My dear lady, you are the only name that appears in my will. I have provided my daughter with everything she needs, so she will have no claims on you, Charles Beaumont kisses my hand and shows me the document.
I like hearing that, and I respect my English husband even more. In truth I never thought I needed a prenuptial agreement or any insurance; I hoped for honesty and kindness. How foolish that was
I first meet Charles through an online penpal site. I want to marry a foreigner. I live in Manchester, retired, and I cant find a peerage partner here. The idea of caring for an elderly husband seems unappealing, but abroad I hear older men are spry, cheerful, and still travel.
Charles is seventysix, I am fiftyfive. I am the same age as his daughters, Frances and Ethel. Our correspondence lasts a year. We chat, we learn each others quirks, and the attraction grows.
Soon I fly to York with a single purpose to marry Charles. An imposing, wellkept gentleman meets me at the station, holding a modest bouquet of slightly wilted roses. I could turn back then, but the performance has just begun. The roses are limp, their scent faded.
Charles drives me to his large Victorian house and offers a modest twoperson lunch. I ask for a vase for the sad roses. He hands me a glass of water, and as soon as the flowers dip in, the pale petals crumble to the floor a sign, perhaps, from above.
We both know love isnt what were after. I need financial security; he needs a companion to look after him. Two solitary lives meet at a convenient point. He promises to leave me his entire estate when he passes. As I soon discover, promising is not the same as delivering.
We marry quickly, and I become Mrs. Morley. The ceremony is small: Charless daughters with their husband and three children, plus an old family friend. I am his third wife. From his first marriage came the twins, Frances and Ethel. Charles had always opposed children, preferring selfdevelopment and travel, but his first wife gave birth anyway. He adored the girls, yet resented his wifes defiance. When the twins turn eighteen, Charles walks out in protest. His wife cannot bear the loss, and she dies two years later in her sleep. All his assets a threestorey townhouse, a country cottage, three cars, and his business go to the daughters. He even transfers the companys ownership to Frances.
Charles then finds an older woman, Agnes, seven years his senior, who also has no desire for children. Their arrangement works until Agnes falls ill. Charles tenderly tends to her, massaging, feeding, even changing her nappies until she passes away.
A tragedy soon follows: Frances is found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances. The killer is never identified. Charles, left in bitter solitude, sinks into depression. Their daughter Mabel never visits him during this gloom.
After some time, Charles regains his vigor and decides to marry again, using an online dating site. Thats how he meets me, and my married life as Mrs. Morley begins.
All the money is Charless. He appears miserly, giving only the minimum for groceries, demanding receipts for every purchase, and grimacing when I ask for a new pair of shoes or lipstick. Yet each year we travel on cruises and excursions a longheld dream of his.
I treat Charles kindly, pitying his age, learning his favourite recipes, watching his health, staying by his side in good times and bad. Then a stroke strikes. An ambulance rushes him to intensive care. I call his daughter Mabel, who arrives not for her father but for me:
Emily, Ive brought Dads will. Listen, it says: All movable and immovable property I bequeath to my daughter. To my wife I leave an amount to be determined by my daughter for a decent livelihood.
Charles had secretly rewritten his will in favour of Frances and Ethel, feeling guilty for abandoning them and for the death of Frances. Mabel, still harbouring resentment, never comes to see her father again.
I spend six months nursing Charles in the hospital, spoonfeeding him, gently stroking his hand, talking to a man who no longer recognises anyone. I have no intention of disputing the will with his enterprising daughter. Charles is eightytwo when death finally claims him.
At the front door of the house I share with Charles, Mabel appears:
Emily, youll have to leave this house as soon as possible. Ill give you a sum you can use to rent a cheap room, then youll be moved to council housing. You should go back to your home country. Theres nothing for you here.
I picture myself shivering on the street, cold and hungry.
Dont tell me what to do, Mabel. Im still grieving my husbands death, I reply, bewildered.
Six months later, lawyers advise me that a court case would be futile and costly. Though I am entitled to fifty percent of the estate, the altered will erases that right. I still live in Charless house, which infuriates Mabel:
Get out, Emily. Youve taken advantage of an old, senile father, and now you think you can keep the inheritance?
I pull out the original will from my desk:
Mabel, here is the first will where Charles leaves everything to me. I can prove in court that he was not of sound mind when he rewrote it. Perhaps he signed it under duress.
Mabel falls silent, considering my words.
For a while I rent a modest flat in a cheap part of York, drive Charless car, and survive on the meagre funds I scrape from Mabel.
Now I am married to Peter Hughes, who notices me in the park while I jog with my cocker spaniel. He is drawn to my determination, and we quickly become a pair.
In England, a Slavic woman still attracts curiosity, but I have learned to keep my head down, cherish the few comforts I have, and hope that the future brings steadier ground.
