parts of herself long buried. She had a sharp wit, and once she felt safe, she teased Harold until he roared with laughter. She took over the bookkeeping, discovering Harold’s farm was far larger and more successful than outsiders realized. His apparent simplicity was less ignorance than humility.
One autumn evening, as they sat beneath the porch light with a crisp wind sweeping the fields, Clara finally asked, “Why me? Why would you choose someone like me?”
Harold was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “Because I know what it feels like when people only see the outside. They see my belly, my clumsy hands, and assume I’m nothing more than a fool. But you… when I heard about you, I thought—maybe we’re both tired of being judged for the wrong reasons.” He looked at her then, eyes shining. “I wanted someone I could respect. And I do, Clara. Every day.”
