How to Marry a Brit and Not End Up on the Pavement
My dear lady, you are the only name in my will, Reginald said, kissing my hand and handing me the document. Ive taken care of my daughter, so shell have no complaints about you. I smiled at his words and felt a fresh surge of respect for my English husband. In truth I hadnt bothered with prenuptial agreements or insurance policies; I was banking on good manners and a decent heart. Silly, I now thought.
Id met Reginald through an online penpal site. I was after a foreign spouse. I lived in Manchester, retired, and the idea of marrying a peer of my own age held no appeal. Who wanted to hunt down an elderly widower and spend the next decade caring for him? Not me. Across the Channel, old men seemed spry, lively, and still keen on travel.
Reginald was seventysix, I was fiftyfive, and I was practically the same age as his daughter, Emily. Our correspondence lasted a year, in which we poked at each others quirks, tested compatibility and grew comfortable with the occasional snide remark.
When the time came I flew to England, landing in the seaside town of Whitby with a single mission to marry Reginald. He greeted me in a crisp suit, clutching a modest bunch of wilted garden roses. I could have turned on my heel then and there, but the drama was only beginning. The sad roses went straight into a vase, lost their scent the moment they hit water, and that, too, felt like an omen.
Reginald ushered me into his silvergrey estate and served a modest twoperson lunch. I asked for a vase for the unfortunate flowers; he handed me a glass of water. As soon as I dropped the blooms in, the petals floated away like ash. Clearly, the universe was trying to tell us something.
We both understood that romance was off the table. I needed financial security; Reginald needed a companion to look after him. Two lonely seniors, each with their own agenda, made a perfectly acceptable arrangement. He promised to leave everything to me when he kicked the bucket. As it turned out, promises and deeds are two different things.
Our wedding was small. I became Mrs. Morley. The guest list consisted of Reginalds daughter and her husband, three grandchildren, and a family friend. I was his third wife. In his first marriage hed fathered twin girls, Florence and Emily. Ironically, Reginald had always been opposed to children, preferring a life of selfimprovement and travel. His first wife, against his wishes, gave birth to the twins. Reginald adored the girls, but his wife never forgave his rebel streak.
When the twins turned eighteen, Reginald made a grand exit from the family. His wife, unable to bear his departure, died two years later in her sleep. She left a threestorey house, a country cottage, three cars and a small business, all of which Reginald handed over to the twins even appointing Florence as the new director.
Reginald then courted an older spinster, seven years his senior, who also had no desire for children. Things went smoothly until his new wife fell ill. Reginald tended to her with the devotion of a monk: massages, feeding, even changing nappies until the very end.
Soon after, tragedy struck again: Florence was found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances. The killer was never caught. Reginald sank into depression. Emily, his surviving daughter, never visited him during his mourning. After a brief period of grief, Reginald revived his spirits, declared he would marry again, and turned to a dating site. That, dear reader, is how I crossed paths with my future English husband.
Married life as Mrs. Morley began with Reginald holding the purse strings. He was a tightfisted man, handing out the bare minimum for groceries, demanding receipts for every purchase, and grimacing when I asked for a pair of pins or a lipstick. Still, each year we managed a cruise or a short trip his longstanding dream. I grew fond of him, admired his age, learned his favourite recipes, looked after his health, and stuck by his side through thick and thin.
Unfortunately, a stroke hit him out of the blue. Ambulance whisked Reginald to the intensive care unit. I immediately rang Emily, who rushed over not to see her father, but to see me.
Emily, Ive got your fathers will, she said, sliding the paper across the table. He leaves all his assets to his daughter. As for you, dear, hes left a sum to be decided by her for a respectable life. It turned out Reginald had quietly rewritten his will in Emilys favour, citing guilt over the way hed treated his first family.
Emily, still nursing a grudge, never set foot in the house again. Reginald, now eightytwo, passed away shortly after.
Six months later, as I tended to him in the hospital, feeding him from a spoon and stroking his frail hand, he drifted into a world where faces were strangers and words were nonsense. I had no intention of battling Emily over the entrepreneurial daughters claim.
When I finally left the hospital, Emily appeared on the doorstep of the home we shared.
So, Morley, youll have to vacate this place pronto, she said. Ill give you a modest sum to rent a cheap room, then youll move to council housing. You should be glad to go back to where you came from. Nothing here is for you.
I could almost see myself shivering on a cold street, clutching a battered suitcase.
Dont tell me what to do, Emily, I replied, still raw from my husbands death. Im not ready to move on yet.
Six months later, solicitors warned me that suing would be a lost cause and would cost a fortune. By law I should have been entitled to fifty per cent of the estate, but the altered will erased that right. I still lived in Reginalds house, which infuriated Emily.
Get out, Morley. Youve been milking an old fool, and now you think you can keep his legacy? she snapped.
Then a thought struck me. I dug out the original will from a drawer.
Emily, heres the first will where Reginald left everything to me. He was clearly not of sound mind when he rewrote it. I can prove in court that he signed under duress, perhaps even with a pistol at his side.
Emily fell silent, considering my claim.
For a while I rented a cheap room in a rundown part of Whitby, driving Reginalds old sedan, scraping together money from Emilys reluctant support.
Now Im married to Peter, a widower I met in the park while jogging with his golden retriever, Max. He spotted me on my daily run and we struck up conversation. The English do love a sturdy, independent lady, after all.
Peters charm and Maxs wagging tail have given me a fresh start, far from the tangled inheritances of my past.
