A Loveless Marriage

Chapter 1: Mary

Most love stories end with a wedding. Mine started with one, to a man that I barely knew. We stood together, pale and solemn, making vows that meant nothing. Guilt and shame flooded my heart as the vicar pronounced us man and wife. I glanced over at the two other people in the church, also strangers. A pinched face seamstress and a half-drunk costermonger, hardly the congregation I would have imagined at my wedding. My gaze returned to the face of the man I'd just married, his cool blue eyes meet mine with amusement. He stepped forward with certainty, tipped my chin up and kissed my lips boldly. The sudden warmth of his mouth on mine brought me to tears, not tears of happiness but instant regret. My new husband let out an impatient sigh.

"Come on now. It is over with," he whispered. "Once we have signed, we can go."

I nodded, my tongue numb from the enormity of what I had done. I was married.
But, perhaps I have started too soon. It was not a marriage that was the start of this story but a funeral. For that is how we met, it was a death that brought us together to marry in the strangest circumstances.

***

Two months before, I had sat stiff-backed in a dusty office, waiting for the solicitor to return. There was only one other person in the room, a handsome man who stared at me with undisguised interest. I could tell he was tall and well-proportioned even though he was sitting down. He exuded self-confidence and charm. Although I tried to avoid his gaze, I could not help sneaking a couple of glances in his direction. The society pages had not been wrong to call him one of the most handsome men in England, with his clear blue eyes and smooth black hair. The only imperfection I could see from my furtive glances was that his nose was slightly crooked as if it had been broken before. It was a shame the man was such a scoundrel.

I dusted off some imagined dirt from my lap with a gloved hand and fixed my eyes on the painting above the desk. The man beside me did not stop his insolent gaze as he reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette case. He did not ask me if I minded him smoking, of course not, his keen eye had picked up on the cheapness of my hat and dress. I was not important. He was right, I was not of consequence to anyone. Friendless and orphaned, I made my living in one of the only ways a respectable girl of my class could, as a paid companion. I could not help hoping that the will that was about to be read might hold a small bequest for me, for George Cosgrove had been a very wealthy man. Our connection had been very scarce, although he was one of my father's oldest friends. Since Papa had died I only ever received one letter per year from him at Christmas, that always contained a five-pound note. His generosity had made me anxious but had been most needed.

"Who are you?" A clear voice rang through my thoughts.

I looked at him coolly as he tried to assess me. There was a slight concern in his voice, I suspected that he thought I may be an illegitimate daughter come to take away the family fortune. He did not know who I was, but I knew him. Mr Frederick Wilkes, a man reckless with hearts and reputations. The word scandal was never far from his name and he never suffered the consequences. Young men like him were the delight of my employer, she adored disgrace and downfall, yet to me he was repulsive. He had been blessed with good looks, a fortune and all the advantages of birth, and he squandered it all. The frown deepened in his brow and I knew I should answer.

"My name is Mary Taylor," I said, in the full knowledge I had not answered the question he wanted to ask.

His eyes narrowed as he took a deep drag on his cigarette. I could see his mind working, debating what he could ask in order to get the right answer. It provided me with brief amusement until I realised with a twinge of guilt, he had just buried his uncle.

"Your Uncle George was my father's best friend."

"Ah, I see."

He could see I was no threat and relaxed into nonchalance. As he was no longer watching me, I allowed myself to look at him a little more. I could see why women fell for his charms, he was very handsome and his tailoring impeccable. I became aware of the shabbiness of my mourning dress and inexplicably I felt ashamed. I thought of all the smartly dressed women at the graveside, displaying funeral fashion at its best and I longed for such beautiful clothes. The dress I wore was made for me at little expense and even less thought. I had done my best to make it fit better but my skill with a needle could not compensate for the cheapness of the fabric. I smoothed an imaginary crease and sighed with relief when the solicitor Mr Barnes arrived. He began the dry reading of the will, listing a substantial fortune and a dazzling array of assets then the solicitor paused and took a deep breath.