**There Will Be No Wedding**
“Marigold, you’re finally getting married,” said Matilda Whitmore with a smile, addressing her daughter. “I’m so glad Edmund proposed! Do you know how unreliable men are these days? Most would rather gad about and put off settling down. But Edmund is different—so hold onto him.”
“Mother, I’m hardly a bad catch myself,” Marigold teased. “I’m clever, quite pretty, and I dare say I deserve nothing less than a prince for a husband.”
“Oh, come now, a prince?” Matilda laughed. “Don’t forget, you’re thirty-five—this is rather your last chance, you know.”
The words stung. “Last chance” felt demeaning, but Marigold didn’t argue. She knew how deeply her mother worried about her only daughter’s future. Years had slipped by, and no suitors had lined up at the door. Matilda feared Marigold would never marry, never give her grandchildren.
The wedding was set for a fortnight later. Everything had been arranged—the banquet booked at the finest restaurant in York, invitations sent, bridal gowns selected. Though Marigold still wavered over the dress, undecided despite an upcoming fitting.
A knock sounded at the door. “Edmund’s here!” Matilda exclaimed, bustling to welcome their guest.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Whitmore! Good afternoon, Marigold!” Edmund greeted them. “I’ve come bearing gifts, as usual. For you, Mrs. Whitmore, a box of chocolates, and for Marigold, a bouquet.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Matilda beamed. “I still wonder how my daughter managed to catch such a remarkable man! Honestly, I can’t find a single fault in you. Do come in—Marigold’s waiting in her room.”
Marigold had known Edmund only six months. She often wondered what had drawn his attention—he worked in city governance, while she was a mere music teacher. From the start, he’d been clear: he sought a suitable wife, and his intentions were serious.
Edmund was steady, reliable—a paragon of virtue, as Matilda often said. Only five years Marigold’s senior, yet she sometimes felt like calling him *Mr. Edmund Hartwell*, as though he were her elder.
“Marigold, here are tulips for you,” he said with an air of condescension. “See? I never forget you. Now, have you sorted everything for the wedding?”
“Thank you for the flowers. Yes, most things are settled—just the dress and shoes left.”
“Mind you, on the day, you must look your absolute best. My family will be watching. Spare no expense—if you need something, buy it.”
With that, he drew banknotes from his wallet and set them on the dresser.
“For the wedding expenses. And next week, do call on my mother. She’ll give you recipes for my favourite dishes. I won’t have our marriage start with quarrels, so do take a few housekeeping lessons from her.”
“Edmund, you do recall I’m thirty-five?” Marigold said, forcing a smile. “Women my age usually know how to manage a home. Besides, shouldn’t we focus on romance just now?”
“No, Marigold, you must learn from Mother. Her house is immaculate, her cooking superb. It would be awkward if she visited after the wedding and found fault with you.”
Marigold promised to call on his mother, and Edmund, citing pressing matters, left. Strangely, she felt a pang of melancholy. She longed for lightness, for tender words—but Edmund was always stern, sparing with affection.
The next day, she went for another dress fitting. In the shop, she listlessly settled on the first gown suggested. Her heart wasn’t in it.
*This is fine,* she told herself. *I’m marrying a respectable, well-off man—just as I wanted. Many would envy me. Mother is happy. What more could I need?*
Weary, she trudged toward the bus stop, though just yesterday she’d meant to shop. Then a voice called out:
“Marigold? Is that you? What a surprise! Do you remember me?”
Of course she did. It was George—her first love. He’d left her for another girl years ago, yet now he gazed at her as though nothing had happened.
“Hello, George,” she managed, struggling to stay composed. “I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you?”
“Oh, well enough. I’ve an office nearby. Work’s grand, but my marriage didn’t last—divorced recently. But enough about me. You? Married yet?”
“Not yet. Though there is someone,” she lied, cheeks flushing. “Not sure if it’ll work out.”
“Ah,” George mused. “No rush, then? Fancy a quick coffee? I was just off to lunch.”
She agreed, though it felt reckless. Memories rushed back—how they’d talked for hours, how effortlessly happy she’d been with him.
She couldn’t stop staring. Tall, fit, with striking hazel eyes, George was a world apart from stout, plain Edmund.
An hour passed in the café before George settled the bill. As they parted, he said strangely, “I’ll ring you. Don’t read too much into it—I just enjoyed seeing you. Let’s exchange numbers, shall we?”
Marigold was elated. She was sure this was fate—meeting George on the day of her dress fitting. It had to be a sign.
At home, Matilda waited eagerly.
“Well? Did you choose the dress? Is it lovely? And the shoes? Show me!”
“Mother… there won’t be a wedding,” Marigold said coldly, retreating to her room.
The words struck like thunder. Matilda nearly fainted. “Marigold! What’s happened? Was the dress wrong? Did Edmund call it off? Good heavens, speak!”
“I don’t want a wedding. I don’t want Edmund. What sort of life would we have? Do you think he loves me? No—he wants a convenient wife, barely a step above a housemaid.”
“Marigold, what nonsense! Are you just nervous? Rest, don’t be foolish! It’s a blessing a man like Edmund would marry you! A safe, comfortable life—what more could you want?”
Marigold sank onto the sofa, barely containing her joy. “Mother… I saw George today.”
“*George?* That scoundrel who jilted you? Now I see! You’d ruin your future for him? Marigold, don’t throw your life away!”
But Marigold had made up her mind. Nothing would make her marry Edmund now.
Matilda, frantic, rang the groom. Perhaps he could talk sense into her.
But Edmund didn’t listen. He was furious. “So this is the daughter you raised? My mother warned me about your family. I won’t grovel—forget you ever knew me!”
Matilda was crushed. She’d dreamed of this wedding, of grandchildren, of seeing her daughter happy. Yet Marigold felt only relief—she’d nearly made a terrible mistake. And now, she waited for George’s call.
At first, she wasn’t worried. He was busy, perhaps mustering courage.
But a week passed. No word. She checked her phone endlessly.
*Fine, I’ll call him,* she decided. *Always so unreliable.*
No answer. Then, an hour later, he rang back.
“Marigold? Ah, work’s been mad—I quite forgot. What did you need?”
“Oh, nothing. Just… thought I’d call,” she said lamely.
“Right, well, I’m swamped. Maybe we’ll talk later?”
“Or—or we could meet tomorrow? That same café?” she blurted.
“Listen, Marigold,” George said after a pause. “It was grand seeing you. But why dredge up the past? There’s no future for us. You didn’t take this seriously, did you?”
“Of course not,” she lied, tears pricking her eyes. “Just passing the time. And—I’m engaged, actually.”
She hung up in horror. How could she have been so foolish? She’d thrown over Edmund for George—and now she was alone again.
Fortunately, Matilda, wise as ever, comforted her.
“It’s for the best, dear. What joy is there in a loveless marriage? Forget George—he isn’t worth you. You’ll meet someone worthy, just wait.”
Marigold never saw Edmund or George again. And though her heart ached, she clung to hope—someday, she’d find her happiness.
