The Belated Gift: How Margaret Nearly Lost Face
Margaret Whitmore had been on edge since dawn—the day of her son’s wedding. Everything had to be perfect: the banquet at London’s finest restaurant, photographers, live music, waiters in crisp uniforms, champagne flowing freely. Her dear Edward, her pride and joy, was getting married! But to whom? Some provincial girl with a questionable past. To think—he’d taken her in, lifted her up, and now brought her into their home. Margaret had known at once: this Eleanor was after their townhouse.
When the newlyweds entered the hall, the guests rose. Margaret and her husband, Gregory Whitmore, stepped forward with practised grace and presented a bulging envelope of banknotes. Everything done to the highest standard. Then came the bride’s parents—empty-handed. Margaret narrowed her eyes and leaned toward Gregory.
“Hardly a surprise. Country folk,” she muttered with a smirk.
But then Eleanor’s father, Arthur Pembroke, reached into his coat pocket and produced a small box. He opened it. Margaret’s breath caught at the sight of keys. Arthur’s voice was steady, firm:
“Dearest children, may your home always be filled with light and warmth. And to ensure you have one—here are the keys to a flat in Mayfair. Yours.”
Silence. Then the room erupted in applause. Only Margaret stood pale as parchment, her fingers trembling. Impossible! These “rustics”? A flat in London’s most coveted postcode?
Suddenly, shame washed over her—shame for every snide remark, every disdainful glance, that wretched prenuptial agreement she’d all but forced upon them. Shame for not bothering to learn who Eleanor truly was. For this “provincial girl” turned out to be the daughter of a prosperous dairy magnate, managed a division in a respected firm, and was a thousand times cleverer and kinder than Margaret had ever imagined.
It had all begun with plain suspicion.
“Darling, she’s not for you,” she’d told Edward. “She only wants our townhouse. Look how she clings to you.”
“Mum, enough. We love each other. She’s genuine, good-hearted.”
But Margaret wouldn’t relent. She’d phoned Gregory, demanding he intervene. He’d brushed her off: “Let him decide—he’s a grown man.” She’d called their family friend, Leonard—who worked with Edward and, as it turned out, with Eleanor too. He’d sided with the couple:
“Eleanor’s brilliant. Top of her field, lovely character. You’re lucky to have her as a daughter-in-law!”
Still, Margaret pressed on. So she devised another plan—blackmail:
“You want this wedding? Then sign a prenup. The townhouse stays ours, full stop. And you won’t live with us—find your own place.”
Eleanor had agreed without fuss:
“Of course, if it puts your mind at ease.”
Margaret had eyed her suspiciously. “Clever little thing. Giving in so easily… Something’s amiss.”
She’d overseen every wedding detail herself, ensuring all was impeccable. She’d wanted the world to see her son deserved the best. Only now did she realise who the “best” truly was—far too late. While she’d boasted of her “well-connected” relatives at the engagement party, Eleanor’s mother, a quiet, gracious woman, had simply smiled.
But upon hearing of the prenup, she’d finally spoken up:
“My dear Eleanor… Family isn’t built on contracts, but trust. If this is how we begin, why marry at all?”
Eleanor had soothed her. And Margaret, deep down, had felt the ground slipping away.
Now, at the height of the celebration, she stood before hundreds of eyes with nowhere to hide. Her “poor” daughter-in-law—an heiress. Her parents—not “backwater nobodies,” but respected businessfolk. And most painfully, they’d given more than Margaret could ever afford. Her knees nearly buckled. She wished to vanish.
From that moment, she barely partook in the festivities, pushing food about her plate in silence. Everything she’d built—her delusions, her pride, her snobbery—lay in ruins. Only emptiness and shame remained.
Worst of all, Edward now regarded her differently. The trust in his eyes had dimmed. He understood. Understood everything.
Margaret understood too. Only far too late.
