A Marriage Without Love
Alfred married Edith out of spite, to prove to his true love that her betrayal had not destroyed him. He and Catherine had been together nearly three years, and his passion for her had driven him to madness—he would have laid the world at her feet just to see her smile. Alfred dreamed of wedding bells, but Catherine cooled his ardour: “Why rush? I’ve yet to finish university, and your business is barely scraping by. No proper home, no car worth speaking of. Living with your sister in that tiny flat? I won’t share a kitchen with Margaret, no matter how dear a friend she is.”
Her words stung, but Alfred knew their truth. He and Margaret were cramped in their parents’ old flat in Manchester, struggling to keep the family shop afloat after their parents’ passing. He had abandoned his studies to save the business, and together they had sold the countryside cottage—trade came first. For six months, debts mounted while they remained students: him in his final year, Margaret in her second. The sale settled their obligations, restocked the shop, and left a modest sum aside. But Catherine lived for the moment, unwilling to wait. Her parents ensured she wanted for nothing, while Alfred, thrust suddenly into the role of family head, saw the future differently. He believed prosperity would come—a house, a motorcar, all in time.
Then disaster struck. Alfred waited outside the picturehouse as agreed, but Catherine arrived not on foot, as usual, but in a gleaming motorcar. “Forgive me—we’re through. I’m to be married,” she said, thrusting a book into his hands before vanishing inside the vehicle. Alfred stood frozen. How could everything change in the two days he’d been away on business?
Margaret took one look at him and knew. “You’ve heard, then?” He nodded grimly. “She’s found herself a rich fool. The wedding’s on the twenty-eighth. Asked me to stand as bridesmaid—I refused. The wretch! Stringing you along while scheming behind your back.” She wept for her brother’s sake. “Easy now,” Alfred murmured, embracing her. “Let her have her fortune. Ours will be the better lot.”
He locked himself away for a day. Margaret knocked: “At least eat—I’ve made scones.” By evening, he emerged, eyes burning. “Get your coat.” “What’s this about?” “I’ll wed the first lass who’ll have me.” She tried to reason with him: “You’ll ruin more lives than your own!” But he was adamant. “Come or stay—I go regardless.”
The city gardens bustled with folk. One girl laughed at his proposal, another shied away, but the third met his gaze and said, “Aye.” “What’s your name, lass?” “Edith,” she replied. Alfred swept her and Margaret off to a tea-shop to toast their “engagement.” Silence hung heavy over the table—Margaret sullen, Alfred brooding with thoughts of vengeance. His wedding would be the same day as Catherine’s.
“Is there a reason you asked a stranger to marry you?” Edith asked softly. “If it’s a whim, I’ll leave now—no hard feelings.” “No. You gave your word. Tomorrow, we’ll file the papers and call on your parents,” Alfred declared, then grinned. “And you’ll call me ‘Alf’, won’t you?”
In the month before the wedding, they met daily, learning one another. “Tell me why,” Edith pressed once. “Some things are best left unsaid,” he deflected. “And why did you agree?” “Felt like a princess handed to the first passing knight. In tales, that ends in joy. I fancied testing the truth of it.”
The truth was thornier. Edith had loved and lost, her heart and meagre savings both shattered. It taught her to see through pretense—flatterers were swiftly dismissed. She sought no grand romance, only a steady, clever man. In Alfred, she saw strength and purpose. Had he been with chums instead of his sister, she might have passed him by.
“What sort of princess are you, then? Sleeping Beauty or Guinevere?” Alfred mused. “Kiss me and find out,” Edith teased. But no kisses came. Alfred arranged the wedding himself; Edith merely chose from his selections. Even her gown he bought, insisting, “You’ll be the fairest there.”
At the registry office, they crossed paths with Catherine and her betrothed. Alfred forced a smile. “Congratulations,” he said, pecking Catherine’s cheek. “Be happy with your tycoon.” “Spare us the theatrics,” she snapped. Her gaze raked over Edith—tall, striking, regal. Catherine felt the sting of defeat. Jealousy gnawed at her; happiness slipped through her fingers like a bad wager.
“All’s well,” Alfred told Edith stiffly. “There’s still time to reconsider,” she whispered. “No. We’ll see this through,” he said. Yet as they stood before the officiant, he glimpsed the sorrow in his bride’s eyes and knew the hurt he’d wrought. “I’ll make you happy,” he vowed, willing it to be true.
Married life began. Margaret and Edith grew close, leaning on one another. Fiery Margaret learned restraint, while Edith, with a knack for sums, set their affairs in order. Within a year, they opened a second shop, then hired tradesmen. Trade flourished; profits trebled. Edith, like some fairy-tale helpmeet, offered ideas so deftly Alfred took them for his own. By all appearances, they thrived—yet his heart ached. Where was the wildfire that had consumed him with Catherine? This was steady, predictable. “Routine,” he thought. “I don’t love her—that’s the trouble.”
Edith expanded the business into building fine homes. Their first project was a manor of their own. The grander his success, the more Alfred dwelled on Catherine: “If only she’d waited. My motor, my estate!” The thought—”What if?”—haunted him. Edith saw his fading spark. She tried to win his love, but hearts are stubborn things. “Not all fairy tales come true,” she thought bitterly, yet she persevered—her name demanded it.
Margaret noticed the change. “You’ll lose more than you’ll gain,” she warned, catching Alfred poring over Catherine’s socials. “Leave off!” he snapped. “Fool! Edith loves you truly, and you’re toying with her!” she cried. Alfred glowered. “Cheeky wench, lecturing me!” But longing for Catherine festered. At last, he wrote to her.
Catherine’s reply was wretched: her husband had cast her out; she’d left university, jobless, lodged in a Bradford boarding-house. Alfred wavered—should he go? When Edith left to tend an ailing aunt in the countryside, temptation overwhelmed him. He arranged a meeting.
Flying to Bradford, heart alight, he pictured their reunion. Reality struck like a slap. “Handsome devil!” Catherine flung herself at him, reeking of unwashed skin and cheap scent. Her garish makeup, tatty skirt—she was a sorry shadow of herself. “People are staring,” he said, pulling away. “Let them!” she cackled, swigging ale. “Lend us a few quid—I’ll make it worth your while,” she winked. Alfred sought escape. “Business,” he muttered, rising. “Will I see you again?” she whined. “Doubt it,” he said, tossing coins on the table.
Driving home, he cursed himself. “Fool! Margaret was right. Why go?” Yet the trip had shown him something vital. “I’ve never called her ‘Edie’. She’s my closest soul,” he realised, braking hard. Years flashed before him—Edith’s green eyes, her warm smile, her fingers threading through his hair. “I promised her happiness,” he whispered.
Wheeling the motor round, he raced to her aunt’s cottage. “A week without you was too long. I couldn’t last two days,” he said when Edith ran to him. “Madman,” she laughed through tears. “Edie, my love,” Alfred breathed, and their hearts beat as one, full at last.
