How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  They are never quiet, they have an opinion on every single thing, and they feel the uncontrollable need to share them all with me. Half a day like this, and I’m already exhausted.

  I had never thought that I would have to hide in my own house, but I’ll have to invent all sorts of tricks in order to avoid them.

  Anyway, I fooled them both tonight. I grabbed my jacket, my keys and I said goodbye. I’m going to the club, which is strictly reserved for gentlemen.

  “Duke of Burlingham,” says Furber, the butler at the club, greeting me with a bow as I give him my raincoat and umbrella.

  “How’s life, Furber? Are there many people tonight?” I ask, taking a look at the half empty rooms on the first floor.

  “Not too many, for now.”

  “Is Harring here already?”

  “The viscount has not arrived yet. Are you waiting for him?”

  “Yes, we had an appointment. That’s quite strange. Anyway, I think I’ll go upstairs, to the billiard room. When he arrives, tell him I’m waiting for him.”

  “I will, Your Grace.”

  I take the steps of the spiral staircase three at a time, until I get to the long corridor with white doors. I open that of the billiard room and, when the handle clicks, I’m taken by surprise: there are people standing on the billiard table, while others are raising glasses of cognac in the bar corner; their voices are covered by Just a Gigolo/I Ain’t Got Nobody playing out loud. Those standing on the table are improvising a grotesque dance.

  A heavy slap on my back startles me. “Ashford Parker! You bugger! You get married and don’t say a word!”

  “Harring!” I utter, amazed, as my friend gives me a strong hug.

  “What’s this all about? You paid a flying visit to London without telling anyone, you found love and forty-eight hours later you’re married?”

  Bloody newspapers. “Actually, Harring—”

  “We should never speak to you again!”

  “I know, I should have invited you to the ceremony—” I anticipate him.

  Harring interrupts me. “Fuck the ceremony! I’m talking about your stag night. If we had known, we would have thrown one hell of a party. But we’re gonna make up for it tonight,” then he pulls me up on the billiard table with the others. “Furber! Champagne!” He orders, nonchalantly.

  “So… what about Portia, then? Did you dump her? You know what, friend? You did well!” Then he turns towards the others: “More babes for us!” And a deafening roar bursts from the wild bunch.

  Let me explain how this delicate mechanism works: in public, at social events and official evenings, the men in this room are perfect examples of composure and good manners. However, within the four walls of the gentlemen’s club, they turn into a horde of vandals who indulge in the foulest deeds, just like tonight. Yes, ‘gentlemen’s club’ is just a euphemism.

  They drag me from one group to another, pour me large glasses of cognac, shove Havana cigars into my mouth and keep patting me on my back as if I were a punchbag.

  “So?” Harring keeps asking, completely caught up in the excitement. “When will you show us your bride? Do you keep her hidden?”

  To be honest, I do. “Um, Harring, you’ll meet her when the time comes.”

  “Why are you always so mysterious? How reserved is this lad! Guys, make him drink more, so he loosens up a little! Champagne, cognac, brandy, petrol… anything!”

  “Harring—” I try to stop him.

  “Don’t keep your marital joys from us. If someone like you has decided to get married out of the blue, then something exceptional must have happened! An event!”

  Of course, bankruptcy! I wish I could drown him in such moments. “Some things just happen, you can’t do much to avoid them.”

  “Guys! Our good old Ashford is in love, did you hear that?”

  The group around me lifts me and throws me in the air, accompanying the scene with vulgar jokes.

  “Hey Ash, you don’t know what you missed. Private flight to Paris for a night at the Crazy Horse with wild and beautiful naked Frenchies, then off to Rio de Janeiro by Concorde and, before coming back to London, one last stop in Thailand. You little prick, if you had told us before getting married, you would have had a stag party to be remembered after your own death!”

  Harring has been obsessed with Rio de Janeiro ever since we finished University. In fact, I knew that he would say the words ‘Rio De Janeiro’ within half an hour, at most. There’s just one thing in his mind all the time.

  I pat my friend on his back. “What can I tell you, Harring? We’ll keep these plans for you!”

  “No, man, that woman has yet to be born!”

  “Do you have a picture?” Asks Samuel Coulsen.

  “Of whom?” I ask.

  “Of your wife, who else?” He replies, slapping me on my neck.

  “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” I admit, raising my hands.

  “Come on, let us see her!”

  “Let us see her! Let us see her! Let us see her!” Samuel and Harring start a stadium chant.

  “Guys, I don’t have any picture,” I repeat.

  Samuel turns towards the bunch behind him. “Guys! He doesn’t have any picture.”

  “Nooo!” Their disappointment rises as loud as a roar.

  “Punishment! Punishment! Punishment!” Everyone shouts.

  “Let’s soak him in the Thames!” Harring suggests.

  “Boys, calm down! What do you mean soak me in the Thames?”

  “What sort of stag party would it be, without an arrest for forbidden bathing?”

  So, led by Samuel and Harring, these supposed gentlemen lift me up by the legs and shoulders, and take me outside the club, down the whole Strand, while shouting: ‘Ash the newly-wed takes a dip’.

  I have to say that I don’t remember much else.

  13

  Jemma’s Version

  After dinner, I wandered around Denby for a good hour.

  My intention was to go back to my room, but I remembered that there’s a Champions League match between Borussia Dortmund and Arsenal tonight.

  I had to find a tv!

  I slipped into one of the corridors and started opening doors. I saw paintings, statues, musical instruments, desks, books, more dining tables, carpets, but nothing that resembled a tv.

  Then, I found a staircase and went up. Other sofas, armchairs, fireplaces, and so many beds – what the hell is this place, a hotel?

  I was starting to get nervous, as the kick-off was five minutes ago and I couldn’t believe there isn’t a single tv in this huge mansion!

  I climbed another staircase, and now I’m in a narrower corridor with more doors.

  As my hope is fading away, I start opening them one by one, until I find a small, old crt tv. The room is rather bare, with almost no furniture and yet there is all I need: a sofa and a socket.

  Feeling victorious, I pick up the remote control and try to tune in, hoping it’s not one of those matches which start with a goal in the first minute. I heave a sigh of relief when I see a reassuring 0-0 on top of the screen. I haven’t missed very much.

  God, I wish I had some chicken wings, now!

  Fuck Delphina and her recipe book of bloody jelly like crap!

  I swear at the midfielders, who apparently have no intention of touching the ball, then I hear the handle click behind me.

  “So, Martin, do you reckon we’re going to kick the Kraut’s arses? Alvin bet that one of them will be sent off by the end of the first half… oh, I’m sorry, Lady Jemma, um, I had no idea you were here… I…” a male voice says hesitantly.

  I turn around, surprised: it’s Lance. He’s taken off his uniform and is now wearing a comfortable synthetic tracksuit with the Arsenal badge on the chest.

  “Don’t make me go away, Lance. It’s the only room I’ve found with a tv. Please, there’s a match tonight. Just ninety minutes and I’m off.”

  “On the contrary, My Lady: if you prefer, we can leave the roo
m for your exclusive use.”

  “No way, Lance. Watching a football match on your own is really sad. I like cheering in company, it makes support stronger!” I beckon him to sit next to me. “I got here just in time, I nearly missed the first half! It took me ages to find a tv here.”

  “These are the servants’ quarters,” says Lance with a hint of hesitancy.

  “Well, I must say that you treat yourselves far better than those rich people! So… is it just you and me? Is nobody else helping us support the Gunners? Come on, it’s an away match, the cheer is worth double!”

  “Campbell and Bowen are on their wa—” Lance says, and then the two show up at the door just before he can complete the sentence.

  “So? Has anyone scored yet?”

  I make a brief summary of the game. “0-0 since I turned on the tv. No yellow or red cards. Only a free kick, but it went over the crossbar. The Kraut goalkeeper didn’t even blink,” I comment, keeping my eyes on the screen. “Hey, ref, are you blind or what? Everyone saw the foul!” Then I turn towards Bowen and Campbell, who are still frozen near the door. “Won’t you take a seat, then?”

  They look at me, petrified. “Lady… Lady Jemma.”

  “It’s all right, sit down,” Lance encourages them.

  There’s total silence in the room, and for the first time in my life I see three middle-aged men sitting as stiff as boards during a football match. “Look, it’s all right, I’m a woman who likes football, not a three-eyed freak show! And yes, I do understand the simple mechanism of two teams with different uniforms who must kick the ball in the goal of the opposite team. You can relax, now!”

  They look even more petrified and barely move their eyes. They lean against the backrest only when Lance encourages them with a nod.

  “Cross! Cross, for God’s sake! Can’t you see that Sanchez is already in front of the goal?” I shout, alarming the three men. Campbell, a little bloke in his forties with copper red hair, starts and accidentally kicks a plastic bag at his feet, causing a familiar clank.

  “Campbell! You brought beer and you’re not offering it round? Not good! Football fans are a big family! You’re supposed to share!” I tease him.

  He blushes up to his ears. “Um, yes, but I didn’t think you liked beer.” He reaches out towards the bag and hands me a bottle. “Is this all right?”

  “Guinness! You bet!” I take the bottle and open it using the edge of the table, then I raise it to him. “Cheers Campbell, I owe you one! To the Gunners!”

  The three men raise their beers towards me, in response. “To the Gunners.”

  However, even before we can have a sip… “Goal!” We all shout together, standing up as though an electric discharge had hit the sofa.

  Now we’re ahead, we can sit back and enjoy the game until the end of the first half.

  “So, Lady Jemma, you’re a football fan?” asks Lance as soon as the ads start.

  “It’s pretty clear, isn’t it?” I ask, pointing out the obvious.

  “Let’s say it’s an unexpected feature.”

  Paul Bowen finally opens his mouth. “Yes, I mean, we don’t often see duchesses around here. Certainly not to watch football. When Campbell and I got here, we had quite a surprise!”

  “Yes, Bowen, I noticed. As for me, I didn’t expect to find any Arsenal fans within these cold walls.”

  “How long have you been a football fan?” Asks Bowen curiously.

  “As long as I can remember.”

  Lance smiles at me openly for the first time. “Is your dad a fan?”

  “No, not really. Actually, my father has never been a fan, and we don’t even have a tv, at home. It’s because, back at school, I mainly played with boys. The girls used to say that I stank, so I always hung out with the boys during the breaks. They talked about matches, footballers, teams, and I became passionate about it.”

  Campbell struggles to hold back a laugh. “Lady Jemma, I apologise for the insolence, but… did you say you stank?”

  “Yes, my mother is an ecologist, and she’s never wanted to use industrial detergents or soaps. She uses exclusively organic laundry products, with the only result that all our clothes stank like a wet dog. That’s why the girls didn’t want me to play with them. But for the boys, this made no difference, as they were always too sweaty and covered in dirt and grass to pay attention to me. So, I blended in…”

  “The same happened to me at school, but because of my snacks. My mother always made me sandwiches with Stilton cheese…” Bowen laughs, touching his round belly. “And you can see that I’ve eaten many of those!”

  As soon as the stadium is back on the screen, we shut up as though we were in church.

  At least until we score another goal, by chance, at the last minute. When the referee whistles, we hug each other as soldiers who have won a war.

  After the post match interviews, we turn off the tv and look at each other. Or rather, I look at Lance, Campbell and Bowen, in an attempt to buy some time. I know, it’s time for me to get going as I’m the intruder here. However, to be honest, I’ve felt more at home in a bare sitting room with the servants for these ninety minutes than for the whole day in the luxurious rooms of the mansion.

  “I… had better…” I start saying.

  “If you allow me, I will accompany you to your apartments, My Lady.” Lance proposes.

  “Um, okay, but Lance, since we watched a football match and drank beer together, why don’t you just call me Jemma?”

  “The protocol doesn’t allow that.”

  “It makes me feel uncomfortable,” I admit.

  “You will get used to it,” he replies, understandingly, then he opens the door and invites me to follow him.

  I say goodnight to Campbell and Bowen and follow Lance, who leads me through the corridors.

  Denby Hall is immersed in silence and shadow; the long hallways are lit by the soft lights of wall candelabra, which were probably used to hold candles in the past, but now have elaborate sprout shaped light bulbs.

  Lance walks in front of me with long silent steps, which make me feel too noisy, so I decide to take off my high heeled shoes and walk barefoot on the cold marble floor.

  “Cheers for your company, Lance. I enjoyed the match much more. I’m used to going to the stadium and being in the front row with many other fans. I just have to apologise for invading your space. It’s ridiculous that you’re the only ones with a tv!”

  “It was not at all an invasion. It was a pleasure for me, and I believe it was the same for Campbell and Bowen. You’re welcome to join us whenever you like.”

  “Then sign me up for all the next Premier League and Champions League matches!”

  “I will be happy to reserve the best seat for you, and Bowen will bring the beer. Is Guinness to your liking or do you have other preferences?”

  “Guinness will do just fine,” I say, sinking onto my bed, feeling a flicker of life for the first time in the whole day.

  “Well, I bid you goodnight, Your Grace.”

  “Goodnight Lance, see you tomorrow.”

  He closes the door, then opens it again and says: “One last thing. I’ll show you a secret,” then he presses a switch near the bedside table. With a long whirring sound, a tv as big as a whole museum wall appears from behind a chest of drawers.

  14

  Ashford’s Version

  I came home on the sly, like Arsène Lupin.

  Why? Because my clothes are still wet after my lovely dip in the Thames. The stench of sewage is so unbearable that I had to take off my trousers in order not to get my car seat dirty while driving back to Denby.

  I take a damask tablecloth from an occasional table and wrap it around myself.

  I’m not very manly with this salmon coloured silk cloth around my hips – I look rather like Mata Hari on duty – but I’m not going to show myself with my butt naked and lose the last tiny bit of authority I have in this house.

  If Harring hadn’t been my best friend
since college, I would have beaten the shit out of him for tonight. But he’s also the only person in this grim world who’s able to make me laugh, even at the wrong moments. Yes, Harring’s best performances are tasteless jokes at royal receptions, Masses or funerals, and he’s always very careful to raise his voice so that everyone hears him. Each of us has his role: I’m the one with self-control and decorum.

  The truth is that he was upset when he learned of my marriage; we had a sort of tacit agreement that we would never get married, or that it would happen as late as possible. He probably sees it as back stabbing. Even though I’m not as wild and randy as he is, I can say that we’ve always been ‘partners in crime’. But now, our escapades are over, that’s why he particularly enjoyed throwing me in the river.

  Back at the club, once we were alone, I tried very hard to convince him that I’m still the Ash he knows.

  “So… you’re deserting me on the path of the eternal bachelor.”

  “Don’t make me feel guilty, you’ll be fine…”

  “I’m not talking about me. I’m sorry for you. Thirty years old, and you’ve tied the knot already! Don’t even think about asking me for moral support. I did warn you, some time ago.” Harring knows how to conceal his disappointment behind a comic mask.

  “How about this: if I ever need help, I won’t look for you.”

  “Well, if you really are in love…” he says. Here we go, he wanted to test me, he wanted to hear it from me. Harring’s instinct never fails when it comes to catching me lying. If I had said that I love Jemma, he wouldn’t have believed me.

  “Harring, here’s what happened: I got married. It was a spur of the moment decision, made on impulse. I wanted to do it, and I did it. I have a wife, but nothing is the way you think it is. In your head, you probably imagine a conventional marriage, a standard marital life with all the subsequent limitations. Just know that my wife isn’t a conventional woman and neither is our marriage. She is unruly and weird, and perhaps that’s what makes her the only woman I could ever have married. Anyone else would have wanted a classic wedding, but not Jemma.”