How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “All right, then! When?”

  “Tonight,” she states firmly.

  “Tonight?” I protest.

  “Proposing dinner with reasonable notice would have given you the chance to find an excuse and stand me up. I know you have no commitments of any kind for tonight.”

  “You’re playing dirty.”

  Jemma stands up, then looks at the statements on the desk. “Are these about our bank accounts?” And she smiles from ear to ear.

  I collect the documents and shut them in the drawer.

  “Now, Ashford, this is playing dirty. As you can see, I can do it too if you give me a hard time.”

  “Jemma…”

  “It’s a matter of respect, Ashford. Just think of my parents: their only daughter gets married in twenty-four hours and her husband takes her to live miles away from home, without even wanting to meet them.”

  “You’re right. We will do this. Tell them we’re having dinner at their house, tonight,” I give in.

  “Your mother is also invited.”

  I can’t hold back a laugh.

  “What is it now?”

  “Jemma, you’re really naive. I can make an effort and pretend you’re the only woman on Earth for a single evening, but inviting my mother means digging your own grave.”

  “She has to be there. They’re in-laws.”

  “As you wish,” I walk away from the desk shrugging and turn towards the door to leave the room.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To the stables. My mother is having her tea in twenty minutes; I’ll ask John to give me a horse tranquilliser.”

  *

  “Mother, we are not having dinner at home tonight,” I announce.

  “Oh really? Are you going out?” She asks, more out of terror than interest. She’s afraid I might take Jemma to some important place where they know us, and that she might embarrass the Parker family.

  “Not just us. We are going out,” I pause, bracing myself for the ensuing drama. “The three of us.”

  “I don’t think there is anything on the calendar scheduled for tonight. Am I missing something?”

  “Not at all, Mother. It’s an unscheduled event. We’re having dinner at Jemma’s parents place in London.”

  My mother is so shocked she looks like Chucky from Child’s Play. “It’s not possible.”

  “It is possible,” I say simply.

  “Why should we meet Jemma’s parents? It’s ridiculous. Yours may have been a hasty marriage, and if you care so much about your in-laws, well, go ahead… but why me?” And she begins stirring her tea, making the spoon clink in the porcelain cup.

  Jemma loses it: “But it’s exactly the way it is. I got married and I live in a mansion in the middle of nowhere, my parents haven’t seen me for ages and don’t have a clue what my husband looks like. Spending a couple of hours at their place to introduce yourselves is the least you can do.”

  “I have no interest in meeting them. I will not visit some yokels in their hovel. I already do a lot for charity.”

  Jemma’s face is a mask of astonishment and anger, and I have to recognise that my mother’s answer went far beyond wickedness.

  “My parents wouldn’t be interested in knowing you either if they knew that you have an arse face, but I don’t fancy influencing people, so I’ll let them get their own idea about the anatomical part you look like the most. Maybe they will be more generous.”

  Jemma has many flaws, but I can’t deny that she has a vivid imagination. In fact, after being lifted so many times, my mother’s face could be mistaken for something else.

  “Ashford, your wife offended me, you heard her.”

  Jemma did what I’ve never had the courage to do in thirty years, and I could never ask her to take her words back. “Well, Mother, if I’m hearing correctly, you offended her and her family first; as far as I’m concerned, you’re even.”

  “This is absolutely nonsensical.” My mother is about to leave the room.

  “Ashford,” Jemma hisses. “Do you remember that thing I said about respect? Well, if you don’t convince your mother to come and have dinner at my parents’, I’ll tell her that lovely story of how you were about to end up living under a bridge before I married you, and that this whole circus is still up just because of my money, so that later she’ll have to worship the ground I walk on. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Mother,” I suddenly stand up. “We’ll be dining at the Pears’ tonight, all three of us, whether you like it or not. You will meet your in-laws, whether you’re interested in doing so or not. You will be polite and kind to them, whether they are noble or not. And you’ll apologise to Jemma, because you have no right to insult her and her family.”

  “I will not do any of those things.”

  “Wonderful. Then I’ll sell our property in Bath straight away. That gigantic manor house you use to show off in front of your friends is of no use to me. And we won’t reciprocate any of the invitations we received, so your reputation will be irreparably compromised.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she threatens me through clenched teeth.

  “I would and I will. And at the end of all this, I will also cancel the royal visit here at Denby. Her Majesty the Queen will find our gates locked, God be my witness.”

  When she hears me mention the royal visit, my mother starts hesitating. This story I totally invented has taken root in her mind, so she now expects to see the Royal Family at our gate at any time. This desire of hers has become my golden ticket.

  “So be it,” she hisses in surrender. “We’ll visit the Pears.”

  “And you’ll be nice,” Jemma points out.

  “Good,” my mother says.

  “Good,” Jemma repeats, to have the last word.

  And just as the two women storm out in opposite directions, leaving the dining room and the table still laden with food, Lance calls attention.

  “Your Grace, the duchess.”

  Jemma and Delphina turn round, answering in unison. “Yes, Lance?”

  Suddenly, an uncomfortable silence descends on the room.

  Lance and I don’t dare look at each other. The two women, on the contrary, do look at each other, hatefully, and at this very moment, they become conscious of each other’s positions.

  My mother has always known that the title of Duchess of Burlingham would go to my wife by right, for she got it the same way, by marrying my father. However, due to her attachment to the title and her dislike for Jemma, and taking advantage of her ignorance, she was still exercising her rights of duchess.

  Jemma needed some time but it looks she’s just had a sudden epiphany, as she astounds me with a statement that I had never thought I would hear.

  “I’m sure that Lance’s ‘Your Grace’, was addressed to me. And I think it will be the same for ‘Duchess of Burlingham’ and all my other titles.”

  “You mean my titles…” my mother replies, rather offended.

  “Your titles are simply ‘Lady Delphina’, or ‘widowed duchess’, depending on what you prefer.” With her final remark, Jemma glances furtively at Lance, who stands in the doorway with his typical composure.

  Blowing from her nose like an angry dragon, my mother climbs up the stairs, as stiff as a piece of marble.

  *

  My mother doesn’t say a word during the drive to London that evening. We arrive in front of the block of flats where the Pears live, in a suburban neighbourhood with shabby surroundings and people of questionable taste in the street.

  Jemma jumps out of the car in her best mood.

  “Home sweet home.”

  “I can see nothing that I would call ‘home’, here,” my mother mumbles, casting a sidelong glance at the neighbourhood from her car seat.

  “Mother,” I growl.

  “What an adorable place. Just lovely,” she then comments, insincerely.

  Jemma puts the key in the lock, but it doesn’t work.

  “They must have
changed the lock again. Bloody burglars.” Then, she whistles very loudly and a new key falls from the top floor, as though the hand of God had appeared.

  This time, the key works, the door opens with a creak and it scratches the floor. “This door gets more and more warped. Hold it tight or it will hit you in the face.”

  The entrance hall is rather bare, except for an umbrella stand and a light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  “Top floor. Take a deep breath because there is no lift, but you will be surprised by the view.”

  My mother looks around, as confused as a child who gets lost at the station. “Is it safe?”

  Jemma is already halfway up the stairs. “Apart from a shootout in 1997, everything has always been nice and quiet here. A drug dealer once lived on the second floor, but they’ve been much more careful in choosing the tenants, since then.”

  “My mother was referring to the staircase,” I point out.

  “Of course it is, even though the handrail is not secured in some places, so you’d better hold the rope. Xien always says that he’ll fix it, but he hasn’t done it in years!”

  I don’t have the strength to ask who Xien is.

  I have no idea how many stairs we climbed, but we’re pretty high. Jemma opens the door of the flat. “Mum, Dad, we’re here. Oh God!” She shouts, closing the door immediately. “We can’t go in.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Is the dinner cancelled? What a pity,” says my mother, ready to go down the stairs again.

  Jemma whispers to me: “My parents are naked.”

  “Are we early? I don’t think so,” I hesitate, looking at my watch.

  “Not really… they’re, um, always naked. You know, they are nudists, that’s how they live.”

  God knows why, but instead of being upset, I find this hilarious. “Please, let my mother go in first.”

  “No, I’ll have them get dressed.”

  We wait outside for a few minutes, then Jemma opens the door. “Come in! Meet my father, Vance, and my mother, Carly!”

  “Welcome!” A lady wrapped in an Indian sari welcomes us. “Get comfortable, make yourselves at home. Take off your shoes.”

  “We usually keep them on at home,” my mother says.

  “I see. Keep them on, then. What matters is that you feel comfortable.”

  “I’m Jemma’s dad, Vance. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you! Of course we didn’t put any pressure on Jemma, we knew this opportunity would come in its own time.”

  I step forward to introduce myself. “Ashford, Jemma’s husband.”

  My mother reaches out her hand palm down, as she’s used to hand kissing. “Lady Delphina Parker, widowed Duchess of Burlingham.”

  In response, Vance doesn’t only take her hand in his grasp, but he also throws his other arm around her neck, dragging her into an enthusiastic hug. I hope there’s a hospital nearby.

  “By jings, our daughter’s mother-in-law! Carly, come and meet her!”

  “I’m draining the bulgur! Give me a minute!”

  “And so you live in the countryside, eh? That’s pure barry! Carly and I really miss the freedom of open spaces.”

  My mother clears her throat. “We come from our family manor house, Denby Hall. We don’t live in the countryside.”

  “What my mother means is that we do live in the countryside, which is much greener and quieter compared to the chaos of a metropolis like London, but the area is quite populated and we have many neighbours. In other terms, we are not isolated on the heath.” Vance seems to be a nice person, I won’t allow my mother to make these people feel uncomfortable in their own house with her cold, sour answers.

  Yes, it’s true, this is not the kind of environment we call home, but we’re guests, so our good manners must prevail over any prejudice.

  Jemma and Carly return to the room with a large bowl. “Dinner’s ready!” And so saying, my mother-in-law puts the bowl on a low table surrounded by cushions of various shapes.

  Jemma and her parents sit on their knees on the floor, and Vance invites us to join them. “Come on, or we’ll eat everything ourselves!”

  I sit between Jemma and Vance, while Carly draws my mother towards her as if she were welcoming her sister. “Come here, Delphina! This is the most comfortable cushion. It comes from Kazakhstan!” And she starts filling her plate. “Here you go, a nice spoonful for you.”

  Jemma and Vance don’t blink an eye while they serve themselves generously.

  “What’s this?” Asks my mother, sceptically, poking the food on her wooden plate with her fork.

  “Tabbouleh,” explains Jemma. “It’s a typical Lebanese dish with bulgur wheat, a whole grain. It’s seasoned with a mix of spices and vegetables.”

  My mother pushes her plate away. “I could be allergic.”

  Witnessing another gesture of discourtesy, I take the spoon and I fill my plate with a more than lavish portion. “There’s more for us, then.” In the army, when I was stationed in Kandahar, the food I ate was by far much stranger; I believe I will survive eating a whole grain.

  21

  Jemma’s Version

  I thought I would be at ease in my house, but I’m not and the reasons are clear in my mind, as if they were lit up by flashing neon lights. Number one: I’m afraid that Delphina may come up with something unpleasant. My parents are good but they’re not stupid, and their patience has a limit if put to the test. Number two: I’m equally afraid my parents may embarrass me by discussing intimate details regarding Ashford and me, given that they’re veterans of the sexual revolution and they face such topics as easily as one may talk about the weather. Number three: inexplicably, I would like to make a good impression on Ashford.

  I don’t exactly understand why, but I’m trying to detect any kind of signal that could tell me what he’s thinking.

  As to as the last point, I feel rather uncomfortable. Our duke, the open book I have learned to read, interpreting every nuance of hate, disgust, and irritation, has no negative reaction whatsoever tonight.

  He is there, he looks around, he replies kindly to my father, he compliments my mother on her cooking – are you serious? – and he’s not teasing me or making unpleasant remarks of any kind. He looks almost at ease.

  For the whole dinner, my parents told of the journeys they made in their youth, the concerts they went to, their life in communes and kibbutzim, and Ashford listened to them with interest. Then, since Delphina hardly touched any food, my mother diagnosed her with an aura vibration frequency disorder, and she took her to the terrace to show her all the Bach flower plants and make an extract for her.

  Meanwhile, Ashford remained at the table, and is now eating slices of rye bread with rice cheese.

  I fear that he’s pretending just because I’m here as he knows that I’d give him the roughest time of his life if he behaved unkindly. Therefore, I go to the kitchen with the excuse of rinsing the plates and I hide behind the door to listen.

  I hear my father’s voice very clearly. “You know, Ashford, you’re so different from the kind of man who usually attracts Jemma.”

  “I have no doubt about it.”

  “She has an inclination towards unreliable guys and compulsive liars who generally disappear within a couple of weeks.”

  “Do they leave because of her?”

  There! I knew that his bitchiness would come out eventually.

  “Could be.”

  I bite my tongue to avoid storming in to make a scene. Dad! What are you saying?

  “Our daughter has never been the easiest woman to deal with. Carly and I know that, because it’s partly our fault since we raised her in this way. She’s impulsive and spontaneous and when she takes a certain direction, she pursues it without looking around. She trusts people immediately and unconditionally, but her trust is often misplaced.”

  “It’s not a mystery that we’re very different, and our families aren’t much alike, either,” Ashford replies, vaguely.
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  “There is not one person like another in the world, but our past doesn’t matter, as long as we build our future with the right person, that’s what makes a true couple. Looking back to where you came from is the best way to prevent yourself from seeing where you’re going, and you risk ending up crashing into a wall. Carly and I had no apparent future. I’m saying this heart to heart: when I met her, Carly was fed up with a life of formality and with the demands of her family, yet she didn’t know how to escape the expectations that everyone had of her since childhood. I can’t deny that we had ups and downs, and it wasn’t always a bed of roses, but, in the end, Carly made her choice. Living in the past, tied to the conventions of her family, or making her own way. I was a labourer and spent my nights playing with my band in a garage, what I could offer a Mayfair girl?”

  “A good concert,” Ashford replies humorously.

  “Aye. That’s what I did. I see that you understand me?”

  “I’m not sure I do,” Ashford replies uncertainly.

  “Maybe not now, but you will understand in a few years. If you married Jemma so quickly, it means that this kind of awareness is already inside you, you only need time to find it.”

  “I hope I’ll have this privilege.”

  “Let me tell you something as her dad, now: if you ever make Jemma suffer, you will pay. You see where we live, right? I know a lot of people who would beat you up for free. At best, they’d find you in a container of canned tuna. It would be quite a number of cans, if you do the maths.”

  “It’s not my intention,” Ashford defends himself.

  “It’s nobody’s intention, at the beginning.”

  I decide that the conversation has lasted long enough and I go back to the living room. “Have you missed me?”

  “You’re the woman of a lifetime, of course we’ve missed you,” Ashford replies with a dazzling smile. What a dick. If he weren’t so damn fake, one could even believe him.

  “Then? Did Dad show you his record collection?” I say, trying to digress, so that they don’t realise I’ve been eavesdropping.

  “Records?” Asks Ashford.

  More than you can listen to in a lifetime.” My dad stands up and we follow him to the loft, where he stores several crates containing vinyl records. “Look. All the best of the music ever played on Earth.”