My dear lady, youre the only one mentioned in my will. Ive provided my daughter with everything she needs, so shell have no complaints about you, Edward Beaumont squeezed my hand, showed me the testament. I liked hearing that, and I grew to respect my English husband even more. In truth, I didnt think I needed any prenuptial agreement or insurance; I hoped for honesty and decency. It was a mistake.
I first met Edward through an online penfriend service. I wanted to marry a foreigner. I lived in Manchester, was retired, and could never find a peer to settle down with. No desire to look after a frail old father, thank you. Abroad, the elderly seemed spry, travelling and full of life. Edward was seventysix, I was fiftyfive, and I was the same age as his daughter Emily.
Our correspondence lasted a year. We grew familiar, tested each others temperaments, and slowly fell into a rhythm. Soon I booked a flight to England, to the historic town of Bath, with a single purpose to marry Edward. An imposing, wellkept gentleman met me at the station, holding a modest bouquet of slightly wilted roses. I could have turned on my heel and fled, but the drama had just begun. The tired roses lay in my hands, scent long gone.
Edward ushered me into his sleek black car and drove me to his grand house. A modest twoperson lunch awaited. I asked for a vase to put the sad roses in; he handed me a glass of water. The moment I placed the flowers inside, the pink petals fell apart a sign, perhaps, from above.
We both understood that love was not our aim. I needed financial security; Edward needed a companion to look after him. Two lonely, middleaged souls, we made a bargain. Edward promised to name me his sole heir after his death. As it turned out, a promise is not the same as fulfilment.
We were married shortly after. I became Mrs. Morrell. The ceremony was small. Guests comprised Edwards daughter and her husband with three children, plus a familiar couple from the neighbourhood. I was Edwards third wife. His first marriage produced twin daughters, Frances and Emily. Edward had always been opposed to children, preferring a life of selfimprovement and travel, but his first wife, against his wishes, bore the twins. He adored the girls, yet never forgave his wife for defying him.
When the twins turned eighteen, Edward left the family in a very public fashion. His wife could not bear his departure and died in her sleep two years later. He left the threestorey house, a country villa, three cars, and his business transferred to Frances to his children.
Edward then found an older lady, also childfree, seven years his senior. Their arrangement seemed perfect until his aged wife fell ill. He tended to her with the utmost devotion: massages, feeding, even changing nappies until her final breath.
Soon after, tragedy struck again. Frances was found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances; the killer was never identified. Alone and desolate, Edward sank into depression. During that dark time, his daughter Emily never visited him. After a period of mourning, Edward decided he needed to remarry. The internet and a dating site led him to me, his Frenchborn, now English partner.
Thus began the life of Mrs. Morrell. All the money was Edwards. He proved a miser, giving the bare minimum for groceries, scrutinising every receipt, demanding written accounts for any purchase. When I asked for a few pounds for nail polish, his face twisted as if hed bitten into a sour lemon. Still, each year we took a cruise or a guided tour a longheld dream of his.
I treated Edward kindly, pitied his age, learned to cook his favourite dishes, tended to his health, and stayed by his side through thick and thin. Yet a cruel illness struck him: a stroke sent him to the emergency ward. I called his daughter straight away. She arrived in a flash, not to see her father, but to see me.
Emily, she said, thrusting a folded paper into my hands, look at what Dad wrote: I bequeath all movable and immovable property to my daughter. To my wife, a sum to ensure a decent living. Hes quietly altered his will in favour of you. It meant Edward had, without my knowledge, rewritten his testament to benefit Emily. He felt guilty towards his daughters, feeling indirectly responsible for Francess death.
Holding a grudge against her father, Emily never set foot in our home. Edward never met his three grandchildren. I thought I would stay by my ailing husbands side, but his daughter was already making moves.
For six months I cared for Edward in the hospital, feeding him with 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 battling Emily over the entrepreneurial daughters claim. Edward was eightytwo when death finally claimed him.
On the doorstep of the house I shared with Edward, Emily appeared.
Listen, Susan, she said, using my first name, youll have to move out quickly. Ill give you enough money for a cheap room, then youll get council housing. Id go back to my own country if I were you. Theres nothing left for you here. I pictured myself shivering on the street, hungry and alone.
Dont tell me what to do, Emily. Im still grieving my husbands death. Lets speak later, I replied, bewildered.
Half a year later, lawyers warned me that suing would be a lost cause, the legal costs would be astronomical. Though I was entitled to fifty per cent of the estate, Edwards altered will erased it. I still lived in his house, a fact that infuriated Emily.
Get out, Susan. Youve taken an old, senile man, and now you expect to stay. Hand over the inheritance, she snarled.
A desperate thought struck me. I pulled out the original will from the desk.
Emily, heres the first will where Edward left everything to me. I can prove in court that, when he signed the new one, he was suffering from senile dementia and didnt understand what he was doing. Perhaps he wrote it under duress, I said.
Emily fell silent, considering my words.
For a while I rented a modest flat in a cheap part of Bath, driving Edwards car, scraping together whatever funds Emily reluctantly allowed me to keep.
Now Im married to Peter. He spotted me in the park while walking his terrier, and Id been jogging there almost every morning to stay fit. The widower was smitten; English men do love a spirited lady. And so my story continues, far from the shadows of that old manor.
