Darling, my lady, Edward Whitaker whispered, pressing a sealed will into my trembling hand. Youre the only name that matters in it. Ive provided for my daughtershell have no claim on you. His lips brushed my wrist in a courteous kiss, the ink still fresh on the parchment.
His words warmed me, and my respect for my English husband deepened. I had never needed a prenuptial agreement or a solicitors counsel; I trusted his honour and good nature. How naïve I was.
I had met Edward through an online correspondence. I dreamed of marrying a foreigner. I lived in Manchester, already retired, and found no prospect of marrying a peer of my ageno desire to settle for a frail old man to tend in his twilight years. Abroad, I imagined spry seniors, full of life, still travelling. Edward was seventysix; I was fiftyfive, the same age as his daughter, Amy.
Our letters spanned a year, each exchange pulling us closer, our personalities rubbing against one another like old cloth. Finally I boarded a train to York, determined to become Mrs. Whitaker. At the station a tall, impeccably dressed gentleman waited, clutching a modest bouquet of wilted roses. The sight should have sent me fleeing back to Manchester, but the drama had only just begun. The roses, their scent faded, lay limp in my hands.
Edward ushered me into his sleek black car and drove me to his grand house. A modest lunch for two awaited in the dining room. I asked for a vase for the sad roses; he handed me a shallow glass of water. The moment I placed the blooms inside, their petals crumbled to dusta silent omen, perhaps.
We both understood that love was a distant dream. I needed financial security; he needed a companion to look after him. Two lonely, middleaged souls had found a convenient arrangement.
He promised to name me his sole heir if he ever passed. As it turned out, a promise is not a deed.
Soon after, we were married in a quiet ceremony. I became Evelyn Whitaker. Only a handful of guests attended: Edwards daughter with her husband and three children, and an old family friends couple. I was his third wife. From his first marriage two twin daughters, Frances and Amy, had been bornthough Edward had always opposed children, yearning instead for selfimprovement and travel. His first wife, against his wishes, bore the twins. He adored them, yet never forgave her for defying him.
When the girls turned eighteen, Edward left the family in a dramatic, public walkout. His wife could not survive his departure; she died in her sleep two years later. He left the threestorey house, a country villa, three cars, and his businessnow transferred to Francesin his will to the children.
He later found another senior, a woman seven years his senior, who also had no desire for children. Their life unfolded smoothly until his elderly second wife fell ill. Edward tended to her with tender devotionmassages, feeding, even changing nappiesuntil she finally slipped away.
Tragedy struck again when Frances was found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances; her killer was never identified. Edward sank into a bleak depression. His daughter Amy never visited him during those dark months. When he recovered enough to consider remarriage, the internets dating site led him to methe very woman who would become his final spouse.
Our married life began under a cloud of frugality. Edward controlled every penny, handing me the bare minimum for groceries, demanding receipts for every purchase, and grimacing like hed swallowed a lemon when I asked for a new lipstick. Yet each year we escaped on a cruise or a guided tourhis lifelong dream fulfilled.
I learned to cherish him, respect his age, master his favourite dishes, monitor his health, and stay by his side through storm and sunshine. Then a sudden stroke robbed him of speech. The ambulance whisked him to intensive care, and I called his daughter immediately. Amy arrived, not for her father, but for me, clutching the new will.
Evelyn, Ive brought Dads will, she announced. He leaves all movable and immovable property to his daughter. He leaves the wife a sum to be decided by his daughter for a decent living. It became clear Edward had, in secret, rewritten his testament in Amys favour, haunted by guilt over the girls hed abandoned and the mother hed caused to die.
Amy, still nursing a silent resentment toward her father, never set foot in our home again. The three grandchildren were strangers to Edward. I, expecting the promised support, found myself alone beside a dying man while his daughter plotted.
For six months I tended Edward in the hospital, feeding him with a spoon, smoothing his hand, speaking to a mind that no longer recognised me. He was eightytwo when death finally claimed him.
On the threshold of the house we had shared, Amy appeared.
So, Evelyn, youll have to leave this house quickly. Ill give you a modest sum to rent a cheap room, then youll get council housing. You should return to Manchester. Theres nothing for you here.
I imagined myself shivering on a cold street, hunger gnawing at my bones.
Dont tell me what to do, Amy, I snapped, still raw from my husbands loss. I havent even recovered yet. Lets speak later.
Half a year later, my solicitor warned that suing over the will would be futile and would drain my meagre savings. By law I should inherit fifty percent of the estate, yet Edwards revised testament erased that right.
I still lived in his house, a fact that infuriated Amy.
Get out, Evelyn. Youve captured an old, mindless man, and now you think you can stay? Hand over the inheritance and be gone!
A desperate thought sparked. I produced the original will from under the desk.
Amy, here is the first will, where according to Dad, everything belongs to me. I can prove in court that he was suffering from senile dementia when he rewrote it. Perhaps he signed under duress. I watched her stare, her resolve wavering.
For a time I rented a cheap flat in a rough part of York, driving Edwards car to scrape together a living from the modest allowance Amy grudgingly sent. Eventually I met Peter Clarke, a widower, in the park where I ran each morning with his Labrador, Baxter. He was taken by my determination, and we soon married.
Now, as Mrs. Clarke, I watch the sunrise over the lake, grateful that a chance encounter in a park could replace a life of misery with one of quiet hope. The English countryside may be damp, but its people still cherish a good story of survival.
