**A Lesson for the Husband**
“Enough! My patience has run out!” bellowed Edmund the moment he and Emily stepped into their flat. “Will you ever learn to hold your tongue?”
“What did I even say?” Emily protested.
“You have to ask?” Edmund sneered. “You, my dear, have crossed every line! It’s high time you were taught some manners!”
“Edmund, what on earth is the matter?” Emily retreated as she spoke.
“The matter is that your behaviour is beyond unsatisfactory! You’re all airs and graces, yet you’ve the cheek of a duchess!”
“Not everyone can be a towering brute like you!” Emily shot back. “A woman ought to be delicate and refined!”
“And quiet, obedient, and biddable—qualities you sorely lack!” Edmund unbuckled his belt and slid it free. “You’ll learn your place, as my forefathers decreed!”
“Have you lost your mind?” Emily edged away. “You mean to strike me?”
“To correct you!” His grin was sharp. “And to punish that sharp tongue of yours! You near gave my mother a heart attack today!”
“Well, she shouldn’t spout such nonsense!” Emily snapped. “Why should I trade my heels—which I’d brought in a bag, mind—for her foul slippers? At my height, I’ll not shuffle about like some downtrodden housemaid!”
“Perfectly decent slippers!” Edmund advanced. “For guests!”
“Since when must guests scrub dishes and scour the stove?” Emily tilted her head. “And I won’t be ordered about!”
“Which is why you’ll learn better tonight! You’re my wife, yet you carry on like some spoiled princess. I’ll see you humbled, that you may respect your husband—and his parents!”
“Let them behave decently first!” Emily darted into the next room. “They’re rude as anything, and I’m to hold my tongue? You should’ve stood up for me! Look how slight I am—hardly a match for them!” She pouted but kept a wary eye on him.
“If you acted according to your stature, no one would slight you! But no—you must always have your say. Well, I’ll beat it out of you!”
“Please don’t!” She sniffled, pressing against the wall. “You’ll hurt me!”
“Oh, I will,” Edmund said, pleased. “I’ll make sure you never forget your place again! Petite as you are, you strut about like some crowned head!”
“No!” She shrieked, curling into a ball. “Please, no!”
Edmund stepped close, belt raised. “Oh, yes. A wilful shrew like you needs a firm hand—or you’ll never learn!”
His first meeting with Emily’s parents had left a mark on Edmund’s memory.
Charles, who insisted on being called “Papa Charlie,” had gripped Edmund’s hand too long, then embraced him fiercely.
“Son! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you! All my life I’ve longed for a boy, but Margaret bore me only this lass and called it quits! I dreamed of fishing trips, football matches, hunting—proper father-and-son things! Not all this frippery!” He clapped Edmund’s shoulder. “But with you, my boy, we’ll make up for lost time!”
“Glad to hear it, Papa Charlie,” Edmund said, flustered. “Though I’m no angler.”
“Never fret! None of us are born experts!” Papa Charlie laughed. “What matters is I’ve a son at last! I’ll teach you all of it—whatever you like!”
“If time permits…”
“You don’t understand what joy you bring me!” The man’s eyes gleamed. “With them, there’s nothing to discuss!” He jerked his chin toward his wife and daughter. “But you and I—we’ll talk motors, the cosmos, set the world to rights!”
Margaret steered her husband aside and gestured Edmund to the table. “Forgive him—it’s a sore point. Five sisters, and he works in a office full of women. He near abandoned me at the hospital when I bore him a daughter. Now, at last, he’s a confidant!”
“I’ll do what I can,” Edmund said modestly.
“I’m sure you will.” Margaret smiled. “You’ve no idea how he’s longed for a son! He even tried raising Emily as a lad—thank heavens I intervened in time! A girl ought to be gentle, sweet, refined.” She shot her husband a look. “Not whatever you wished to make her!”
Papa Charlie scowled at both but beamed at Edmund.
“You see?” Margaret sighed. “He still resents us. Sometimes he’ll come home bursting to share something, then remember it’s ‘not women’s talk.’ Off he stomps, cursing under his breath. There are days we scarce exchange a word. But since you entered our lives, Edmund,” she patted his hand, “he’s been a new man!”
“Should he grow tiresome, don’t hesitate to say so. I’ll rein him in.”
“No, no! Not at all. I’m sure we’ll get on famously.”
And so they did. Papa Charlie claimed Edmund as his own and wasted no time airing grievances.
“You’ve no idea how thrilled I am to have another man in the family! Together we’ll outnumber them at last! Living among women is unbearable! Slip up and swear—as one does—and it’s all ‘Soldiers belong in barracks, this is a respectable home!’ Can’t even pad about in my underthings! Margaret starts in—‘This isn’t a beach or a bathhouse! Have some decency!’ And Emily’s just as bad! ‘Ew, Papa!’” He dragged a finger across his throat. “Their ‘ews’ sit right here!”
“Delicate creatures, what can you do?” Edmund offered.
“Delicate? They’re downright translucent! On a diet? Then starve the lot of us—nothing but cabbage and spinach in the icebox! Might as well beg the neighbours for a proper meal!”
“I meant in temperament.”
“Bah! Took me to the theatre once—pure drivel! Lovers pining, betrayals, endless weeping! I slipped out at intermission and never returned. They scolded me for weeks! Now I play chauffeur—drop them off, pick them up. Galleries, concerts, operas—enough to kill a man with refinement!”
“A woman’s meant to be cultured,” Edmund said.
“I chose Margaret for her meekness—kept to her place. But I’d thought she’d bear me a son! Then all would’ve been grand. Instead—” He waved a hand. “God gave me a daughter. Only comfort is she brought you home!”
“Papa Charlie, we’ll live apart once we’re wed,” Edmund reminded him.
“Quite right! Lock your refined miss away—let her stew soup! I’ll do the same! Then you and I will live as men ought!”
From these confessions, Edmund gleaned that Papa Charlie cared little for his daughter. Margaret had raised her, and the two were near inseparable—petite, willowy, sharp-witted. Well-educated, neither shied from voicing opinions.
“Emily, love,” Edmund coaxed once, “must we quarrel? Art’s subjective.”
“Oh, but let’s! Truth must prevail!”
“Suppose it does—we’ll still fall out! What difference does Turner or Constable make?”
“Just say you yield!” She stuck out her tongue, laughing.
Worse clashes followed.
“Was silence so hard? Stash those boxes in the attic, toss them later—done!” Edmund groaned.
“If you meant to discard them, why bring them home?” Emily frowned.
“Blast it, was it worth vexing my mother? We’ve been wed but six months—too soon for children—but her notions differ!”
“Then let her keep them to herself!” Emily huffed.
“Four boxes of old clothes—hardly a crisis!”
“No, thank you! My child will have new things, not moth-eaten relics!”
“Why tell her that? She took to her smelling salts after!”
“And why scold me? If you agreed it’s junk, you should’ve refused! Be a man—say history’s clutter stays with her!”
“Enough! I’ll go apologise for you…”
“Toss it in the bin if she foists it on you again!”
“Listen well,” Edmund glowered. “I’ll mend this, and you—pray God—will cease provoking her! An apology from you would delight me!”
“For your sake, then. But not today—I need to calm down.”
Emily never warmed to her in-laws. Edmund often rode over to apologise, then coaxed half-hearted amends from her.
Two years passed thus.
Then, during another apology, Edmund’s parents—Henry and Eleanor—steered the talk elsewhere.
“How long will you blush for your wife’s conduct?” Henry asked. “A grown man grovelling—disgrace
