My dear lady, Reginald said, pressing his hand to my cheek, you are the only name in my will. Ive provided for my daughter, so shell never make a claim on you. His lips brushed my wrist as he unfolded the document.
His words warmed me, and I felt an even deeper reverence for my English husband. I hadnt needed prenuptial agreements or insurance; I trusted in his propriety and kindness. How naïve I was.
I had met Reginald through an online correspondence. I longed to marry a foreigner. Back then I lived in Manchester, already retired, and a marriage to a man my own age felt impossible or rather, unappealing. Who wanted to tend an ailing old father in the near future? Not me. Across the Channel, the elderly were spry, lively, and still travelled.
Reginald was seventysix; I was fiftyfive. I was the same age as his daughter, Ethel. Our letters stretched over a year. We examined each others lives, grew familiar, and our temperaments began to mesh.
Soon I boarded a train to the seaside town of Whitby, determined to become Reginalds wife. An imposing, wellkept gentleman met me at the station, clutching a wilted bunch of roses that had long lost their scent. I could have turned and fled, but the performance had only just begun. The tired roses fell from his hands and landed at my feet, their perfume gone.
He ushered me into his sleek black car and drove to his grand Victorian house. A modest lunch for two awaited us. I asked for a vase to cradle the sad roses. Reginald handed me a glass of water; the moment the blossoms touched the liquid, their petals scattered like snow. It felt like a sign from above.
Both of us understood that love was not our aim. I needed financial security; he needed a companion to tend to his affairs. Two solitary, middleaged people found a convenient arrangement. He promised to name me the heir to all his assets upon his death. As I would soon learn, promises do not always become deeds.
Our wedding followed quickly. I became Mrs. Morley. The ceremony was intimate: Reginalds daughter with her husband and three children, and a familiar couple from his past. I was his third wife. In his first marriage he had fathered twin daughters, Frances and Evelyn. Reginald had always opposed having children, wishing instead to devote his life to selfimprovement and travel. Yet his first wife, against his wishes, bore those twins. He adored the girls, but never forgave his wife for defying him.
When the twins turned eighteen, Reginald left the family in a dramatic display. His wife could not survive his departure; two years later she died in her sleep. All his property a threestorey townhouse, a country cottage, three cars, and his business passed to the daughters. He transferred the company to Frances.
Reginald then paired with an elderly spinster, Margaret, who, like him, had never wanted children. She was seven years his senior. Their arrangement seemed perfect until Margaret fell ill. Reginald tended to her with tender devotion: massages, meals, changing nappies, even as she approached death.
A new tragedy struck soon after: Frances was found dead beside a roadside, the circumstances never solved, her murderer never caught. Reginald sank into despondency. During that dark period, Evelyn never visited him. After a period of mourning, Reginald resolved to marry again, his spirit revived by the vigor of online dating. Thus our paths crossed.
My life as Mrs. Morley began. Reginald controlled all finances. He seemed miserly, spending the bare minimum on groceries, scrutinising every receipt, demanding a written account of every purchase. When I asked for a few pounds for lipstick, he twisted his mouth as if hed swallowed a lemon. Yet, each year we embarked on cruises and tours his cherished dream.
I treated Reginald kindly, pitied his age, learned his favourite recipes, tended to his health, and stayed by his side through good and ill.
Then a malignant illness struck. A stroke sent him to the emergency ward. I called his daughter at once. She arrived not for her father, but for me.
Evelyn, she said, thrusting a copy of the will into my hands, listen to this: All movable and immovable property I bequeath to my daughter. To my wife, a sum to be determined by my daughter for a respectable life. It meant Reginald had secretly altered his will in favour of Evelyn, hoping to ease his guilt for abandoning Frances and for the familys sorrow.
Evelyn, still nursing her resentment, never visited her father again. Reginald, now eightytwo, died after six months of my bedside care. I fed him with a spoon, stroked his hand, whispered to a man who no longer recognised anyone, living in his own world. I never contemplated disputing the new will; Evelyn never set foot in the house.
At the threshold of the modest cottage we shared, Evelyn appeared.
So, Evelyn, youll have to leave this house as soon as possible. Ill give you a few pounds for a cheap room, then youll get council housing. Id return to the country if I were you. Nothing for you here.
I imagined myself shivering on a cold street, hungry and abandoned.
Dont tell me what to do, Evelyn. Im still grieving my husbands death. Lets speak later, I replied, bewildered.
Six months later, solicitors warned that suing would be futile and would cost a fortune. Though the law granted me fifty percent of the estate, the rewritten will nullified everything. I still occupied Reginalds home, a fact that infuriated Evelyn.
Get out, Mabel. You stole an old man, now youll be driven out too. Hand over the inheritance!
In a sudden flash of inspiration I produced a crumpled paper from my desk.
Evelyn, here is the original will where Reginald left everything to me. I can prove in court that, in his senile state, he didnt understand the changes he made. Perhaps he signed under duress.
Evelyn fell silent, pondering.
Thus I spent a while renting a cheap room in Whitby, shuttling in Reginalds car, subsisting on the meagre funds I managed to scrape from Evelyns allowance.
Now I am married to Peter, a widower I met in the park while jogging with his terrier, Biscuit. I run there almost daily to stay fit. Peter is smitten with me; English men, they say, have a soft spot for sturdy, resilient women.
