So, there was this bloke named Edward Whitaker, a proper well-off farmer in the Cotswoldsrolling fields, loads of sheep, the whole lot. At seventy, hed seen his fair share of life, good and bad. His first wife, Margaret, had passed a decade back, leaving him with three daughters, all married off now, busy with their own families. They visited often, but Edward couldnt shake this nagging feelinghe had no son to carry on the family name, no one to inherit the farm. It ate away at him, this idea that his legacy would just… end.
Then he got it into his headhed marry again. Yeah, at his age! The village near Chipping Norton nearly lost their minds when they heard. But Edward didnt care. He still reckoned he had it in him to father a son, no matter what anyone muttered behind his back.
His eyes landed on this young lass, Emily Hartley, barely twenty, from a struggling family down the lane. Her folks were drowning in debt, her little brother poorly, medicines they couldnt afford. Edward made an offer: a hefty sum, and Emilys hand in marriage. Her parents, desperate, agreed. Emily didnt kick up a fussshe knew what it meant. That night, she sat with her mum by the fire, tears in her eyes, whispering, Hope hes kind to me. Ill do what I must.
The wedding was a proper spectacle. Edward wanted everyone to seehe might be old, but he wasnt done yet. The village turned out, all whispers and sideways glances. Poor girl, some women tutted. Ridiculous, at his age, others scoffed. But Edward walked tall, chest puffed out, Emily beside him, smiling when she had to, sick with dread underneath.
That night, after the guests left, Edward poured himself a stiff drinksome tonic he swore would put fire back in him. He took Emilys hand, all eager, saying, Tonight, love, our life begins. She forced a smile, heart hammering, as he led her to the bedroom.
Thenjust like thathe clutched his chest, gasped, and dropped onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. Emily screamed, neighbors came running, his daughters barged in, already in black like theyd known. They rushed him to hospital, but it was too late. Heart attack, the doctor said. Too much strain.
The village talked, of course. Couldnt even give her a son, they snickered. Poetic justice, that. Emily, now a widow at twenty, just stood there, numb. The money had cleared her familys debts, saved her brotherbut what about her?
After the funeral, she walked through the village, feeling every stare. Young widow, they called her. Whitakers last mistake. Shed done her duty, but her life? Felt like it was over before it began.
And thats how Edwards grand plan for an heir endednot with a son, but with a coffin. And Emily? Stuck with a title she never wanted, and a story the village wouldnt let her forget.
