How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  I enjoy her satisfied air for a moment, before admitting: “Don’t take offence, but I already knew the story.”

  “Well, I would have told you anyway.”

  “How did you get to the book?” I ask; I’m really intrigued this time.

  “I found out that the bbc had based a tv series on the novel, and I wanted to know more of the story! I remembered that Pride and Prejudice was one of the books they wanted us to read at school, but I’d never been interested. Well, until a few weeks ago at least, so I asked Lance if we had it in the library.”

  “You could have asked me.”

  “Don’t be silly. You would have just made fun of me.”

  I shake my head and raise my hands. “Touché.”

  “Well, I liked it so much that I wanted to read all the other books by Jane Austen, as well. And then, of course, I wanted to see the film versions, too! So I ordered the dvds on Amazon.” Jemma jumps up and walks towards the bookshelf, mumbling: “Lance should have put them in here, somewhere.”

  Then, she takes the boxes and proudly waves them in front of my face. “Persuasion, Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey, and… Girls in Beverly Hills?” I ask, doubtfully.

  “Oops, sorry, that’s the modern version of this one,” she says, showing me the dvd of Emma.

  Jemma is so wild, I have to admit it. But in a good way.

  A light knocking on the door interrupts us.

  “Oh my God! It must be your mother!” Jemma whimpers.

  “No, my mother never knocks, she just breaks through doors like a sub-commandant of special forces.”

  In fact, Lance comes in. “Lady Jemma, the Marquise Cécile Loxley is waiting for you in the entrance hall. Shall I show her in?”

  “You always have to be surrounded by weirdoes, don’t you?” I ask, as she walks out of the door.

  She just mumbles: “Arschloch.”

  “I heard you!” I yell at her, but she’s already in the hallway. I can’t hold back an amused smile.

  43

  Jemma’s Version

  When I go return to the living room, my mother and Cécile are mesmerised (or stunned) by the ramblings of Delphina, who has been rummaging through the boxes and has selected a series of essential clothes to be displayed at the fashion show.

  She only leaves us at the stroke of 4 p.m., to go and have tea with Lady Antonia on the veranda.

  When the door closes behind her, we three let out a sigh of relief.

  “How beautiful indeed,” says Cécile, quite unconvincingly, as she looks at the items chosen by my mother-in-law. “I doubt I would ever wear them, not even if my life depended on it, but they’re beautiful.”

  “Too much powder pink for you, eh?” I tease her.

  “And peach pink, and dusty rose, and lilac…” my mother says, spreading out the blouses. My mother is always wrapped in brightly coloured Middle Eastern kaftans, all these pastel colours are definitely not for her.

  “I wouldn’t wear anything myself.” I look around, rather unsatisfied. “Apart from this satin underskirt, which would be terrific with a nice washed denim bustier.”

  “Yes, it’s just too bad it has all that jersey on it,” says Cécile, throwing the skirt aside.

  “This blouse isn’t that bad, either. If you remove the lace from the collar, this semi-transparent chiffon would look very sexy with a black bra underneath.”

  I look at all the clothes selected by Delphina, which are lying on the floor, and I start thinking. Idea! My event, my rules.

  “Good, ladies. Delphina wants to see these dresses on the catwalk and auction them? So be it! However, I will need your help, your silence and many pairs of scissors.”

  I describe my plan to them and we decide how to transform each garment, until we linger on the last one.

  “What about this?” Asks Cécile.

  “That corpse, you mean?” Asks my mother, observing a fluffy chinchilla fur.

  “Do we really have to include that in the show?” I ask, hoping for a no and a pat on my shoulder.

  “Naturally! This is the fur worn by the great-grandmother of Lady Whatshername when she met the Tsarina Alexandra Romanoff!” Replies Cécile, imitating Delphina’s high pitched voice.

  I look at her unhappily. “Let’s put it aside, perhaps we’ll come up with something later.”

  44

  Ashford’s Version

  As with any event on the charity calendar, everybody’s here. Missing any of these evenings could result in being branded with the dishonourable label of stingy or selfish. In fact, it’s rather the contrary: everyone is ready to put their hands in their pockets to win the title of ‘most generous soul of the season’; however, there are those who must be forgiven for boring evenings or unpleasant dinners.

  My mother sits at the Union Jack Charity table and she’s carefully ensuring that every single participant stumps up the bare minimum to be considered socially acceptable.

  It might seem ridiculous to many, but the tension is tangible. In particular, the families which have been in competition for ages fight to the last pound to defend their honour.

  The fashion show is much appreciated by the ladies of a certain age, because they have a chance to show off in the clothes they wore on some renowned occasion.

  It’s less pleasant for the male audience, though, because they have to watch the ladies in question, whose bodies are as sensual as sacks of potatoes and move up and down the catwalk with the gracefulness of a small earthquake.

  “Every single year I swear it’s my last time and I won’t be back, then God knows why, the following year comes and I find myself here with a chequebook in my hand. I have to find a way to break this vicious circle,” Harring complains, swallowing one glass after another of non-vintage champagne –this being a charity evening, we can’t toast to health with very expensive bottles, or it would be like slapping poverty in the face.

  “You’re telling me? With my mother on the committee, my place is reserved for life. I’ve even been thinking of joining the army again, just to get out of it.”

  “She dragged Jemma in this too, right?”

  “It was inevitable. Every lady in high society must contribute to the management of events. And, by the way, Jemma isn’t just involved, she organised this one. See my mother over there? She’s trying to avoid a panic attack. To be honest, I feel very relaxed and confident. Jemma couldn’t possibly mess it up. This show is so dull that I could handle it myself: dress the old ladies in their clothes, tuck them in with a little help from Vaseline and safety pins, play the same old soporific Valium compilation from 1982 and bam! You send them out on the catwalk one after the other, hoping that their dentures and femur prostheses aren’t dislodged by their agitated hip swinging.”

  “Poor grannies, let them enjoy their last blaze of glory.”

  They lower the lights in the hall and turn on a spotlight which illuminates the catwalk.

  The music starts: Valium compilation, as expected.

  On screen, they show a photo of Lady Danbury shaking McEnroe’s hand at the 1983 Wimbledon awards ceremony.

  I raise an eyebrow sceptically: despite what she looked like in 1983, Lady Danbury has now assumed the shape of a water butt; which law of physics can allow her to fit into the tiny dress she was wearing back then, I wonder?

  I don’t know if I should look or not. It’s like a horror movie: you don’t want to watch, yet an irresistible masochistic instinct forces you keep your eyes open.

  The music suddenly changes: now the voice of Lady Gaga resounds from the loudspeakers and the hall fills with smoke, it’s starting to look like the room I shared with Harring at college.

  I turn towards the dj, thinking he’ll have to face quite a rough time at the end of the evening.

  Harring elbows me in the ribs and tugs at my sleeve. “Look, for fuck’s sake! Look!” And he points at the catwalk.

  It’s a Danbury, yes, but it’s the lady’s nineteen year ol
d niece! And the dress she’s wearing has little of the one her grandmother wore at Wimbledon: they shortened it and ripped off the sleeves from the jacket.

  Total silence falls in the room: the women are in shock; the men, on the other hand, seem to have recovered from the vegetative state in which they were until a minute ago.

  After that, Lord Perry’s twenty year old granddaughter comes out, sporting the updated version of the outfit her aunt wore at a golf championship. And let me say that I wish I had never seen her aunt with those shorts on, neither on nor off the golf course. The niece, on the other hand, collects enthusiastic applause. Harring’s hands, for example, are almost bleeding.

  One after the other, the daughters, nieces and grandnieces of the mummies sitting in the hall come out on the catwalk wearing the dresses donated for charity, which have been radically updated.

  The ladies are as silent as wax statues, whereas the gentlemen have never been so full of life. And so bent over on their chequebooks. Harring and Samuel, who are next to me, have improvised a jury and raise sheets of paper with points for each girl that comes out.

  Even Lord Neville, the Royal Duke, hasn’t stopped applauding since the beginning.

  The gentlemen will be grateful to Jemma forever, but I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes when they go home.

  Perhaps, I will providentially become a widower.

  It’s almost over when the last girl takes to the catwalk: she’s wearing big sixties diva style sunglasses and she’s wrapped in a short white chinchilla fur; when she reaches the end of the catwalk, she undoes her belt with a flirtatious gesture, and she lets everyone see that she’s wearing little else below: a semi-transparent sand coloured lace leotard and a long pearl necklace which hangs down to her groin.

  “Who-is-that?” stutters Harring in a faint voice and the sheet of paper with his vote crumpled up in his hands.

  “My…” I can’t even say it. “Wife.”

  As if to confirm my fears, she turns round, takes off her glasses and lets her fur slip all along her shoulders.

  It is Jemma.

  I’m clearly picturing my mother’s chair toppling over as she falls to the ground, losing consciousness.

  After Jemma finally disappears behind the curtain, darkness falls in the hall.

  I’m almost certain that Lady Antonia’s great-grandmother was wearing something else under her fur when she met the Tsarina Alexandra back in 1911.

  “Someone up there loves you, Parker,” Harring tells me, still excited about the evening.

  “Yeah, sure,” I comment, in astonishment.

  *

  The following morning, Denby is hell on Earth.

  “I will not stand by and watch while the Parker name is dishonoured!” My mother screams, as the servants take out a long line of luggage. “I’m going to Bath!” She goes on, as I look at her on the threshold with indifference.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic?” I ask.

  “Melodramatic? Your wife shredded the antique fashion pieces of the aristocracy and she went out on the catwalk half naked, am I being melodramatic?”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” I shrug and go back inside.

  “You married a lunatic, you brought her family of freaks here, this house looks like a circus, and all your wife does is embarrass me! I’m telling you, loud and clear: I’m the only one left of sound mind, here. If you’re fine with being humiliated and turned into the laughing stock of high society, go ahead; as far as I am concerned, I will not stand by watching a sinking ship.”

  Her soliloquy barely touches me. “Perhaps you’re missing a tiny detail: I’m not holding you back, I’m just expressing my opinion on your reaction. It was a charity fashion show, not the launch of an intercontinental ballistic missile. If you want to go to Bath, you have all my support.”

  “Of course I’m going to Bath! I have no reason to stay here! After last night’s disaster, there isn’t the slightest chance of a royal visit left! The Queen will never set foot in this madhouse.”

  While my mother is venting the best of her hysteria in front of her car, which is ready to leave, Jemma appears by my side, peaceful and smiling, as if nothing had happened.

  “There you go,” she says, almost singing, while waving a bunch of cheques in front of my eyes. “Look, there are thousands of pounds here! I did the accounts and, when I called the bank to arrange to make the deposit, they told me that the Union Jack fashion shows have never made this much money!”

  In disbelief, I look at the cheques signed by my mother’s friends and acquaintances. “This is astounding!”

  “And look here!” Jemma hands me her smartphone with an open Twitter page. “Three fashion designers have tagged me in their posts to compliment me! Real fashion designers who do fashion shows in Paris! It was a triumph!”

  Seeing Jemma revelling in her own success, my mother is fuming. “A success! You annihilated years of pride and tradition with your antics!”

  Jemma gives my mother a freezing look, and keeps swinging her cheques. “As far as I know, you don’t feed the poor with pride and tradition.”

  “I fully agree,” I say.

  My mother stamps her feet and gets into the car, shouting: “Go to hell, both of you!” And then the Rolls Royce starts moving along the driveway, raising a cloud of dust.

  “Where is she going?” Asks Jemma.

  “I think I owe you one.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s off to Bath.”

  45

  Jemma’s Version

  My stay here in Denby has been miraculously more tolerable since Delphina and her disquieting lady-in-waiting left.

  Ashford and I see each other very little, basically just during meals, after which he disappears into his study, goes to London for a meeting at the House of Lords, to the club with Harring, or to polo practice. Not that I dislike this kind of balance. It’s not that bad, I must say.

  I can roam around Denby Hall undisturbed, without having to do it on tiptoe. I must say it’s quite a nice place and there’s little left of that dark and austere manor house I saw when I arrived. The warm season lights up the long corridors from the stained glass windows (Lance told me that’s what they’re called).

  And the park! It’s massive, I could go riding for days and not tread the same ground twice.

  My parents and I take long rides in the afternoon before tea time, which is a nice way for them to get to know the grounds and all parties to get some exercise.

  It’s been quite a while now since they settled here, much more than would be acceptable for a short visit. I realised this because, on the few occasions we talk to each other, Ashford often asks me if my parents’ stay at Denby is pleasant, if they like Denby, if their accommodation suits them. He asks about this just a little too often, his questions must have some sort of hidden agenda.

  Today, Ashford will be home earlier from London to have tea with the three of us, but I have the feeling that it might be an excuse to ask them to leave. Due to this thought in my head, I’m not enjoying the ride at all.

  In addition, the weather, which was beautiful and sunny earlier, is now overcast with grey clouds, and the woods are immersed in semi-darkness which is not good for my mood.

  “Hey cutie-pie, what’s wrong?” My mum asks me.

  “It must be the change in the weather,” I reply vaguely, as I don’t want to make them anxious with my suspicions.

  “Be happy, baby, there will be time to be sad further on in life. But now you’re young, beautiful, lucky and loved: the sun rises for you every day!”

  “Aye, Ashford is a good laddie, and that’s quite surprising considering your standards – trust a dad on this, they were all quite odd,” says my dad, who is following us on Westfalia.

  “Yes, he comes from an old-fashioned conservative family, but what counts are his feelings, and he cares a lot about you,” insists my mother.

  At these moments, I feel like a lia
r and an impostor: I lie to my parents, who have always made sincerity their rule of life, and I hide that I sold myself to earn a title and an inheritance.

  “It’s starting to rain.” I change the subject as soon as I notice some drops on my trousers.

  My mother turns Agincourt on the trail. “We’d better go back, then, before a storm starts!”

  We get back to the stables as a bolt of lightning splits the sky in two, and rain starts pouring down heavily.

  We dismount to lead the horses into the stable yard, but a bolt of lightning that illuminates the area and a deafening roll of thunder frightens Westfalia, she runs backwards, tearing the reins from my father’s hands and starts galloping towards the woods.

  “Westfalia, no!” I shout, dropping Poppy’s reins and running along the driveway, pointlessly.

  “Carly, Jemma, go back! I will go and find her!” Says my father resolutely, mounting Poppy.

  Outside, the storm is getting more and more violent and the wind is roaring through the trees, I pace up and down the stable block, soggy and anxious. My mother, on the other hand, is feeding a whole bunch of carrots to Agincourt, who nickers happily.

  “Will you calm down, Jemma? Dad will be back soon!”

  “You do not understand! Westfalia is Delphina’s favourite mare. If something happened to her, it would be a tragedy. Just what we bloody need!”

  My mother is the picture of composure. “Everything will be fine.”