Edmund Whitmore had always longed for wealth, though he was born in a sleepy market town where dreams rarely stretched beyond the local pub. His childhood was spent in a cramped flat above a fish-and-chip shop, the smell of vinegar and grease clinging to his clothes like a second skin. On the telly, he saw grand estates, sleek Jaguars, and people who laughed without worryEdmund was certain such a life was meant for him.
By twenty-five, he had mastered the art of charm. A well-timed compliment, a sympathetic ear, the right words murmured in the darkthese were his tools. His scheme was simple: find a woman of means, become her shadow. Not for love, but for comfort, for ease, for the weight of gold in his pocket.
She appeared at a garden party in Chelsea. Margaret Fairchildwidow, sixty-something, owner of a fortune built on Lancashire cotton mills. In her lilac dress, silver hair coiled like a crown, she carried herself with quiet grace.
Edmund watched from the terrace, sipping champagne he hadnt paid for. The younger men avoided her, unnerved by the years between them, but Edmund saw past that. He saw keys to a gilded cage.
Edmund Whitmore, he said, bending slightly at the waist. Youre the most striking woman here, Margaret.
Her smile was soft, cautious, as if shed forgotten how to trust a mans voice.
The courtship unfolded like a play. Strolls through Hyde Park, whispered confessions in dimly lit restaurants, grand gestures with flowers he barely afforded. Margaret, long accustomed to solitude, found herself thawing under his attention. He made her feel young again, desired.
Six months later, he proposed. A moonlit garden, roses underfoot, a ring bought on credit. He spoke of love unbound by time, of souls meant to meet. She hesitatedthe decades between them yawned like a chasmbut his words were honeyed, and she wanted to believe.
Society buzzed with scandal. A boy like that, chasing an old womans purse? they hissed at dinner parties. Edmund ignored them. In truth, their whispers amused himthey were proof his plan was working.
The wedding was a spectacle of white silk and gilt-edged invitations. He arranged every detail, playing the doting fiancé to perfection. Inside, he counted the hours until the ink dried on the papers that would make him a rich man.
Then came the day. The chapel stood draped in ivory, the air thick with the scent of peonies. Margaret entered in a high-necked gown, regal as a queen. Edmund waited at the altar, his smile fixed, his pulse a drumbeat of triumph.
Vows were exchanged. Rings slid onto fingers. The moment was almost his.
Then his gaze caught itjust above her collarbone, half-hidden by lace.
A birthmark. A crescent moon.
His breath stopped. His skin turned to ice.
Hed heard of that mark before. As a child, eavesdropping on his adoptive parents, hed caught mention of his real mothera girl whod left him at an orphanage. The only clue? A crescent-shaped mark on her shoulder.
He hadnt understood then. But now, staring at Margaret, the truth slithered into his gut like a knife.
He was about to marry a wealthy widowonly to realize, with sickening clarity, that she was his mother.
Edmund stood frozen. The chapel spun around him. Margaret tilted her head, concerned.
Darling, are you unwell?
Guests shifted in their seats. Something was wrong.
He forced a smile, brushed her cheek instead of kissing her. The ceremony limped forward, but inside, he was already shattered.
At the reception, he excused himself, staggering to the loo. His reflection wavered in the mirror, pale as a ghost. He remembered the papers hed found as a boyscrawled notes about a girl with a crescent moon.
And now, here she was. In a wedding dress.
When he returned, he pulled Margaret aside.
That birthmark, he rasped. Have you always had it?
Her fingers fluttered to her shoulder. Yes, since I was born. Why?
Edmund shut his eyes. I was adopted. My motherthe one who left mehad the same mark.
Margarets face drained of colour. She stumbled back, clutching a chair.
You cant mean
I think youre my mother, he said, the words like lead in his mouth.
Silence. Then a choked sob. Margaret pressed a handkerchief to her lips.
I was barely seventeen, she whispered. My family took himsent him away. I never knew what became of him.
Her eyes searched his face, and for the first time, she saw itthe boy shed lost.
The door creaked open. Guests peered in, murmuring.
Edmund straightened. The wedding is off, he announced, voice cracking. We cant do this.
Margaret fled, her gown fluttering like a wounded dove. The room erupted in shocked whispers.
By morning, the scandal had spread like wildfire. Some claimed betrayal, others whispered of madness. No one guessed the truth.
A week later, Edmund vanished. Margaret, after confirming the impossible through old records, struck his name from her will.
Then came a letter, postmarked nowhere, bearing only two words:
*Forgive me.*
After that, nothing.
Margaret threw herself into charity work. But every year, on the day they were meant to wed, she visited the abandoned mill where shed once workedwhere her son had been born, where their tragedy began.
The tale became one of Londons darkest whispers. A love story twisted into something unspeakable. A nightmare dressed in wedding lace.
