How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  “And the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord High Chancellor, the Prime Minister, the Lord High Treas…”

  “Yes, okay, I got that,” I interrupt him abruptly. “I just wanted to cut things short.”

  Lance looks at the pendulum clock. “Instructing you properly will take much of your patience.”

  “Are we having another lesson tomorrow?” I ask, anxiously.

  “As Your Grace desires. Is there a subject in particular that you would like to cover?”

  “I don’t know… is it essential to speak German?” I ask, hoping that it isn’t.

  Lance nods his head. “And French, of course.”

  I lean against the backrest, discouraged. For God’s sake, I should really be a genius to learn two languages!

  Lance gives me a reassuring smile. “We will certainly find another interesting topic to discuss. If Your Grace allows me, I will escort you to your apartments. I’m afraid you aren’t able to walk on your own yet.”

  “Cheers, Lance.” I beckon him to come closer so that I can put my arm around his neck.

  With a fatherly expression, he helps me lie down in bed and puts my leg on a soft pillow. “For the next few days, I suggest that you stay in bed and move as little as possible. We will take care of your every need.”

  He’s already turned his back to go out, when I stop him and ask, in a quiet voice: “And Portia? What’s her title?”

  “Her father is a marquis.”

  “Oh,” I say, disappointed. I haven’t met her yet, but I hoped her title was worth less.

  “However, her family has held the title only since 1832,” he adds.

  A bizarre sense of satisfaction fills my heart. “Cheers, Lance.”

  36

  Ashford’s Version

  I notice that the seat on my right at the table is empty again today.

  Jemma has remained locked up in the room since the hunt. She can’t move because her sprained knee confines her to bed, but it’s been more than ten days now.

  She doesn’t want to see me or talk to me – not that I’m sorry about that – but I would really like to know if she’s ever heard from that crook Willoughby again.

  “Is there any news from the duchess?” I ask casually, so nobody thinks I’m anxious. To clarify: I am not anxious about the duchess, and I believe I will never be.

  “She’s still in her apartment,” Lance answers promptly.

  “How many days since she last came out? Ten?”

  “Eleven, Your Grace,” he corrects me.

  “Eleven. It seems a bit too much for a sprain. Shall I call someone? A doctor? A gravedigger? An exorcist?”

  Just as Lance is about to answer, we hear loud footsteps on the stairs. “It’s here! It’s here! It’s here!” Jemma’s voice, which has now become familiar, interrupts us.

  “I had just mentioned an exorcist, right?” I ask, but my question hangs in the air.

  I recognise the sound of the heavy front door opening and, just then, a courier van stops in front of the house. After a few seconds, the van leaves and we hear Jemma’s heavy tread again, this time she’s climbing the stairs.

  “What a savage,” my mother comments.

  It’s clear that her sprain is long gone.

  I give Lance a questioning look, and he remains expressionless on the other side of the table. “I assume that the Pride and Prejudice bbc series on dvd has arrived,” he informs us.

  “Lance, would you please join me in my study? I would like to talk to you,” I say, putting my napkin down on my left.

  “I’ll clear the breakfast table and join you there.”

  I stand up resolutely. “I mean now.”

  I sit at the desk while Lance closes the door behind him. “It’s annoying that I’m not informed of what is going on in my house. I have the feeling that you know something regarding Her Grace. Whatever it is, if it’s not going to compromise national security, then would you be so kind as to tell me what it is all about?”

  “Are you referring to the reason why she is not leaving her apartment?”

  “It’s been more than a week of isolation. It was a simple sprain, not the black plague, who are you trying to fool?” I burst out.

  “The duchess was, indeed, unwell, although this isn’t the primary reason for her protracted absence.”

  “And what is?” I can’t hide my curiosity.

  “Lady Jemma asked me to give her lessons in general knowledge and teach her the skills a duchess is expected to master.”

  “That’s what my mother was doing, if I understood it correctly.”

  “If you allow me, Lady Delphina wasn’t able to find the right way to address the topics with Lady Jemma.”

  “And what about Pride and Prejudice?”

  “In particular, to answer your question, we have recently talked about the literary knowledge that is necessary for someone in high society. It’s a very rich amount of knowledge if you consider every important period, but we visited the library here at Denby Hall, and it didn’t take us long to realise that she could never read all the books I suggested in a reasonable time. Lady Jemma needs ready-to-use forms that allow for immediate assimilation. Thus, I recommended the cinematic versions of all the literary classics.”

  “The bbc series?”

  “Lady Jemma was very impressed by a film featuring Keira Knightley and, when she found out about a tv series, she couldn’t help but order the dvd version.”

  “Are you saying that Jemma has been watching one film after the other for a week in order to catch up with my library?”

  “And she’s making really good progress,” he confirms, satisfied. “Tess of the d’Urbervilles, David Copperfield, Farewell to Arms, The Scarlet Letter, Vanity Fair, Wuthering Heights…”

  “Thanks, Lance,” I interrupt him. “That’s incredible,” I comment to myself, but maybe I said that a little louder than I intended, and Lance has heard me.

  “It’s an unconventional but very effective method. I adopted the same technique for history and geography, suggesting that she saw films about travel and eminent personalities.”

  “… and she listened to you without complaining?”

  “She asked for it herself,” Lance replies in her defence.

  “That’s a brilliant idea, Lance. You deserve to be praised.”

  “I would like to add that Lady Jemma has an extraordinary predisposition for foreign languages.”

  “Explain,” I urge him to continue.

  “Lady Jemma doesn’t speak German or French, but she learned Italian from her neighbours, the De Marcellos. She may not have impressed Baron von Hofmannsthal, but she will certainly prove outstandingly assured with any Italian diplomat you may invite to your evenings. In the meantime, I recommended some films in German and French. She has a very sensitive ear and I believe that she’s making tangible progress.”

  I shake my head to clear my mind. “So you’re saying that she’s voluntarily undergoing an intensive course in literature, history, geography and languages, and she’s even making good progress. Is that correct?”

  Lance just nods his head.

  I’m shocked. I dismiss him and, a second after he’s left, I collapse against the backrest of my chair.

  I feel like a worm. A caterpillar. A larva. Any invertebrate of your choice, as long as it’s far down the food chain.

  So far, I’ve never restrained myself when it came to criticising Jemma for her ignorance, her lack of initiative and her inadequacies, and now I find out that she has started studying hard voluntarily.

  But it’s even worse than that. As her husband, I should have taken care of her interests and helped her fit into a society that doesn’t belong to her, yet I simply delegated the task to my mother – to whom I wouldn’t entrust my worst enemy – and, by doing so, I forced her to seek help from Lance.

  The icing on the cake is that I thought that I could stand my ground as long as Jemma did the same, but now the situation is completely ov
erturned. She took the initiative to meet my needs, so my good manners and education suggest that I take a step towards meeting hers.

  This is a total mess. I counted on just two things: her stubbornness and her laziness.

  For the first time I look at myself in the mirror and I know I’m wrong.

  37

  Jemma’s Version

  I curl up under my blankets and pillows, hiding in the canopy bed as if I were in a den. I’m protecting myself from the world which, after the slap in the face it gave me through Carter, feels even colder.

  I think I have learned every single line of Pride and Prejudice by heart, and every time I read about the Bennets, I feel the warmth and affection of that beautiful large family. I would like to be a part of that, I’m sure it would help me at the moment.

  I want my mum.

  Well, I’m going to call her now, perhaps I could go spend a few days at my parents’ in London.

  38

  Ashford’s Version

  I hear Lance knock on the door of my study.

  “Your Grace, may I?”

  “Come in, Lance,” and I beckon him to sit down without raising my eyes from the mail.

  “It won’t be necessary. I just wanted to tell you that the duchess didn’t have breakfast this morning.”

  “Mmm,” I mutter, caught in my business. “So?”

  “She didn’t even ask for it to be served in her room.”

  “She’s probably still asleep.” I assume. Jemma’s eating habits are near the top of my personal list of stuff I couldn’t care less about.

  “Claire has already tidied up the rooms on that floor and she heard that Lady Jemma is awake.”

  “Well, now that we know that the duchess is still alive, our day can start. Can’t it, Lance? Is there anything else I should know?” He’s starting to get on my nerves. Lance is one of the pillars of this house, but the way he sometimes beats about the bush is quite irritating. I know he has something to say, but every time, instead of going straight to the point, he goes back to the Punic Wars.

  “Claire heard Lady Jemma crying quite desperately. I think that having someone to comfort her would do her good.”

  With my head in my hands and my elbows on the desk, I massage my temples.

  “You know what my mother’s answer would be? That you’re not paid to think.”

  “Luckily, Your Grace the duke is not your mother.”

  “No, I’m not.” So saying, I stand up quickly to leave the study.

  “Pray that I never become like her,” I say to Lance before heading towards Jemma’s room.

  I hesitate outside her door for a moment. In fact, I can hear muffled sobs coming from behind the door. I roll my eyes, hoping it’s not some sort of emotional breakdown due to the premenstrual syndrome.

  Or Willoughby. Please don’t let this be about Willoughby.

  “Jemma,” I say, using my most considerate tone. “Can I come in?”

  Silence.

  “Jemma?”

  “Wait a second,” she finally answers, in a nasal voice. After several seconds, I’m already regretting being here to act as a Good Samaritan, or rather, I start regretting the loving husband act that I’m about to put on.

  “Come in, Ashford.”

  The room is a mess, as usual; Jemma is sitting as properly as I’ve ever seen her do so far, she’s as straight as a pillar, and she’s pretending to look out of the window, with her back almost totally to the door, in a strategic position.

  “I couldn’t help noticing your absence this morning, so I came up to see if everything is all right.” Yes, it was Lance who noticed it, but it wouldn’t be nice to admit it, right?

  “Yes, of course, everything is all right. Why shouldn’t it be?” She says, but her voice is broken, sounding an octave higher than her normal tone, which is quite high already.

  “Sorry, but it doesn’t seem like that. Am I wrong?”

  “Yes, you… wrong,” she says while she can’t help sobbing.

  “Okay, you’re right,” I say, taking a box of Kleenex and giving it to her. “Nothing at all? You sure?”

  Jemma gulps, but doesn’t say a word.

  “Let’s face it: the whole house knows that you’re locked in here and you’re crying. There are two possibilities: it’s either something I can – and must – comfort you about, or it’s my fault. If I leave you here crying, everyone will start talking about what is wrong between us and, believe me, I’d rather keep that long list private.”

  Jemma lets out a long sigh. “I called my mother because I’d like to go and visit my parents in London. I miss them and I’m feeling down these days, so I wanted to spend a few days at their place.”

  “Well, if this is what you’re crying about, just know that you can do it whenever you want to. I hope you don’t think that I’m so mean as to keep you from seeing your family!”

  “I can’t go anyway! Their landlord has sold the block of flats they live in to a construction company. My parents received an eviction notice yesterday. They are tearing everything down to build a shopping centre!”

  I look at her, furrowing my brows. “I can’t see the problem, really. You have acquired a number of properties with your inheritance. They could settle in one of your grandmother’s houses…”

  She looks at me, upset. “You don’t understand! They have no idea I inherited my grandmother’s properties, exactly as your mother doesn’t know that you were broke! They think she left everything to distant relatives. They aren’t stupid. If I told them: ‘Hey, you can move to one of grandma’s houses, you know, it’s all mine’ they would understand that there’s something strange. My grandmother disinherited my mother because she didn’t marry a nobleman, then I marry a duke and I inherit everything. They wouldn’t speak to me any more! Perhaps money means a lot to your family, but we give much more importance to feelings.” She sighs, then blows her red nose with the umpteenth Kleenex. “I would lose all their respect.”

  “I’m sorry. It sounds strange to say, but I know how it feels when they’re about to take away your roof from over your head.”

  “I want to help them. They’re my family and I can’t leave them out in the street.”

  I have an idea. “What about buying a nice new house for them? You can tell them it’s my money, they will never know!”

  Jemma raises her hands in surrender. “I have offered to buy a house for them, or pay for their rent, but they won’t accept. They are too proud to take any money from me. I’m still their child, and they feel they are the ones to come to my rescue, not the other way about.”

  Jemma is desperate, she resumes sobbing and lets herself fall on the unmade bed, which is scattered with dvds of films based on the works of Shakespeare, the Brontë sisters, and even Dickens. I’m trying to comfort her by patting on her shoulder, when something lying under her pillow draws my attention. It looks like the corner of a leather bound book. I slide it out with two fingers: Pride and Prejudice.

  Jemma reads. If I have to be honest, I can’t imagine Jemma as a reader, and yet she is.

  She’s studying hard, and she’s doing it to live up to a life she doesn’t even want.

  Perhaps, she has more self-discipline than I was able to expect from her and now, more than ever, I feel bad about my lack of interest in her.

  “Everything will be okay, you’ll see,” I say, without too much enthusiasm, while leaving the room.

  As I go down the stairs, I quicken my pace and some kind of awareness takes possession of my mind. I myself went from being a naive child to becoming my mother’s carer; I let her believe that she has everything under control, but I constantly keep an eye on her and take care of her as she gets older. I married a stranger so that she could keep living her life with her long-time certainties, and I let her believe in an imaginary and very unlikely royal visit to give her a reason to wake up in the morning. Let’s face it, it’s like when, as children, they make us believe in Santa Claus: it’s just a whi
te lie, because you have to believe in something beautiful, you have to hope for something.

  “Lance, I’m going to London, I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  If Jemma has overcome her limits, so will I.

  *

  I could never have thought I would set foot in this place again, but finding myself in front of the decaying building where Jemma lived proves me wrong.

  I ring the entry phone several times, but then I remember that the circuit is disconnected. Are the Pears at home, I wonder? God knows.

  I don’t know if I have good or bad luck on my side, but as soon as I turn my back to the front door of the building, one of its bizarre tenants comes out. I put my foot in the doorway and then, climbing the steps three at a time, I finally arrive in front of Jemma’s parents’ flat.

  The landing is saturated by a smell of incense (and something else) and the croaking sound of a record player comes from the inside.

  I knock vigorously on the door. “Mr and Mrs Pears? It’s Ashford, Jemma’s husband.”

  “I’ll be right there,” shouts a female voice from the inside. God, please, let them be dressed.

  “Ashford! What a surprise! My Mayan horoscope hadn’t forecast any visit!” Says my mother-in-law while opening the door, and she’s dressed.

  “They forecast the end of the world in 2012, and yet we are still waiting for it. I wouldn’t trust those Mayans,” I say.

  “Don’t stay there on the threshold, come in. Take a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “May I offer you a cup of chai?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Come on, chai is good for you. It’s soul cleansing.”

  I hope that is not a euphemism for ‘laxative’. “Just a sip.”

  “Isn’t Jemma with you?”

  “No, she was actually quite upset this morning. She told me about a problem that concerns you, and I came to talk about it. Isn’t your husband here?”

  “He sure is! He came back from the radio a little while ago. He’s on the roof watering the ficus. I’ll call him.” Then Carly leans out of the window and shouts: “Vaaance! Come down! Ashford’s here!”