Mairead was casual in her greetings to the chauffeur, tossing him a “Thank you, James.” As he ushered us towards her. Turning to me, she declared for all to hear: “Lady Diana, my darling, it’s been too long!” Flinging her arms around me and kissing the air on either side of my face. “It’s lovely to see you. How long are you staying?”
It’s a curious thing about the Irish. They always say how lovely it is to see you then follow it up with a question about how long are you staying? A friend once said it’s because they are glad you’re there, spending your tourist cash, but they’re afraid you’ll stay and want a piece of the action they rightfully consider theirs alone.
“Oh, just a week or two, Mairead. This is my good friend Sally.” I grabbed Sally’s arm to get her attention off of the dishy James.
I don’t know if Mairead saw the chemical sparks that were flashing between the two, or if her eagle eyes spotted the Commoner in Sally, but she cast a cold eye on my best buddy. “Nice to meet you, Sally, I’m sure.” She then proceeded to ignore her.
“Thank you, James; it was very good of you to give up your time to help me out.” It seemed as though Mairead had just remembered James was still with us. “It’s very warm. Would you like to join us for a cool glass of champers? We are having a girls' afternoon out but you’d still be welcome.” How did she do it? A courteous invitation to the hired help to join us for a cool drink combined with a warning to him not to even think of accepting.
Maybe good help was really hard to find. Maybe there was something in our giggling speculations about the Mistress and the Chauffeur. But what would the drop-dead gorgeous James see in matronly Mairead? I could certainly see why she would be attracted to him, but what did he have to gain from the relationship with her? Maybe Cousin Mairead had hidden depths. My imagination was running wild. I shuddered despite the sun warming my back.
James politely declined the invitation; how could he do otherwise? As he turned to leave, I pressed a ten euro note into his hand and said: “Thank you so much.” His wide eyed look of surprise at my gift touched me as he looked at the euro note in his palm. Such lovely hands he had, too.
“You don’t have to.”
“No, I insist, especially as you’ve given up some of your time off to do this,” I said sweetly, looking directly into his almond shaped brown eyes with the thick fringe of lashes. Oh, believe me; if I’m ever well-off enough to hire a chauffeur, I’m going to have Mairead pick one for me. She obviously has a talent for this sort of thing.
He gave an odd sort of a grin, thanked me again and left, leaving the three of us staring after him with undisguised disappointment. And yes, lots of lust.
Mairead was the first to recover; obviously, she’d had more time to develop immunity to the chauffeur’s charms.
“I am so delighted to see you again, Diana dear. You’re looking tired, was it a difficult journey?” Mairead always had the ability to go for the jugular with one swift stab. She made me feel as though I looked washed out, frumpy and exhausted. How does she do it?
I was rapidly beginning to remember all the reasons I’d hated having her come to visit when I was a kid.
But I managed a smile. No way was I going to let Mairead spoil my day at the races. In fact, I was going to have a little fun of my own, right now.
“Well, dear, if you want to place a bet, I’d recommend Oh My Darling in the next race. He belongs to a good friend of ours and I do believe he’s in tip top condition. He’s not a favourite but if he wins, you’ll have a nice little reward.” Mairead grabbed my arm and led me towards the line up at the Bookie’s.
“I like the sound of HoneyPie,” Sally said, but Mairead ignored her. I was flattered by her obvious delight at my arrival, but I was getting a bit fed up with her ignoring my best friend. Sally might not have a title, but she has ethics and is a really good person.
I soon realized that Mairead’s delight in our little get-together wasn't personal, as was demonstrated by the fact that she introduced me as 'My delightful young cousin, Diana, Lady Ashburnham,” to everyone we met, and even some who didn't seem interested in meeting us. She didn’t introduce Sally at all, leaving everyone to believe Sally was my companion or maid, a circumstance which made me smirk while Sally fumed self-righteously.
“What century does that smug cow think she’s living in?” Sally exploded when we took a powder room break. “You could say something, you know. You didn’t have to go along with it. I only came over here to keep you company, but that doesn’t make me your maid or companion like some Victorian lady.”
Suddenly I felt a twinge of some rare emotion which I was amazed to recognize as guilt. Sally was right. She was my best friend, for heaven’s sake, and she had pleaded and arm twisted with her boss, a pretentious no-talent man she hated, to get a week of holiday time she was owed just to come with me.
“I’m sorry.” And I meant it.
The shock on Sally’s face was worth the grovelling.
“Did I hear correctly? You said you were sorry? To moi? The humble lassie from Ludsey Common Council Estate? Oh my God, how I wish I had witnesses, or at least a camcorder so I could capture this moment on film forever; you know, something to show the grand children.”
“Hey, let’s not get too carried away. I am sorry Mairead is giving people the impression you’re some sort of hired help, really I am. But my apology ends there, it’s not some major thing. And I’ll introduce you to people myself, okay? Will that do? You are my friend, after all. I’ve lent you the family jewellery, haven’t I?”
Sally’s hand went up to her throat and slowly, lovingly stroked the Ashburnham Emerald.
“Now, don’t get too fond of it, it’s back into the bank vaults when we get home,” I warned her. That faraway look on her face as she sensuously stroked the emerald was making me very nervous.
Incognito judges were roaming the grounds, inviting young, beautifully dressed women back to the sponsor's tent. Photographers snapped photos of us and about ten thousand other women, taking names and making comments varying from the inane to the downright lascivious, with no variation on the sex of the photographer. The Press was just downright atrocious these days.
I hope they spelled Ashburnham right and remembered to include the title.
Our horses didn't win. Mine made a gallant attempt to come in 15th, while Sally's choice seemed to have a bout of depression after seeing the competition and treated the whole race as a gentle stroll. He was still working his way to the finish line when the day ended.
Mairead, of course, won fistfuls of loot and yelled loudly at every victory. Despite her encouragements, Sally and I declined to put more cash on any of the horses, even the ones with cute jockeys. Instead we haughtily said gambling was a really low occupation. That didn't bother Mairead though as she fussed over her wins, race after race. I think she knew the truth was that we weren't betting because the bookies knew better than to accept a MasterCard or Visa from the likes of us.
Just when we were drooping from the long day on our feet, heads spinning at all the introductions Mairead put us through and rapidly losing track of the eligible bachelors who somehow didn't want to hang around, the loudspeaker system crackled to life and someone with a lilting Irish voice announced the judges choice for Ladies Day was...none other than: Sally!
CHAPTER FIVE
I was so proud of my best friend at that moment. I didn't allow the tiny worm of envy that bloomed in my heart any wiggle room whatsoever. Sally looked so lovely and was so excited as they led her to the place of honour in sponsor's marquee, right next to the Champaign Tent, and presented her with her prize, a beautiful diamond necklace. Mairead whispered in my ear that the jewels were said to be worth ten thousand euros.
Not a bad deal for a day spent batting your eyelids at every good-looking fella who wondered into your path. On top of that, there was a clothing voucher from a top retailer, and a Waterford crystal vase.
I was so proud of her that tears actually c
ame to my eyes as she gracefully accepted her prizes and made a short but elegant speech. All those lessons with the home economics teacher, Mrs Vader, Darth Vader to us, had obviously paid off. Or maybe it was because she hung around me, Sally had picked up some upper crust graciousness and classy manners. I patted myself on the back.
Pushing the unworthy thought aside, I clapped, stamped and cheered with the rest of the peasants as Sally displayed her wonderful necklace and strutted through the adoring fans.
Mairead was almost as thrilled as Sally, who went from being persona non grata in my cousin's books to being her own best buddy. And I became a nobody, right there on the spot. Yep, little green idol nibbling right at my ego.
“We'll have a party in Sally's honour! Yes, right at the new house and everybody will be there! And what’s his name from the Independent, and that lady from the Irish Times, Lifestyles section, we’ll invite them all. Tonight, yes!” Mairead trumpeted as she linked arms with a horrified Sally and paraded her around the race track as if the poor girl was a prize filly in the winners' circle.
She neglected to mention she'd already set up an after the races bash for that evening and it took just a couple of cell phone calls to her caterer to change the wording on the cake and add a few 'Congratulations, Sally,” banners around the place. Still, I suppose it was nice of her to do this, and Sally was certainly eating up all the attention.
Photographers gathered like barracuda in a feeding frenzy to snap shots of the lovely English lass, who'd won the coveted prize. I didn’t begrudge Sally the jewellery. It wasn’t worth more than a spit in the ocean as far as rescuing Alexandria House was concerned, and I certainly didn't envy her the spotlight. Okay, maybe just a teensy-weensy bit. To be known as the English woman who beat out every one of the well-dressed money dripping babes here at the races was quite a coup for a secondary school girl from Ludsey Common.
And I really hoped she was making the most of it. After all, all that finery was on my credit card. But I was tired and depressed and had had enough champagne. We'd spent three days in Ireland and a fortune of MasterCard and Visa's money, and we were still no nearer to finding the ultimate goal, a nice wealthy husband for me and Alexandria House.
Maybe I was going about it all wrong. Sally had suggested I get a job, but she'd no idea how often I'd tried. It would, frankly, be too humiliating to tell her. I had a degree in psychology, but most employers didn't want to hire a titled employee, thought it would upset the balance of power. And there was all the hassle that the other Lady Di's employers had to put up with at the day-care when her engagement to the Prince was announced. All those paparazzi hanging around just isn't good for business.
Employers that did consider hiring me just wanted to use the title as a wedge to get in the door of other businesses. Neither scenario was satisfactory, considering that no-one was willing to pay me the kind of money Alexandria House needed. In fact, there aren't many people who do earn that amount of money on salary.
But I'd noticed a lot of women here doing well with their own businesses. Mind you, I couldn't for the life of me imagine what a spoiled aristocrat with a degree in psychology and a tumbled-down old house could possibly do as a business. Maybe I could turn Alexandria House into a bed and breakfast place, or a brothel. Now wouldn’t that have the villagers and the ancestral ghosts in an uproar!
While I was so engrossed in my own thoughts and worry I'd wandered out of the posh part of the enclosure and found myself standing by the rails in the part of the racecourse where the peasants were allowed to stand and cheer. Looking over to my right, I caught sight of a familiar face, the dark haired hunk we'd met at breakfast! Not that he'd want to talk to me, not after the show that Sally had put on.
But I was feeling lonely and could use the chance to exchange a couple of words with someone, maybe even set the record straight about the state of my mental health.
“Good evening! Your friend was right when he said Ireland's a small world...”
The poor man jumped as if he'd been caught misbehaving in the boarding school toilets. He’d probably spent his last few euros on the same horse Sally was still waiting on to get to the finish line, and was considering hitchhiking home to Dublin so he could do the time-honoured thing and throw himself into the River Liffey.
It didn't seem like the sight of me was doing much to cheer him up. But obviously there was a good upbringing in there somewhere, because he straightened his spine and turned to greet me.
“Yes, it is a small world. That's one of the problems with the place. Everybody knows everybody else's business, and everybody seems to think they have a right to put their two cents worth in.”
“Well, jeez, you don't have to be insulting. I'm not trying to pick you up or anything and I certainly don't want to invest two cents in your business.” They probably wouldn’t accept Visa, anyway. “But you looked so miserable standing there, and I was glad to have a familiar face to talk to. It might be a small place, but small places can still be lonely. And talking of small places, you should see the little village I live in. But if you don't want to be disturbed, I'll be off then.” And I turned to walk back along the track, biting the inside of my mouth to stop myself sniffling. Why in the world would I want to sniffle over a rebuff from a stranger? I called up my upper crust training and stiffened my upper lip to stop it trembling.
The miserable beast surprised me and came running after me, grabbing my arm to slow down my flight. The sudden stop in momentum almost caused me to fly headlong into the muddy trampled grass, so he grabbed my other arm and pulled me towards him. “No, don't go, I didn't mean it the way it sounded. Just—well you have no idea what it's like to live in a goldfish bowl, with everyone knowing everything about what you do and all of them wagging their tongues and making judgements they've no call to make. You just have no idea,” he repeated, his hand on my arm.
As a come on line, it really sucked. But looking up into his face, and those deep blue eyes, I could see this wasn't an intended pick up line at all. The man was in deep distress. And so was I, judging from the shivers that were flickering over my skin. He seemed to suddenly realise that he was holding me very close, far too close for social appropriateness considering we'd just met, and he let go as if I was red hot.
He started fidgeting with his pants pleat. I had to laugh, but believe me, if I’d been wearing pleated pants, I'd probably be doing the same thing right now.
When I'm stressed, I talk too much.
“You’re wrong. I do know what it’s like to live in a goldfish bowl. God, the place where I live, well, everybody thinks they have a right to comment about my business; everything from whether my bills are paid on time to whether I wear a hat to church, or who I sleep with...” I clamped my mouth shut, noting his raised eyebrows. Too much info, right? But heaven knows I’ve been the cause for some real gossip.
“I mean it… sometime you can't seem to do right for doing wrong. And everybody knows, even if you’ve only thought about it. No one offers a hand when you need it, because they're too busy judging and criticising. No one is ever there to just help patch the roof on the west wing or fix the broken glass in the greenhouse, or offer a shoulder to cry on.”
“Well, that wasn't quite the sort of thing I was thinking of, but, you obviously have some idea of what it's like.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, then looked at me as if seeing me for the very first time. “Would you like to go for a drink?”
“You know, I thought you'd never ask. Follow me to the posh tent.” I smiled. It was easy to smile at a man like this.
He shook his head. “I'd rather not go in there. Let's go over to the bar by the stands, it'll be easy to get served there at this time of day, and the beer is better.”
Well, I was sick of champers anyway. In fact, I was sort of sick of drinking anything at all. The idea of sitting down and having a conversation with another human being was exciting. And the fact that the human being was as attractive as this guy was a no brainer.
It was obvious he didn't have admission status to the posh club, and was miserable about his life. This should have sounded warning bells. But a girl needs to take time off from suitable husband hunting occasionally. I should be allowed to have a time out from responsibilities. Some of the old biddies back in Ashburnham End seemed to think I'd already taken too much time out already, being over thirty and not married and with child yet. Bah-Humbug to them, I say.
I followed my new friend, Bill, happily to the peasants' bar. The place was reasonably quiet. I picked my way over crisp wrappers, paper cups and other litter to a seat in the outdoor section, well away from the portable loos. My companion returned with two pints of something thick and black and velvety looking and we settled down to chat without any of the awkwardness that usually exists when a man and woman start sizing each other up. You know, the ‘will she, won't she, should I, shouldn't I, sort of thing, like a pair of cats in an alleyway. It's called courtship and in my view, it sucks.
Then again, after my encounters of the Lettuce kind, maybe I'm a bit sour. And, of course, I wasn't looking at Bill as a potential soul mate. Certainly not as a partner for life - or at least until Alexandria house was back in good shape and maybe - yeuk, ughh, barf - there was an heir to the family misfortunes.
No, I was seeing this man as a quiet, troubled guy who was probably a lot of fun when he dumped the chip on his shoulder, whatever that was. And right now, I really needed a friend, so here we were.
We chatted quietly about our respective fishbowls, mine a little medieval village in England, his a big, medieval- minded city in Ireland. We talked about books we had read and discovered we liked the same things: Michael Connelly, Stephen King, Patricia Cornwell and Kathy Reichs. We both believed people who claimed they only read literary works and nothing else were full of b.s. and probably illiterate.
Marrying Money: Lady Diana's Story Page 4