My dear lady, you alone appear in my will, he said, pressing a trembling hand to the parchment. Your daughter shall have everything she needs, and she will owe you naught, Edward whispered, kissing my wrist before handing me the document.
His words warmed me, and I found myself admiring my English husband even more. I never imagined I would need a prenuptial agreement or any kind of insurance; I trusted in his honour and his humanity. How foolish that trust proved to be
I had first met Edward through a correspondence board on the internet. I longed to marry a foreigner. I lived in Manchester, already retired, and could not bring myself to marry a man of my own age. The thought of caring for a frail old father seemed unbearable. Yet in England, the elderly were often spry, cheerful, and still keen to travel.
Edward was seventysix, I was fiftyfive, and I was the same age as his daughter, Emily. Our letters went back and forth for a year, each of us edging closer, testing each other’s temperaments.
At last I boarded a train to York, my purpose clear: to become Edwards wife. An imposing, wellkept gentleman met me at the station, clutching a modest bouquet of roses that had long since lost their scent. I felt the urge to turn back and fly home, but the drama had only begun. The wilted roses slipped from my grasp, their perfume already gone.
Edward ushered me into his sleek black car and drove me to his sprawling country house. A modest twoperson lunch awaited us. I asked for a vase to hold the sad roses. He handed me a glass of water, and the moment I placed the blossoms inside, every pink petal crumbled to dusta sign, I thought, from some higher realm.
Both of us understood that love was not what we sought. I needed financial security; Edward needed a companion to look after him. Two lonely, seasoned souls found a convenient arrangement.
He promised to make me the sole heir to all his assets when he passed. As it turned out, a promise is not a deed.
Soon we were married, and I became Mrs. Morley. The ceremony was modest, attended only by Edwards daughter and her husband with their three children, plus a familiar couple from his social circle.
I was Edwards third wife. In his first marriage two twin girls, Felicity and Emily, had been bornthough Edward had always opposed having children, preferring a life of selfimprovement and travel. His first wife, against his wishes, bore the twins, and he grew to love them dearly, though he never forgave her stubbornness.
When the twins turned eighteen, Edward left the family in a dramatic fashion. His first wife could not bear his departure and died in her sleep two years later. He left his threestorey house, a countryside lodge, three cars, and his businessnow under Felicitys nameto the children.
Later Edward found an older maiden, a woman seven years his senior, who likewise had no desire for offspring. Their life seemed settled until the lady fell ill. Edward tended to her with tender devotion, massaging, feeding, even changing her nappies until she passed.
Soon after, tragedy struck again. Felicity was found dead on a roadside, the circumstances never clarified, her murderer never caught.
Edward sank into a bleak solitude, his depression deepening. Throughout this turmoil, Emily never visited him. After a period of mourning, Edward resolved to marry once more. He turned to an online dating site, and that is how I entered his life.
Thus began the married days of Mrs. Morley.
All the money belonged to Edward. He appeared miserly, handing over the bare minimum for groceries, scrutinising every receipt, demanding written accounts of any purchase. When I asked for a few pounds for pins or lipstick, his face twisted as if he had just swallowed a sour lemon. Yet, every year we sailed on a cruise, explored new sightsthese voyages were his cherished dream.
I treated Edward kindly, pitied his age, learned to prepare his favourite dishes, watched over his health, and stayed by his side in both hardship and happiness.
Then a cruel illness struck. He suffered a stroke and was whisked away to the infirmary. I called his daughter immediately. She arrived not for her father but for me:
Margaret, Ive brought Fathers will. Listen to this: I bequeath all movable and immovable property to my daughter. To my wife I leave an amount to be determined by my daughter for a respectable life.
It meant Edward, behind my back, had altered his will in favour of his daughter. He had always felt guilty toward his children, believing himself responsible for the deaths of Felicity and Emilys mother.
Emily, nursing a grudge, never set foot in our house again. Edward never met his three grandchildren.
I thought, after hearing the will, I would stay beside my ailing husband. Edward was still alive, and his daughter was already spreading the bequest like wings.
For six months I tended to Edward in the hospital, feeding him from a spoon, gently stroking his hand, talking to him. He could no longer recognise anyone, drifting in his own world. I had no intention of arguing with his entrepreneurial daughter over the altered will. Emily never visited her father. Edward was eightytwo when death finally claimed him.
On the doorstep of the house I shared with Edward, Emily appeared:
So, Margaret, youll have to leave this house as soon as possible. Ill give you a sum to rent a cheap room, then youll be on social housing. If I were you, Id return to my homeland. Theres nothing for you here.
I could already picture myself shivering on the cold street, hungry and alone.
Dont tell me what to do, Emily. Im still grieving your fathers death. Lets speak later, I managed, bewildered.
Six months later, lawyers advised me against suing the case was a lost cause, and the legal costs would be astronomical. Although, as Edwards spouse, I was entitled to fifty percent of the estate, the revised will erased all those rights.
I still lived in Edwards house, a fact that infuriated Emily:
Get out, Margaret. Not only have you taken an old, feeble man, you wont even be evicted! Hand over the inheritance!
A thought struck me. I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the desk:
Emily, here is the original will of your father, which states everything belongs to me. I can prove in court that my husband, suffering from senile dementia, did not understand what he was doing when he rewrote the will. Perhaps he wrote it under duress. Prove it later
Emily fell silent, contemplating.
Thus I spent some time renting a modest room in a cheap part of York, driving Edwards car, scraping together finances from Emilys reluctant contributions.
Now I am married to Peter. He spotted me in the park one morning while walking his terrier, and I had been jogging there almost daily, trying to keep fit. Peter was charmed by me; the English do have a soft spot for women with a Slavic touch.
And so the strange, dreamlike tale continues, drifting between reality and imagination, as the roses wilt and the roads twist beneath my feet.
