Darling, you wont believe the mess I got myself into, all because I thought marrying a proper English gentleman would sort my life out. In my will I wrote that youre the only one who matters, and I promised my daughter everything she needs, so thered be no fuss. Arthur Whitby, the man I now call husband, squeezed my hand, brushed his thumb over the document and smiled. Hearing that made my heart flutter, and I found myself respecting him even more. I hadnt bothered with prenuptial agreements or insurance I just trusted his honour. Silly, I know now.
I first met Arthur through an online penfriend site. Id been retired for a while, living up in Newcastle, and I was desperate to find a foreign partner. Marrying someone my own age just didnt appeal I didnt want to spend my golden years caring for an ailing old man. Abroad, the retirees seemed spry, adventurous, and still keen on travelling.
Arthur was seventysix, I was fiftyfive, and I was practically the same age as his daughter Blythe. We wrote back and forth for a year, getting to know each other, testing the waters, and slowly our personalities clicked. Eventually I booked a flight to England, headed for the historic town of York, with one clear goal to marry Arthur.
When I stepped off the train, a tall, impeccably dressed man was waiting with a modest bouquet of slightly wilted roses. Part of me wanted to bolt back home, but the drama was just beginning. The roses were sad and scentless, just like the promise that was about to unfold.
Arthur ushered me into his sleek black car and drove us to his sprawling Victorian house. Hed prepared a modest lunch for two. I asked for a vase for the sad roses, and he handed me a glass of water. The moment I dropped the wilted petals in, they fell apart in a sad little shower a sign, I thought, that something was off.
We both knew there was no love story brewing. I needed financial security; Arthur needed a companion to look after him. Two lonely older souls, each with their own agenda. He swore hed leave everything to me when he passed, but a promise is one thing, a deed another.
We tied the knot fairly quickly, and I became Mrs. Whitby. The ceremony was small just Arthurs daughter Blythe, her husband and their three kids, plus a couple of family friends. I was his third wife. In his first marriage hed had twin girls, Frances and Blythe, even though hed always claimed he didnt want children. Hed devoted his life to selfimprovement and travel, but his first wife insisted on having kids. He loved those girls fiercely, yet he never forgave his wife for defying him.
When the twins turned eighteen, Arthur dramatically walked out. His first wife never recovered from his departure and died in her sleep two years later. All his property a threestorey townhouse, a country cottage, three cars, and his modest business went to the twins. He even transferred the business to Frances.
Arthur then found another older lady, Agnes, who also had no desire for grandchildren. She was seven years his senior, and everything seemed fine until she fell ill. Arthur tended to her with the utmost devotion massages, feeding, even changing her nappies until she passed.
Not long after, tragedy struck again. Frances was found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances; the killer was never caught. Arthur, left alone and bitter, fell into a deep depression. Blythe, his surviving daughter, never visited him during that time. When he finally recovered enough, he decided he wanted to remarry, full of fresh energy, and the dating site helped us cross paths.
And thats how my life as Mrs. Whitby began.
All the money was Arthurs, and he turned out to be a real pennypincher. He gave the bare minimum for groceries, kept every receipt, and demanded a written account of every purchase. When I asked for a little something a new pair of pins or a lipstick he winced as if Id asked him to eat a whole lemon. Still, every year we managed to go on a cruise or a short break, which was his lifelong dream.
I treated Arthur kindly, respected his age, learned to cook his favourite dishes, looked after his health, and stayed by his side through thick and thin. But fate had a cruel twist waiting: he suffered a stroke and was rushed to the hospital. I rang his daughter Blythe straight away. She appeared instantly, but not to see her father she came straight to me.
Claire, Ive got Dads will here. Listen to this: All my movable and immovable property I bequeath to my daughter. To my wife I leave a sum to be determined by my daughter for decent living. She smiled, as if confirming a secret shed kept. It turned out Arthur had quietly changed his will in favour of Blythe, probably to ease his guilt over abandoning Frances and the twins.
Blythe never visited her dad after that, and Arthur never met his three grandsons. I thought Id stay by his side, but he slipped away at eightytwo, leaving me with only a handful of memories.
A few weeks after his death, Blythe showed up at the front door of the house wed shared.
Listen, Claire. Youll have to leave this place as soon as possible. Ill give you enough cash to get a cheap room, then you can apply for council housing. Id go back to my own country if I were you. Nothing for you here.
I could picture myself shivering on the street, cold and hungry. I told her I wasnt ready to make any decisions yet Id barely come to terms with my husbands death. She left, and I was left with a choice.
The solicitors warned me that suing would be a lost cause and that legal fees would drain whatever little I might get. By law I should have gotten fifty percent of the estate, but the altered will erased that right. I was still living in Arthurs house, and Blythe was infuriated by that.
Im moving you out, Claire. Youve taken advantage of an old, clueless man, and now you think you can keep the place? Hand over the inheritance and get out! she snapped.
In that moment a thought sparked. I rummaged through the desk and pulled out the original will Arthur had signed before his dementia set in.
Blythe, look here the first will clearly states everything belongs to me. I can prove in court that Dad, being senile, didnt understand what he was doing when he changed the document. Maybe he wrote it under pressure. I handed it to her, watching her stare, unsure.
So for a while I rented a modest flat in a cheap part of York, drove Arthurs car when I could, and scraped together a living from the little I could coax from Blythe.
These days Im married to Pierre, a charming man I met while jogging in the park with my dog, Daisy. He spotted me one morning, and we struck up conversation. I now run my own little business and keep fit, grateful that I finally found a partner who genuinely appreciates me no more dodgy wills or cold inheritances.
Its a long story, love, but I thought youd get a kick out of how a quest to secure a comfortable future with a foreign husband almost left me penniless and homeless. Cheers to the twists life throws at us!
