The First Pancake Always Comes Out Wrong
Emmeline was a comely lass of seven-and-twenty. Her life unfolded like an old ballad—”We choose, we are chosen, how oft the two do not meet…” Many a lad fancied her, but most wanted everything at once—or rather, to whisk her straight to bed. Why dawdle? Such were the times. Opportunities missed were opportunities lost, snatched up by another.
She had grown up in a household of women. Her upbringing lay in the hands of her grandmother and mother, genteel and proper ladies. Her name, too, bore heritage—bestowed in honour of a great-great-grandmother raised in a school for noble maidens, in that other, long-gone England.
Her grandfather had passed early, and her mother parted from her husband when Emmeline was but twelve. From girlhood, she adored books where romantic heroes defended their beloveds’ honour, braved all to save them from cold, hunger, and misfortune. Emmeline dreamed of such love—pure and selfless, with stolen kisses under the moon. Modern though she was, knowing full well how the world turned, this was the love she yearned for.
Yet most lads these days lacked all refinement and restraint. They rushed through life, seizing pleasures where they could. A flower—nay, a single rose—on the first outing, and from kisses, they leapt straight to more intimate affairs. No moonlit strolls. Flowers hereafter came only on birthdays or anniversaries—if the affair lasted long enough to warrant a wedding.
No romance to speak of. Though some maidens fancied this haste—why waste time on courtship and idle chatter when one might indulge the flesh?
Emmeline could not abide such hurried passions. She fell headlong, her heart fluttering, stomach a-swarm with butterflies—only to suffer as her beloved dragged another girl, sometimes even her own friend, to bed. Men were eager to sow wild oats while wives and children remained distant prospects.
Her friends had long since married, borne babes, divorced, wed again, and borne more. Weary-eyed, they asked her when she, too, would find her prince. Yet fate’s chosen one remained elusive—perhaps never to appear at all.
Dreams were fine, but time marched onward. Fewer bachelors lingered about her; more often, divorced men. Waiting wearied her. Her heart ached for love. Then she met a decent sort—handsome enough, with a motorcar and a flat to boot. A fine match, surely? And so she plunged headlong into love.
Time passed, yet Edmund never spoke of marriage. Then came the truth—he already had a wife. Not out of malice, nor deceit. Love had addled his wits. Yet Emmeline had never asked. Besides, he and his wife lived apart. No need for divorce—until Emmeline came along. Now he’d see to it, starting tomorrow.
Overjoyed, she never thought to ask of children. But a child there was—nay, is.
Love-struck, Emmeline waited patiently for her beau to free himself, that she might have him wholly. And waited she did—only to learn he’d surrendered the motorcar to his erstwhile wife for her consent. The flat, too, he left her—too small to divide, and he’d not haggle over shares. A gentleman’s gesture. Now he stood penniless, saddled with mortgage debt and alimony.
Was this what Emmeline had dreamed of? Prudence bade her leave the hapless Edmund. Yet her upbringing forbade it. Knowing her mother and grandmother would fret, she spared them the truth. They’d raised her to stand by her beloved through want and woe. So, like a soldier’s wife, she resolved to share his burdens.
If suspicions stirred in her family, it was too late to intervene. Especially when Edmund, at last, proposed—plunging deeper into debt to stage a lavish wedding.
The newlyweds dwelled in rented rooms, a fact Emmeline kept quiet. She was happy enough. Come what may, they’d endure together. Any misgivings she brushed aside—what use were doubts now, with a babe soon to come? She welcomed the child, though feared how they’d manage. Too many debts, too little coin.
Edmund sought extra work, returning late and collapsing into bed. Mornings saw him depart with a sullen glance at his slumbering wife.
So Emmeline had her heart’s desire—or so she pretended before kin. Yet they saw through the charade. Time wore on; her belly swelled. Dread took hold—how would they live? She worked not; Edmund’s earnings vanished like sand through fingers, swallowed by debts and rent. Her coat strained over her girth; winter loomed. The babe would need much, and they had naught.
Sleepless nights found her pondering escape. How had she stumbled into this mire? Rose-coloured spectacles long shattered, what love remained?
“I’ll think of something,” Edmund vowed, returning ever later, claiming work—yet coin grew scarcer.
“The rent’s due. Leave me some,” Emmeline begged one morn.
“Forgive me—I paid a debt. Ask your mother.”
So she did. Yet whence came their spare coin? Never wealthy, they scraped together what they could.
“Pay this month, then what? Leave him. We’ll manage,” her grandmother urged.
Emmeline raged at Edmund in shame and misery.
“You’re on leave. Find work yourself,” he retorted.
“Who hires a woman great with child?”
“Unofficial work, then. Use your wits.”
Easy said. To earn, one needed seed money. So Emmeline chose tutoring—her education fit, her English fluent. School lessons left pupils muddled; the curriculum crammed too much, leaving true learning aside.
She began with friends’ children, then word spread. In these times, language was vital. Soon ’twas not she begging coin from Edmund, but he from her.
After the birth, once recovered, she resumed teaching, cradling her babe—in those moments, fears faded.
Friends brought a pram, a crib, clothes enough for years. Then one revealed the truth: Edmund’s “extra work” was evenings spent with a upstairs neighbour—seen plain as day.
Confronted, he denied all, raged at her credulity.
“Envy? Of our debts and rented hovel? Invent better lies,” Emmeline spat, tears brimming—yet what good were they?
After more strife, she resolved to leave. Edmund pleaded, swore to mend, to love her and their son. Yet weary of false hope, she scoffed:
“Faithless and false. Apt only at sowing bastards. It shan’t improve.” With her babe, she returned to her mother and grandmother—who welcomed them gladly.
Once her son grew, Emmeline found proper work. Life mended. She swore never to wed again—who’d want her, a mother already? Her son would be her world.
Then came Edmund’s mother, urging reconciliation. A lad needs his father! Edmund repented, grew steady.
Her son chimed in: “Win her back. Dig deep, but do it. You’re a man. Flowers, gifts, attention—women adore it. And cease tomcatting.”
Edmund bought roses, knelt weeping before Emmeline, even proffered a ring.
“Did your doxy discard you? Unwanted with two wives, babes, and alimony? Save your breath—I’ll not return,” she said, sharp as a blade.
At work, she spurned all suitors—unready, still healing.
Yet one persisted—undaunted by her child. He wooed her with care, won her son’s heart. Her family hoped this time, luck might favour her.
Edmund, upon hearing, stormed in, branding her a hypocrite.
“So this is why you left! Playing chaste whilst dallying behind my back!” he roared, forgetting she’d quit him long prior. What matter now?
“I’ll see my son. No stranger shall raise him. I’m his father—”
“Now you recall him? Too late. Should’ve thought sooner, not strayed. Begone,” said Emmeline.
His mother swooped in with gifts, pleading anew—a boy needs his true father! No stepfather could love him as his own…
“I think of him. He needs no father who scarce saw him, ever absent. Where were you when we starved? Now I work, and you’d have me return to ease your son’s lot?”
Edmund saw the boy sometimes, yet fumbled for words. Whining of his woes, he’d leave—until next time.
Meanwhile, Emmeline’s life bloomed. Her suitor proposed. No grand wedding—a quiet registry and café gathering sufficed. Her first had brought no joy. Her son thrived, soon for school.
Once, Edmund called, feigning longing to see the boy. Emmeline saw through it—a scout’s errand—yet agreed. Spying her new ring, he sulked:
“You’ve wed? What of me?”
“Think sooner. Recall why I left.”
“He’ll raise my child?” Edmund pressed.
“YouAnd so life carried on—Emmeline at last content, her son cherished, while Edmund remained forever chasing shadows, never quite grasping what he had lost.
