Free The Medea Complex by Rachel Florence Roberts

building
one day, my hands tremble so terribly. I hope the landlord installs this
electricity thing before that happens.” He grins at me and though his
watery-blue eyes appear filtered, they sparkle with a sharpness as bright as
any mans. “You're in a very difficult position, my friend.”
    I twirl the ring on my finger, caressing the emblem.
    “Yes, I gather that. Is there anything I can do? Anything at
all?”
    The old man coughs into his hand, and looks at the contents
for a moment before wiping it on his sleeve.
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “Indeed not.”
    I wonder if he's playing with a full deck of cards.
    “Mr...”
    “Tumsbridge. Mr Tumsbridge. Had that name for several
decades young man, and it's not likely to change anytime soon.”
    Frustrated, I reach into my pocket and reluctantly hand him
a piece of paper. “Mr Tumsbridge, this is my marriage certificate. Now, as Lady
Stanbury's husband, this entitles me to the real estate, and all income of my
wife’s. I want access to it whilst she is incarcerated.”
    He holds it under the candle-light for a moment, and I
suppress the urge to snatch it back. He's surely going to set it alight, and
then the evidence would be gone in an instant. He snorts as he reads through
it, and just as I am about to give into my desire he hands it to me.
    “Still, my friend, you're not entitled to a bean.”
    “How so?” I'm desperate.
    “What year did you marry Lady Anne?”
    “As it says on the certificate,” I say, frustration rising
within me. “1884.”
    He laughs out loud.
    “What month?”
    I suppress the urge to ask him whether he can read, and say
tightly, “July.”
    “My friend, aren't you in a pickle. There's a little
something called The Married Women's Property Act. Came into force, would you
believe, in 1884. That means you aren't entitled to anything, as I already
said. And to be honest, even if you had married her in 1784, you still wouldn't
get anything.” His eyes gleam like a snakes.
    A very old snake.
    Why did he bother asking me what year I was married if it
didn't change the answer?
    “Please, explain to me,” I say wearily, resting my head atop
my arms on the desk.
    “Well, your wife is the only daughter of an Earl whose
property just so happens to be male entailed, happens all the time with these
'peer's' and rich people. An old tradition, a way of keeping it in the family.
But I'm sure you know all about that, don't you?” He pauses and my breathe
hitches in my throat. How can he possibly...
    “But anyway, it’s simple. The property, the real estate,
that is, the land, the house, all that expensive stuff, doesn’t belong to her
and never will. Therefore, my friend, it doesn't belong to you either. And if
even if there were no restraints of an entail, and the property hypothetically
did go to her, you still wouldn’t be entitled to it due to the aforementioned
law. If she doesn't birth forth a male child, it will go to some far off cousin
or obsolete uncle, I expect. It can pass through her, but not to her. And so,
with the loss of your son,” he shrugs again. “I'm afraid you lost your only
handle on the situation. Notwithstanding the fact she's in a mad-house of
course, and will most likely never get out. Which is why you came to see me, I
understand. But I'm sorry to say my friend that your presence in the Manor is
at the liberty and kindness of her father. At this moment in time it belongs to
him. The fact that she's in a lunatic asylum doesn’t strengthen your case: it
weakens it.”
    Nausea rises up in my throat, and I swallow.
    “Mr Tumsbridge, surely there is something you can do to help
me. There must be some sort of, something, for this situation?”
    “Divorce her.”
    “But, I-”
    “What's the alternative? I am aware of your wife's case, Mr
Stanbury. Unfortunately, everyone does. I s'pect they even know about it over
in France, and that's saying something. In all likelihood, even if she gets
better, she will most likely