How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  Vance comes back down with the watering can still dripping in his hand. “Ashford! It’s so nice to see you again, laddie! Are you staying for lunch?”

  “I’m afraid I have business to do later. I came here to talk about an issue that upsets Jemma a lot,” I try to line up my speech but the music almost drowns my words. “Although All Along The Watchtower is one of my favourite songs and Jimi Hendrix is an immortal artist, I would be grateful if we could turn the volume down to a background accompaniment.”

  Vance nods, lifting the needle from the turntable.

  “Thank you. I’ll be brief: this morning, Jemma informed me that the landlord has sold this building, and that the buyer has sent you an eviction notice. As your daughter, she’s really worried about you, and she wants to know what your plans are and how she can help.”

  For the first time, the Pears’ mood darkens.

  Vance clears his throat, yet his voice is still unsteady.

  “Well, we can’t say that it was a surprise, but deep in our hearts we hoped it that it would come to nothing. You often hear rumours that never come true.”

  “The rent here was so affordable,” adds my mother-in-law.

  “How long until you have to leave the flat?”

  “A week.”

  “A week? That’s ridiculous!” I protest.

  “The contract expired a month ago, but the owner didn’t renew it. He always said he didn’t have any time, and that he would have us sign a new one. Instead, we received the eviction notice. Technically, we have lived here unlawfully for two weeks.”

  “What are your plans?”

  Vance and Carly exchange a look which is halfway between complicity and consolation, and it almost breaks my heart. I said almost.

  “We’ll manage, somehow.”

  “We’ve always made do, we have our van…”

  “Excuse me, the van is not a plan!” I burst out, shocked by their statement. “Wandering in an old California is for twenty year olds. You’re sixty and you have needs, let’s not be silly. Jemma wants to know you’re safe, not lost on the moors in a 1972 van.”

  “We’ll manage. Jemma doesn’t have to worry about us!”

  Their statements sound irrational to me. “If not your daughter, who should worry? She wants to help you, and she can!”

  “What kind of parents would we be? Asking our daughter for money because we no longer have a home? We should be the ones to take care of her, not the contrary!” Carly protests.

  “Very well. I have the solution, and you won’t even have to ask Jemma for help: you will settle in Denby Hall. The manor is big enough to host a legion of people, and you will be close to your daughter.”

  They look at me, puzzled. “Ashford, this is not necessary, really.”

  “Yes, it is. I am the owner of the house and I’m married to Jemma, which makes this proposal more than legitimate. Jemma will be happier knowing that you’re safe and that you’re next door. I personally believe that no child should wake up every day without knowing where their parents are, or if they’re well. I won’t leave until you accept.”

  “It’s not a simple decision to make,” Vance hesitates.

  “Jemma won’t have to know that we met. You will stop by in Denby to greet her, as if you were just visiting. With the utmost spontaneity, I’ll invite you to settle in our private apartments, where you’ll have your privacy and tranquillity. And, between us, you will stay as long as you want,” I say, reaching out a hand towards them. “Do we have a deal?”

  Vance lingers for a moment, then shakes my hand. “Cheers Ashford, we will never forget this.”

  “Pack your bags. I’ll send someone to get your stuff.”

  “Oh, we don’t have much left. We decided to give everything that wouldn’t fit in the van to charity.”

  “Except for the records,” says Vance.

  “Very well. I’ll be in Denby, waiting for you. And your records.”

  39

  Jemma’s Version

  We’re all amicably gathered for afternoon tea.

  I still don’t understand why they send tons of food from the kitchens if we can’t eat it.

  Seriously! I’m standing in front of a lavishly laden table: sandwiches, canapés, tarts, pastries, cinnamon rolls, brioche bread, but no one can touch them.

  I reached out for a muffin once, and Delphina almost set the dogs on me.

  The food is there to be looked at as a decoration, or, as she says, in case someone important arrived.

  Sure, there are so many people coming and going here at Denby, that we rival a mortuary.

  Anyway, the lavish buffet doesn’t attract me, today. My stomach’s been closed since I knew my parents received the eviction notice.

  The last time I heard from them on the phone, they left me saying ‘We’ll sort this, don’t worry’, but I am worried, and how.

  “You’ve been stirring your tea for a good twenty minutes. Don’t you like it?” Says Ashford.

  I get back from a sort of trance. “No, it’s perfect… I just…”

  “Don’t you want it? Would you like to order something else?” He urges me.

  “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  Delphina puts her cup on the saucer noisily and, pointing her right index finger up in the air, indicating nothing, she asks: “What’s that?”

  “What, mother?”

  “That distant rumble. Can’t you hear it?”

  We raise our ears, bearing with the old bat’s first signs of dementia.

  “It’s coming from outside, there’s someone in the driveway.”

  In fact, now I can hear a crackling silencer. And a transmission which grinds at every gear shift.

  “What the hell is that thing?” Delphina asks, horrified, as she looks out of the bay window.

  Intrigued, I join my mother-in-law at the windowsill.

  “That pedlars’ wreck coming towards our house!”

  Delphina starts ringing the annoying bell she uses to summon the servants. Lance arrives, with his typical composure.

  “Lance, gather the servants, lock all the doors and windows and call security! Some gypsies are coming!” Delphina’s face is a mask of terror.

  The incoming wreck is nothing more than my parents’ old melon coloured California van, and I can see the Tibetan wind chimes swinging from the rear view mirror. “My mum and dad! It’s them!”

  And I rush out of the room.

  Lance opens the door to let me out; the van stops right in front of the white marble staircase with a massive puff of black smoke.

  The door opens and my mother emerges, wrapped in her violet sari.

  “Mum!” I shout, running towards her and diving into her hair, a cloud of patchouli.

  “Since we’re now homeless, we thought we could come and visit you.”

  My dad comes towards us and joins our hug. “There’s so much space around here! We can camp somewhere without bothering anyone!”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, there are hundreds of empty rooms in this manor. It will be great to have you here. Good morning, Mr and Mrs Pears!” Ashford appears at the door, with his hands in his pockets and the air of the calmest person in the world. “Are you here for a visit?”

  “Due to unforseen circumstances, our home is now a pile of rubble, so we thought that it was a great opportunity to resume travelling. We decided to leave from here, but not before having paid a visit to our little girl!” My mother announces cheerfully.

  “What a wonderful idea,” Ashford agrees.

  “But we don’t want to keep them too long, do we? They must have a list of beautiful places to see!” Delphina says, from the front door.

  “Well, I… I thought…” I hesitate, not knowing what to say.

  “What my mother is saying is that she’s very happy to see you again, and that she would like you to be our guests until you decide to leave. Denby Hall is your home.”

  “Ashford, are you crazy?!” Delphina mutters through clenche
d teeth.

  I’m quite surprised by Ashford’s composure; I thought I would have to engage in a battle to the death with him in order to defend my right to spend time with my parents.

  “Seriously?” I ask, bewildered.

  “They are my in-laws, I can’t deny them a short stay to visit my wife.” Ashford doesn’t blink an eye. “Lance will escort them to their accommodation. There are some comfortable and quiet apartments that overlook the lake in the gallery of the west wing.”

  Of course, he’s always true to himself: in his kind proposal I understand that my parents can stay, but away from anyone who can see them, hear them or bump into them.

  “Ashford you’re so sweet!” My mother chirps, then she enters through the front door and greets Delphina. “Namasté.”

  My father greets her with a nod of his head, whistling Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones.

  “Margaret,” barks my mother-in-law. “My smelling salts!”

  40

  Ashford’s Version

  I knew it was only a matter of minutes before my mother dumped her bile on me.

  She follows me, slipping into my room a moment before I can close the door.

  “Have you lost your mind? You can’t really believe that I intend to keep those freaks in my house?”

  I ignore her, as I look at myself in the mirror and adjust the knot of my tie. “Yup.”

  “Yup? Do you know who you are? What your name is? This is Denby Hall, one of the oldest residences in England!”

  “We’re opening the doors of this ancient residence to them, just like they opened their own to us.”

  My mother shakes her head, immersed in her thoughts. “No. This decision is nothing more than a mistake, and now you will go and explain that it was only a misunderstanding…”

  “I won’t do that.”

  Just to be clear, this is not my umpteenth low blow to irritate my mother and see her lose her temper for my entertainment.

  Jemma feels lonely and secluded. She’s light years away from the life she’s always lived, so she has the right to be close to the people she loves. I’m not one of them. I’ll eat some humble pie and step back: I acknowledge her efforts and my mistakes; the one who’s working hard is her, not me. This is the least I can do.

  I have so many flaws, but I’m not ungrateful. It’s no longer a matter of money between us, I’m talking about moral debt. And I want to show her that I’m nothing like what Carter Willoughby may have told her, because if he talked about me, I’m sure it was to criticise me to his advantage.

  “I do not recognise you any more, where is my son? First, you marry a miss nobody without a past or a future. Then you welcome those jailbirds with open arms…”

  With a firm grip, I grab her wrist which she moves nervously. “They are honest and kind hearted people. Yes, they look odd, but I didn’t see any sign of opportunism in their eyes, and I can’t exactly say the same about you, can I? When was the last time you did anything spontaneous, something which was not calculated? Eh, mother?”

  “I… I…”

  “You say you do not recognise me, but have you ever really known me? I was raised by an army of nannies and then I was sent from one school to the other until I was old enough to go to dinners without bursting into tears or throwing up caviar in the ballroom.”

  “Now you’re blaming me for something I’m not guilty of.”

  “Whose guilt is it, then?”

  “All this has never bothered you.”

  “Have you ever asked me if it did?” I ask her, visibly pissed off.

  “I…”

  “No, you haven’t,” I say, and then I turn towards the door to leave the room.

  “We aren’t done yet.”

  “I have a Parliamentary session for which I’m already late, so yes, we’re done.”

  As I leave the room, I hear her mutter: “If you had married Portia, all this would have never happened.”

  I go back in just to say: “If you like Portia so much, why don’t you marry her yourself?”

  41

  Jemma’s Version

  Busy day. Boxes of clothes donated by the aristocratic matrons are filling Denby Hall in view of the charity fashion show; since the organisation of the event is up to me, I must also sort and select them.

  My mother and I are incredulous as we sink into a heap of fabrics. “I feel as if I have fallen into your grandmother Catriona’s wardrobe,” she says, spreading out some of the clothes.

  “What the hell is this? A sofa cover?” I ask in horror, unrolling a long brocade fabric.

  “I reckon it’s a cloak.”

  “What is it for?” I can hardly imagine it as anything other than a sofa cover.

  “Your grandmother had something similar, she used it as a cape.”

  I lift a heavy fabric covered with beads. “Hey, look, Mum! A curtain for your van!”

  “That’s an extraordinary haute couture garment which was worn by Chantal Croydon for Prince Charles’s baptism!” Delphina interrupts us in a cold voice, sneaking up on us from behind. “You’ll have to choose the best items for the fashion show from among these.”

  “My mother was just helping…”

  Delphina raises a hand as if to stop me. “Allow me to say that I’m afraid she’s not the most suitable person,” then she turns towards my mother. “No offence, Carly.”

  “I don’t think it takes a degree to do it,” I object.

  “But it takes a modicum of good taste. Moreover, you’ll need a plan, because your models will be the owners of the clothes, and you must know what fits them best.”

  My mother and I collapse against the back of the sofa, surrendering before of Delphina’s annoying attitude.

  “Lady Mallory has a particular complexion, therefore the shades of green are to be avoided. Lady Sybill is very tall, so she shouldn’t wear heels. Antonia has gained a few pounds over the last months, so I would leave her clothes out, and Marjorie has a slight tic, so you have to be careful with the music and send her out with the right rhythm, otherwise she will be poorly coordinated all the way through. Perhaps I still have some pictures from past fashion shows in my study, you should see them!”

  “No thanks, I think I’ll do fine without them,” I say, shaking my head.

  “I was not asking.” She snaps her fingers. “Come on, follow me!”

  I raise my hands in surrender, look at my mother in exasperation and follow Delphina.

  She walks in front of me through the corridors, rambling about the past shows, but my ears are no longer listening and my brain has sent a desperate sos: run for your life!

  In fact, as soon as I’m near a door, I open it with a quick movement and nip through.

  42

  Ashford’s Version

  Jemma bursts into the relaxation room, but she looks shocked when she sees me.

  “I have the feeling that you did not expect to find me here,” I observe.

  “I was looking for an escape route. I have to organise the charity fashion show and your mother is driving me crazy! Is this a house or a madhouse?”

  “Tell me about it! Jemma, I can’t stand my mother either, but I think we’ve been through this quite often, now. I came to terms with this situation long ago, after years of therapy.”

  Jemma looks at me wide eyed, in disbelief. “Therapy? You have a shrink, like lunatics?”

  “In this environment, having a psychotherapist is pretty normal. And a rite of passage to adulthood: you get a driving license, the right to vote and you arrange your first psychotherapy session,” I say, ironically.

  “Like a Bar Mitzvah!” Jemma says, then she pats my shoulder. “We had so much fun at Moshe’s Bar Mitzvah! He’s my neighbours, the Abramovitz, son. We sang and danced Hava Nagila in a circle… wait a second, or was that his brother Shmuel’s wedding?” Jemma has gone off on a tangent, as usual.

  I’ve learned that trying to stop her is useless, so I let her finish. I know it may seem incredib
le but she needs to breathe sometimes, like everyone else.

  At last, she stops talking; when she gets in front of the stereo, she adjusts the volume carefully and focuses. “You’re listening to Botticelli’s Spring?”

  “It’s Vivaldi, but I appreciate your effort…” I say, then I feel the impulse to ask her a question. “So, you’re really into Pride and Prejudice, aren’t you?”

  She blushes, as if I had embarrassed her.

  “What’s the matter? You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just asking out of curiosity,” I say, trying to put her at ease. She would probably be less embarrassed if I told her that I found a vibrator in her drawer.

  Jemma blushes again, as if she were making a confession. “You know, I’m a romantic person…”

  “I didn’t think you liked reading.” I don’t give up.

  “I’m not an avid reader, but it depends on the story. It all started when my knee was injured. I was stuck in bed and I turned on the tv to escape boredom. The remote control had low batteries and I was forced to watch what was on the first channel. It was a film starring Keira Knightley, an actress I like a lot, and Matthew Macfadyen… God, he’s so hot.” There she goes, getting excited while she’s caught in her thoughts. “It’s a nice story, you know? There’s this girl, Lizzie, she’s one of five sisters and their mother wants them all married. She meets Darcy, Matthew Macfadyen, a pompous aristocrat who’s as pleasant as using recycled toilet paper – trust me, I know what I’m talking about, my parents used that stuff!” She takes a short break to make sure she has my attention. “He’s a snob and doesn’t want to make friends with anyone who’s not as noble and rich as he is. Jane, Lizzie’s older sister, and Darcy’s best friend fall in love, but Darcy separates them because her family isn’t noble enough. Later on, he realises that he’s in love with Lizzie and asks her to marry him, but, given that he’s not able to pay anyone compliments, he just ends up offending her. Then, Lizzie goes on holiday with her uncles and they go and visit a super-castle which she discovers is Darcy’s. He’s there when they arrive and he’s strangely nice and kind to Lizzie, so that she no longer knows how to treat him. While she’s there on holiday, her younger sister runs away with an army officer, one who had flirted with Lizzie earlier. To save her family’s honour, they must find the couple and make them get married. Darcy joins the search and, without telling Lizzie, he finds them and makes them marry at his expense. Eventually, Lizzie realises that Darcy may be arrogant and proud, but he’s good hearted and loves her, and she decides to marry him because he’s the only one who knows how to stand up to her,” Jemma explains; her eyes sparkle and she’s so enthusiastic.