How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “You never mentioned you were married!” I accuse him, while I pick up my coat and put it back on.

  Alejandro looks at me without blinking an eye. “You never asked.”

  My jaw drops open and I’m speechless. Shoanah looks at me from top to toe and says: “She can stay, she’s very pretty. I like her.”

  He seems to love the idea. “Sure, now that you’re here, you could join us…”

  “How revolting!” I reply, buttoning up my coat quickly. “Alejandro, you’re a bastard!” I shout and that’s all I can manage to say before running down the stairs and leaving that grotesque scene behind me.

  Happy first month anniversary, Jemma. Didn’t you say you like surprises? Well, this serves you just right.

  As the freezing cold comes up my legs, I feel more and more stupid. I curl up on the first seat I find in the Tube, pulling down my coat to cover the lace of my stockings.

  I feel exposed, as if everyone could see what I’m wearing under my coat. I wallow in self-pity.

  While I was setting up the surprise, and I was so happy, Alejandro was revising the Kamasutra with Shoanah!

  At home, I enter through the building’s front door and head to my parent’s flat, stomping angrily up the stairs.

  “I’m so stupid!” I announce, without even saying hello, while I collapse on one of the cushions placed on the carpet.

  My mum stretches her neck from behind the kitchen door. “What did you say, angel?”

  “That I’m so stupid,” I repeat, muttering.

  “You know that I don’t like it when you spread negativity at sunset, it’s almost time for meditation.”

  Big tears start running down my face. “Can you do it later?”

  “Sure, I can synchronise with the Azores time zone. Why are you crying, then?”

  “Alejandro’s married!” I cry desperately.

  “Married?”

  “I went to his place to give him a surprise for our first month anniversary, and he was in bed with another woman. His wife!”

  At last, my mum comes out from the kitchen to hug me, but I draw back. “Mum, please put on some clothes! I’ve seen enough naked people today!” Apart from a colourful scarf in her long auburn hair with just a few grey strands, she is wearing nothing.

  As a side note, I should mention that my parents are nudists, or naturists, as they define themselves.

  I might digress and describe my parents, but I’m not in the mood right now.

  “By the way, would you lend me something to wear?” I undo a few buttons to let her see what’s under my coat.

  She comes back from her bedroom with two embroidered kaftans. I choose the acid green one, which gives off a strong smell of patchouli.

  She sits on the cushion next to me in the lotus position.

  “Help me remember, Alejandro…?”

  “The salsa dancer.”

  “Wasn’t that Roberto?” she asks, confused.

  “Yes, but he also danced merengue.”

  “Merengue? I thought the merengue dancer was Fernando…”

  “No, Mum. Fernando was paso doble, at the Christmas Eve party.”

  “They all seem the same to me… it must be because of my age,” she gives up, shrugging. “So, Alejandro is married?”

  “Yeah,” I don’t know what else to say, but then I lose it. “What’s wrong with me? Why do men run away?”

  “You’re perfect, Jemma!” says my father as his opening line. He’s just come back from the radio station. “I heard you screaming from the stairs,” he says, then he approaches my mum and kisses her. “What happened?”

  “Alejandro is married,” she says, in a solemn tone of voice.

  “Wasn’t this one Roberto?” Asks Dad.

  “No, that one cheated on her with a figure skater.”

  “Um, wasn’t Fernando the one of the figure skater?”

  “No, Fernando had an affair with his sister,” says Mum to correct him.

  Dad face palms. “Jings, how could I forget about that one!”

  “It doesn’t matter who did what. This is the same old story: I’m not able to make any relationship work, they always cheat on me with someone else!”

  Mum starts braiding my hair, which means she is going to talk about the major issues of life. “Um, Jemma, maybe you should figure out whether ten days are enough to consider it a relationship.”

  “A month!” I correct her. “You and Dad barely knew each other when you got married!” I add, in an accusatory tone of voice.

  “Those were other times, we were spiritual mates and we figured it out straight away.”

  Her logic doesn’t work with me. “Perhaps Alejandro and I could have been spiritual mates, if only he weren’t married! And his wife even proposed a threesome!” I complain, outraged.

  Mum and Dad exchange a knowing look.

  “What’s with the two of you?” I ask, irritated.

  Mum tries to explain. “Jemma, you give much too importance to physical possession. You intend love and relationships to be the material confinement of your partner.”

  I look at them, increasingly puzzled.

  Dad gives his precious contribution. “That’s right, Jemma, what your mother is trying to say is that, back in the seventies, we had free love. It wasn’t rare to have even five or six partners.”

  “Group sex…” she continues.

  My dad smiles at her. “I could achieve physical pleasure with anyone, but your mother is the only person who gives me spiritual ecstasy…”

  “Yes, it’s the same for me with your father. Monogamy is very restrictive in the way you intend it.”

  “For God’s sake, please!” I try and chase away the image of my parents as twenty year olds having orgies in the seventies.

  “Carly, perhaps she needs some help to calm down.”

  “You’re right, Vance, I’ll go make something hot for her.”

  My dad puts John Lennon’s Imagine on the record player, while my mum comes back from the kitchen with a tray and three steaming cuppas.

  I take a sip but I spit it out immediately.

  “Jemma, sweetie, be careful, it’s very hot! Be patient!” My dad comments.

  “What did you put in here, Mum? It’s a marijuana infusion, isn’t it?”

  She shrugs and then makes a hand gesture, bringing her thumb and index finger close to each other. “Just a wee bit…”

  “Mum! Camomile would be more than enough to make me relax!”

  “It made you sleep so well when you were little!”

  I love my parents, but I can’t spend too much time with them. I stand up and head to my cubbyhole.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs. I’ve got a headache. I’ll have a shower and go to bed.”

  “I made hummus for dinner!”

  “I’m tempted but no, thanks.”

  *

  My mum was raised by my grandmother Catriona to become a lady in British high society and marry a nobleman. Her family, which was wealthy but had no title, aspired to climb the social ladder, and the matter of nobility was very important to my grandmother.

  When my mum came of age, a titled husband-to-be was chosen for her, but the marriage never happened because while she was visiting a friend in Southampton, she secretly went to a concert where she met my dad. They got married and went back to London together, to my grandparents’ fury. For long standing manufacturers of weapons and military supplies, having a pacifist daughter who married a long haired hippy is a tragedy. She was immediately repudiated, so they lived in a kibbutz in Wadi Ara for a while, then in a commune in Goa, and they returned to England just when she got pregnant.

  My dad is a dj at an independent rock radio station, he usually wears bell-bottoms and ties his grizzled hair in a ponytail. My mum gives holistic massages to rebalance chakras and prepares natural remedies with the herbs she grows on her terrace. They’re hippies from top to toe, and I was raised in total freedom. They never scol
ded me, because they’re against punishment. Sometimes I wonder how I survived until twenty-five.

  For instance, my parents were sure they would have a boy, so they picked the name ‘Jimi’, after Jimi Hendrix. Later, they were told I was a girl, so ‘Jimi’ became ‘Jemma’.

  By ‘hippy’, I mean the above: drinking, eating and smoking marijuana is part of the daily routine of my family home. In addition, their car is a cheerful melon coloured van; they’re nudists and I regularly went to nudist campsites and beaches as a child; they have no tv; they’re vegans, ecologists, animalists and antimonarchists.

  If I can say ‘they are’ and not ‘we are’, it’s because the best part of having hippy parents is that I’ve always been free to choose. So, when I was fourteen, I ate at McDonalds after a Backstreet Boys concert. And I declared eternal love to beef and cheese.

  Unfortunately, on the matter of monogamy and cheating – at least from a physical point of view – I can’t count very much on them, given that they took part in the sexual revolution.

  I lean against the wall of the shower for something like half an hour with my face covered in running water – which gets steaming hot if the first floor neighbour flushes and gets freezing cold if the second floor neighbour does. Then, I drag myself into bed in order to bury this disastrous afternoon under layers of sheets.

  I barely notice a text.

  It’s Derek’s.

  You told me to solve the issues with your inheritance. I might have found a solution. Let’s talk about it at dinner tomorrow, meet me at 8 p.m. at Berners’.

  4

  Ashford’s Version

  As predicted, I didn’t sleep. I really racked my brain to solve this situation and find the money we need. At last, when I even considered turning Denby into a ‘massage parlour’, like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, I knew I was looking right into the eyes of despair.

  At 5 a.m., I quit trying and get up.

  I turn on my mobile and find a text message from Derek.

  On that screen, I find the answer to my prayers.

  You told me to sort the situation of your father’s debts. I might have found a solution. Let’s talk about it at dinner tomorrow, meet me at 8 p.m. at Berners’.

  I’ll have to go back to London, but it’s fine. It’s a sacrifice I’ll be happy to make, this time.

  As if my muscles had relaxed all at once, I collapse again on my bed, and let myself fall into deep sleep.

  Then, due to my mother’s insistence, Lance wakes me up.

  It’s past noon and, according to her, it’s unacceptable that I linger in bed when the Royal Family could visit us any minute.

  One day I’ll find the courage to confess that the Royal Family are not going to visit us. But today isn’t that day.

  I get up, with a kind of energy I haven’t had since last year’s polo finals.

  I get into a cashmere jumper and a pair of distressed jeans, then I grab my tennis racket.

  I know that today it is 10°C outside, but I feel as if I have a nuclear reactor inside me, so I decide to go to the court and practise my backhand against the wall.

  The open air areas are what I love the most about our property. Every glimpse is so different from any other and it doesn’t even feel you’re in the same place. The outside is a maze which leads into an itinerary of thematic gardens.

  Denby Hall is an eighteenth century mansion which has been reshaped and expanded over the years by the various Dukes of Burlingham, apparently without following an overall plan. This is what provides its unique character, unlike typical English mansions which are usually built by following projects through meticulously.

  The tennis court is situated inside one of the courtyards and it’s enclosed on three sides by stone walls covered by red climbing vines. The long open side gives a view of the lake. On the first floor, a gallery overlooks the court.

  I confess that I’m always strongly tempted by the idea of hitting my mother with a ball when I see her up there. Sooner or later, I’ll have the satisfaction of doing it.

  My father was a great man, as he could handle my mother for forty years, but then he just left her to me. And, after a little less than thirty years, I’m already starting to consider disappearing for good.

  Needless to say, my mother is a control freak: she controlled my father first, and now she’s focusing all her energy and efforts on me.

  As being a duchess for half her life wasn’t enough for her, she’s thrown herself into being the mother of the new duke.

  Until I get married, she remains the most important woman in the Burlingham family.

  I’m facing a turning point: shall I stick with my mother for all my life, or shall I replace her with a wife who will be the brand new duchess?

  There are only two types of woman my mother would approve of.

  Type one: shy, submissive and spineless – a mute would be perfect – who leaves my mother in control of everything.

  Type two: an accomplice. The perfect counterpart to surround me and force me to comply with their will. In other words, someone to put me under siege.

  I’ve been jumping from one debutante to the next for almost ten years, with baronesses and countesses who planned to include me, not even too secretly, in their family trees. I’m actually very proud for having managed to avoid this big millstone round my neck.

  You should be there when I attend social events: endless parades of someone’s daughters/cousins/sisters and, according to my mother, I really must meet them all.

  Most certainly, if I were as broke as Derek was envisaging twenty-four hours ago, no one would throw their daughter into my arms.

  The only silver lining of bankruptcy is that, perhaps, it will keep social climbers away.

  What I know for sure is that, as soon as Derek tells me how we’ll get my money back, I’ll send my mother to Bath and I’ll forget she exists for six months.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love her, but her manners go well beyond my breaking point.

  I’m not used to living with my family.

  I’ve always had nannies and governesses and as soon as I cut my first tooth, I was sent to boarding school, which I only left when I came of age.

  I went home at Christmas, during the spring holidays and in summer, when there was always a lot of other people in the house, so my parents and I were never alone.

  You can imagine how strange it feels to wake up in this house every morning, with my mother always around. I don’t want to be mean to her, I’m just not used to all this.

  What is more, she’s set her sights on turning me into the perfect Duke of Burlingham, and that’s why her intrusion into my private life has gone too far.

  Right now, she’s standing below the stone arches, measuring me from top to toe. She must be deciding whether it’s most convenient that I sit or stand in my official portrait.

  When I notice that it’s starting to rain, I retrieve the tennis balls scattered all around the court and head to my room.

  I feel just fine and I get ready for the evening as if I was to be awarded a prize.

  *

  When I get to Berners’, Derek is already waiting for me at a table.

  “Welcome, Ashford! You’re right on time.”

  “It couldn’t have been otherwise. You know, after you texted me, I couldn’t sleep. Coming here on time was the least I could do, even though…”

  Derek furrows his brows, somewhat saddened. “Even though…?”

  “Well, I find it quite odd. I mean, I could have come to your office by appointment, or we could have arranged to meet for lunch. But a dinner?”

  “Yes, you’re right. Meeting at dinner to talk about work is a little peculiar, but this is, in fact, a peculiar situation—”

  “Sure, I understand,” I interrupt him. “You have discovered that my father had an account in a tax haven, right?” I ask in a low voice.

  “Tax haven? What? No! I mean, did he?” he asks me, astonished.

  “Wha
t the heck, I have no idea! You are the solicitor!”

  “Well, he had no off-shore accounts, as far as I know.”

  I shrug. “You said it’s something peculiar, I just thought…”

  Derek nods. “It is in fact quite unconventional, so I wanted this to be an informal chat.”

  The waitress arrives at our table and Derek stops talking.

  “Here I am, I’m late but I made it,” she apologises, almost out of breath.

  I waste no time and order straight away: “Yes, we’ve been sitting for a while, actually. But anyway, I’ll have a Chateaubriand, grilled asparagus and truffle mashed potato.”

  She looks at me and raises an eyebrow, perplexedly.

  “What is unclear?” I ask.

  Derek coughs on the other side of the table.

  “Everything is!” she answers sharply.

  I observe her in disbelief: she’s wearing glittery tennis shoes, faux leather leggings, a leopard print jumper and her make-up is quite flashy. Her look is totally inappropriate for this place, but, who knows, perhaps it’s her first day.

  “It’s not that hard, Miss. A Chateaubriand beef steak. The asparagus shouldn’t be a problem. And truffle mashed potato is just mashed potato with truffle oil.”

  Her reaction shocks me. She closes an eye, extends an arm with her hand just a couple of centimetres from my face, then she bends all of her fingers but the middle one.

  “Stay still, I’m adjusting my focus…”

  Derek stands up and places his hands on the waitress’s shoulders. “Jemma, calm down. Why don’t you take a seat? Restrain yourself, we’re not at the stadium.”

  “Derek, what are you doing?” I ask, dismayed.

  “Jemma’s not the waitress. There was a misunderstanding.”

  I’m quite bewildered. “I’m sorry, why is she here if she’s not the waitress?”

  She cuts in, arrogantly: “I’m here because he invited me! I could ask the same to you.”

  “It’s true, Ashford. Jemma is a client of mine. Or rather, her grandmother was, but now she is.”

  “Is she having dinner with us?” I ask.