In days long past, in the heart of London, a stern-faced man named Reginald Whitmore set down a pen and a blank sheet of paper before a young fellow named Archibald Fairchild. “Right then, Archibald,” he said, his voice firm, “youll write your resignation this instant. Here and now.”
Archibald blinked in confusion. “Hows that, sir? Have I not done well? Only this month, I closed three deals.”
“Thirty wouldnt matter. Downsizing, restructuringyoure not a fit for this company, and thats final.”
“Or is this about your daughter? About Eleanor? Ill see her still, mark my words. Well marry, even if I must sweep streets for a living.”
“Never. Not in a thousand years. Ill not have a rake like you for a son-in-law! There are decent suitors enough for a girl like my Eleanor. Keep your distance, or youll regret it!”
When Archibald first joined the firm, hed no notion of courting the bosss daughter. Hed not even known Eleanor then. Fresh from Oxford with honours, hed set his sights on property sales, for he had a knack for charming clients and closing lucrative deals. Reginald himself had recruited him after his internship. And now, here he was, forcing him to resign, all because of Eleanor.
It was true Archibald had once been a bit of a ladies man. He kept himself well, dressed smartly, drove a fine motorcara catch by any measure. But marriage? The thought hadnt crossed his mind. There was time enough for family later, once hed made his fortune.
His parents, of course, had other ideas. His mother often introduced him to girls from “good families,” as she put it. But while their families mightve been respectable, the girls themselves left much to be desiredeither in looks or wit.
Once, his mother invited a colleague home, a Miss Angelica, under the pretence of finishing some paperwork. Angelica was striking, with legs so fine theyd turn heads on Bond Street. Even Archibald was momentarily stunned.
Seizing the moment, his mother gushed, “Angelicas new to the accounts department, but already beloved. And her scones, Archieyouve never tasted the like!”
“Ill bring some round,” Angelica purred, batting her lashes. “And I do love pickling beetroot.”
That mention of beetroot ruined everything. Visions of a cluttered kitchenjars of preserves, nappies on the line, a pot of stew boiling overflashed before him. He made his escape soon after, citing an urgent meeting.
Thered been others, of course. Imogen, a shopgirl at the local grocer, had been pleasant company. Theyd met often, and when Archibald needed a companion for a barbecue with strangers, hed invited her along. The outing went well, and they continued seeing one another. Reginald even approved.
“Thats a proper girl,” hed said. “Looks at you like you hung the moon. Dont dallysuch lasses arent common. High time you settled down.”
“Marriage isnt on my mind,” Archibald had foolishly replied. “Weve no strings attached.”
“You cant live that way forever,” Reginald scoffed, turning a skewer over the fire. “But suit yourself.”
Soon after, Imogen transferred shops, and their fling ended. Gossip had it shed married some wealthy older chap. Archibald felt no stingno promises had been made.
Then came Eleanor. They met at a dog show, both admirers of Dobermans, though neither could own onehe was rarely home, and her father had allergies. Little did Archibald know that father was Reginald.
Fate, however, had other plans. Their courtship grew serious. He often walked her home, though never to the doorshe wasnt ready for her parents to see him. Theyd part at a bench in the square, stealing kisses away from prying eyes.
One evening, Reginald, out for a stroll, stumbled upon them. His roar couldve shaken the heavens.
“You know who this is?” he thundered, jabbing a finger at Archibald.
“My intended,” Eleanor said simply. “Ive been meaning to introduce you.”
“Were acquainted! Dyou know how many like you hes had? I know some of them!”
The row that followed was anything but civil. Archibald tried to reason with the furious father, but Reginald would hear none of it, dragging Eleanor home like a child caught out past bedtime.
The next day, he summoned Archibald to his office and forced the resignation. Pleading his love for Eleanor was futileReginald was unmoved.
As he left, Archibald vowed, “Well see each other still.”
“Oh, aye, likely story,” Reginald sneered, loosening his collar. “My daughter needs no gadabout, and Ill have no such son-in-law.”
“Truth be told, Ive no great fondness for you as a father-in-law either.”
And so they parted. Reginald kept his wordEleanor vanished. Hed whisked her off to his brothers in Manchester, keeping her near prisoner, cut off from the world.
Then, by chance, a forgotten mobile allowed her to call Archibald. They plotted an escape during her next supervised walk. He secured a flatthey couldnt risk her father finding them. A wedding would wait; how could they wed without her family?
Eleanors mother knew where they were but stayed awayReginald had forbidden it. He later discovered their address but never came. “Ive no daughter now,” he declared, “and certainly no son-in-law.”
Life went on. Then came the newsEleanor was with child. Joy touched all but Reginald, though he finally relented, allowing his wife to visit.
In time, a boy, Benedict, was born. Archibald, waiting outside the hospital with flowers, had never been so nervous. Eleanors mother arrived, weeping quietly with joy.
Just before Eleanor appeared with the babe, Reginald materialised. He glared at Archibald, then muttered, “Theres champagne and fruit in the motor. Suppose we ought to celebrate.”
Eleanor emerged, spotting her father. She smiled. “I knew youd come.”
He shuffled awkwardly. “Not for you. For the lad. Let me hold himought to meet my grandson.”
And somehow, they all laughed.
So ends this tale of love, resilience, and kindness.
