I remember it as if it were a tale from another age, the kind that haunts the mind long after the embers have died. My dear, Ladymy name was Sarahmy husband Reginald had shown me his will and said, You are the sole beneficiary. I have provided for our daughter, so she will have no claims against you. He pressed a kiss to my hand, the parchment trembling in his grasp.
It pleased me to hear those words, and I grew ever more reverent toward my English husband. In truth I had never needed a prenuptial agreement or any insurance; I trusted in decency and humanity. I was wrong.
Reginald and I had first corresponded through an online penfriend service. I yearned to marry a foreigner. At the time I lived in Manchester, already retired, and the prospect of marrying a man my own age held no appeal. I did not wish to care for an ailing old father; that was a notion I could not stomach. Abroad, the elderly were often spry, lively, and even travelled.
Reginald was seventysix; I was fiftyfive, the same age as his daughter Ethel. Our letters stretched over a year, during which we grew familiar, our temperaments rubbing together like old wool.
When the moment came, I journeyed to York with a single purposeto become Reginalds wife. He met me at the station, a tall, brisk gentleman clutching a modest bouquet of roses that had clearly seen better days. I thought of turning back then, but the drama had only just begun. The wilted roses were thrust into my hands; they no longer emitted any perfume.
Reginald escorted me in his car to his grand house. A modest luncheon awaited us for two. I asked for a vase for the sad roses; he handed me a simple glass of water. The moment I placed the blossoms in it, the pink petals fell apart, like a sign from above.
Both of us understood that love was not our aim. I needed financial security; Reginald sought a companion to look after him. Two solitary, middleaged lives had found a convenient match. He promised to make me the sole heir to all his assets when he passed. As I would later discover, a promise is not the same as a deed.
Our wedding was unpretentious. I became Mrs. Morley. Present were Reginalds daughter Frances and her husband with their three children, and an old family acquaintance. I was his third wife. In his first marriage Reginald had fathered twin girlsFrances and Ethelthough he had always opposed having children, preferring a life of selfimprovement and travel. His first wife, however, gave birth against his wishes. Reginald adored the twins, but he never forgave his wife for defying him.
When the girls turned eighteen, Reginald left his family in a very public fashion. His wife could not bear his departure and died in her sleep two years later. He left behind a threestorey house, a country cottage, three cars, and a business he transferred to Frances.
Reginald soon found another old lady, seven years his senior, who likewise had no desire for children. Their arrangement ran smoothly until the new wife fell ill. Reginald tended to her with the tenderness of a sonmassages, feeding, even changing diapersuntil she passed.
Then tragedy struck again. Frances was found dead on a lonely roadside under mysterious circumstances; no murder was ever solved. Reginald fell into a deep depression. Throughout this gloom his other daughter, Ethel, never visited him.
When I had recovered enough from my grief, Reginald, rejuvenated by a burst of vigor, decided he would marry again. The internets dating sites aided him, and that is how I first met my English husband.
Life as Mrs. Morley began. Reginald controlled all the money. He seemed a miser, handing out the bare minimum for groceries, scrutinising every receipt, demanding written accounts of any purchase. When I asked for a few pounds for a new dress or lipstick, he made a sour face as if I had offered him a lemon. Yet each year we did travelcruises, excursionshis longheld dream.
I treated Reginald with kindness, pitied his age, learned his favourite recipes, tended to his health, and stayed by his side through thick and thin, as the saying goes.
Then a cruel illness came: a stroke. Ambulances whisked him to the infirmary. I called his daughter immediately. She arrived not to see her father, but to confront me:
Sarah, Ive brought Fathers will. Listen to this: All movable and immovable property I bequeath to my daughter. To my wife, a sum to be determined by my daughter for a respectable livelihood.
It meant Reginald had secretly altered his will in favour of Frances, feeling guilty for having abandoned his family and for the death of his first wife. Ethel, still nursing her resentment, never set foot in our home, and Reginald never met his three grandchildren.
I thought I would sit beside my ailing husband, but his daughter was already circling the estate like a vulture. I spent six months nursing Reginald in the hospital, feeding him from a spoon, gently stroking his hand, and talking to him as his mind slipped further away. He no longer recognised anyone; he lived in his own world. I had no intention of battling Ethel over the will.
When Reginald, then eightytwo, finally succumbed, a woman I recognised as Ethel appeared at the doorway of the house we had shared.
Now listen, Sarah. Youll have to leave this house as soon as possible. Ill give you a modest sum to rent a cheap room, then the council will sort you some social housing. Id go back to my own country if I were you. Theres nothing here for you.
I imagined myself shivering on the street, cold and hungry.
Dont lecture me, Ethel. Im still grieving for your father. Lets speak later, I replied, bewildered.
Six months later, solicitors advised me against taking the case; it was a loselose battle with astronomical legal costs. Although I was entitled to fifty per cent of the estate, the altered will erased that right. I still lived in Reginalds house, a fact that infuriated Ethel.
Get out, Sarah. Not only have you stolen a senile old man, you wont even be evicted! Hand over the inheritance! she snarled.
A thought struck me. I produced the original will from a drawer.
Ethel, here is the first will signed by your father, which clearly leaves everything to me. I can prove in court that, while suffering from senile dementia, he was not aware when he rewrote the document. Perhaps he was coerced.
Ethel fell silent, considering my words.
Thus I spent some time renting a modest room in a quiet part of York, using Reginalds car sparingly, and eking out a living on the meagre sum Ethel grudgingly allowed.
Today I am married to Peter, who first noticed me while walking his small terrier, Brindle, in the park where I used to jog each morning. I keep fit, stay in decent shape, and cherish the simple pleasures of English life. The widower Peter was smitten with me; after all, English gentlemen have long had a soft spot for ladies from the north.
