How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  We are out on the patio, lying blissfully on two circular deckchairs. Between us, there’s a huge cart laden with food and – wait for it – we can eat it! Do I want a canapé? I’ll have one. Do I want another one? I’ll put it on my plate. Cinnamon rolls? I get as many as I want. And so does Cécile.

  “I wish these afternoons could last forever,” I sigh.

  “We can have as many as you want. We can do it every day.”

  “Yes, but between one relaxing afternoon and the next, there are those awful high society evenings. It’s torture for me. I have to be tested, hear the laughs behind my back and get disapproving looks every single time,” I say, giving a snort of frustration. “I did my best: I read every book Jane Austen wrote! Ask me something, come on! Anything!”

  “I don’t need to, I can see you’ve worked on yourself.”

  “Would you believe it was completely coincidental? It all started with a film I saw by chance, then I got really passionate about the genre and my interest grew, so much so that I sought out all the other stories by the same author.”

  “You see? ‘coincidental’ is a word that you wouldn’t have used a few months ago!” Cécile exclaims, while adjusting her big sunglasses.

  “But it’s not enough, is it?” I say unhappily. “I’m always ‘too much’ or ‘too little’ of something, I feel like Don Quixote fighting windmills.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the audience, the literary references continue!” Cécile teases me.

  “Are you doing it too, now? Making fun of me? As if the fact that I read and got interested in topics which used to be unknown to me was so unlikely!” I protest.

  Cécile suddenly gets up, looking around in search of something.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “Yeah, no worries. I might know what to do to explain something to you, but first I have to think of the right example.”

  “Can’t you try in your own words?”

  “Stay there, I’ll be right back.” So saying, Cécile takes the food cart and disappears through the service door. After a little while she’s back, with her hands hidden behind her back.

  First, she hands me a crumpled sheet of newspaper with half a crumbled cream puff inside; the icing is all messy and the cream is dripping from all sides.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask her.

  “Caramel topped puff filled with Chantilly and whipped cream.”

  I look at her sceptically.

  Now, with her left hand, she’s showing me an exquisitely decorated Limoges porcelain saucer and a silver fork. At the centre of the saucer, there’s a similar cream puff half, but this one is intact and perfectly golden. The Chantilly cream looks voluptuous below the pastry top, accompanied by regular soft peaks of whipped cream and small drops of shiny caramel. On the saucer, there’s also a freshly picked daisy.

  I’m even more intrigued.

  “Caramel topped puff filled with Chantilly and whipped cream,” she repeats.

  I reach out towards the saucer. “If you don’t mind—”

  But she pushes my hand away, preventing me from taking it. “See? This is you!”

  “What?” I ask, confused. I want that cream puff.

  “The cream puff!” Cécile exclaims.

  “I am the cream puff,” I repeat sceptically.

  “Yes, you are: you are made of fragrant and buttery choux pastry filled with velvety Chantilly cream and topped with a golden icing that melts on your tongue.”

  “It sounds a little crude,” I observe.

  “You are the cream puff, but this is how you look,” she says, indicating the pastry wrapped in newspaper. “The content is great, but the appearance is not very inviting. If that cream puff looked better, everyone would fight to have it.”

  “Finish your speech while we’re still friends, because I’m not sure we will be later,” I warn her.

  “Oh, don’t be prickly and listen to me, I’m telling you this from the bottom of my heart. You have a wonderful world inside you, and you’ve further enriched your qualities by extending your knowledge. However, while I deeply respect your choices, we have to face the fact that your clothes and your appearance are off putting for people who don’t know you. I’m free from prejudices, but, as you can see for yourself, most of them aren’t, and they find it hard to give credit to a fuchsia haired girl with green nails who shows up in a leather miniskirt and blows bubbles with chewing gum, even if she has a degree in Quantum Physics.”

  “I know this one!” I jump up like a kangaroo. “Quantum Physics: a branch of physics introduced by Planck’s studies in 1900. It describes the behaviour of matter and its interactions with radiation as undulating phenomena of particle origin, consisting of concentrated energy which is measured in quanta, contrary to what had been maintained by classical physics until then,” I say, in one breath.

  “Exactly. You might have many things to say, but you have to make other people want to listen.”

  “Keep talking until I stop you. It could save your life.”

  “This is a snake pit, where someone’s value is directly proportional to their title. It’s even harder for women because, getting their husbands’ titles, they have to work twice as hard to get respect.” She take a little break. “Except for me, but it’s not me we’re talking about.” I look at her as she performs her monologue. “You’ve caught one of the most sought after bachelors, so all the angry bitches are ready to bite your ankles. Moreover, you’re new to this environment, and come from a culture that these people have always made fun of. You have to avoid giving them reasons to mock you. If you don’t serve them on a silver platter, you’ll starve them. You know you are far superior to the people you’ve met so far, but being aware is not enough. If you want to play at their table, you have to identify yourself with a character that makes them feel at ease.”

  “Okay, you’re saying that my look is wrong. I can read every bloody book in the library of Denby Hall and learn to speak all the existing languages, but I will never be accepted because of the way I look? Freaking hell! I can use fourteen pieces of cutlery and five glasses!”

  “You have to be a chameleon. I’m not saying that you have to change the way you are, you’ll always be yourself, but you should revise your ‘facade’ a bit!”

  “I’ll think about it,” I answer, doubtfully.

  “Haven’t they humiliated you enough?” Cécile’s tone of voice gets colder.

  I sigh, looking away. These are things I’ve already heard a thousand times from Delphina and Ashford. Of course, they put it in a different way, as if there were something wrong in me, and if I’ve opposed any change so far, it was just out of pride. How could I listen to Delphina or the Triple Six, who hate me?

  However, this time it’s Cécile saying it, and God knows she’s been the only person to show any interest in me in this madhouse.

  Perhaps she’s worth listening to?

  *

  After I spent days reflecting carefully on her ‘pep talk’, I go to Cécile’s residence immediately after lunch. Tonight there’s an important masquerade ball, a gigantic (of course) fancy dress party thrown by Lord Neville in person.

  We arranged a long dress fitting. Cécile called a tailor from Paris and, since I want no less, I asked her if I could use him myself. I was thinking of something very flamboyant, fiery red, with feathers, taffeta and sequins… but nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I arrived.

  The private parlour in Cécile’s apartment was set up as a beauty centre and equipped with styling chairs, spa beds and all.

  “Aargh!” an effeminate shriek welcomes me as I open the door.

  “Pierre, pourquoi tu cries?” Cécile asks.

  “I scream for terror! You did not tell me it was such a desperate case!” The man complains while looking at me, almost paralysed.

  “Let’s not overreact. I know your talents, you will make a masterpiece,” she encourages him.

  “You overestima
te me, chérie,” he comments in his strong French accent.

  Pierre starts turning me around. “At least the base is good, I have something to work on. If she had been fat, I would have refused tout de suite.”

  “Cécile, your tailor looks a little unstable,” I remark.

  “He’s not my tailor,” my friend replies.

  “So why am I standing here being insulted by a stranger?” I ask, forcing myself to remain calm.

  Cécile comes closer and takes my hands. “Remember our talk the other day? Don’t get angry, I just took the liberty of calling Pierre. He owns one of the most exclusive salons in Paris and he’s a real genius with hairstyles and make-up. You won’t regret it. If you don’t like the result, I promise that you’ll have your pink hair and your six mile long green nails back,” she smiles hopefully.

  I look at Cécile, then Pierre and Cécile again. “This is on you, though.”

  “With much pleasure!” She claps her hands enthusiastically, jumping up and down.

  *

  It’s evening by the time I’m ready to put on a spectacular dress, and I notice an unbelievable number of missed calls from Ashford, concluded by a cold text message that reads: ‘I’m already at the ball, you’re on your own.’ Of course I am, dear Ashford, as usual. I have long since realised that I’m the Prince Charming in this story.

  50

  Ashford’s Version

  Neville Manor is crowded with guests wearing the most astonishing masks. My mother is as euphoric as I haven’t seen her in years: she has never been invited by the duke before and she can’t believe what she sees. She came back from Bath just to boast about this. Luckily, I lost track of her a moment after she arrived and joined all the other shrews dressed up as Elizabeth I. You can see them from a mile away: red wigs, three layers of white greasepaint, ruffs around their necks and skirts of gigantic dimensions. Needless to say, the men are divided into two teams: Henry VIII, thin version and Henry VIII, fat version. The fat version, for obvious reasons, has got many more adherents.

  These parties are so predictable.

  In contrast, given my lack of inspiration for a complicated costume, I opted for the Phantom of the Opera: white mask on half of my face, morning coat and red lined cape. Simple and handy.

  “Who the fuck are you? Batman?” Harring takes me by surprise. How do I know it’s Harring? Because he’s dressed as himself, in his Formula One uniform and helmet.

  “I’m the Phantom of the Opera,” I explain.

  “You only have half a mask, do you know that?” He asks, pointing at my face.

  “Yes, that’s part of the costume. And you? It’s not carnival, it’s supposed to be an elegant evening. Didn’t you know?”

  “Yes, but then I thought: hey, I’m a legend, I’ll wear my uniform and helmet!”

  “Admit it, you forgot it was a costume evening and you put on the first thing you found,” I say, cutting things short.

  “Yes, that’s it,” he admits, lowering his voice and then changing the subject. “Hey, are you alone tonight?”

  “So it seems. Jemma vanished in the early afternoon to go visit that Loxley freak, and I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Wow, sleepover party for girls only!” He says enthusiastically. “What are we doing here? Let’s go and join them.”

  “In your twisted mind you probably picture them in a pillow fight, wearing sexy underwear on a bed with goose feathers floating around, right? Well, those two are witches, and if they get their claws into us it’s more than likely that we will get our balls cut off during one of the their Satanic Sabbaths. No sleepover, my friend!”

  “Ashford, tell me why you feel the need to destroy my fantasies every single time.”

  “If you tell me why your fantasies include Cécile Loxley more and more often.”

  “It must be the aspirin I took with a Margarita earlier on. Three Margaritas.”

  “The thing is, if Jemma doesn’t show up, I won’t be forgiven. For some strange reason, His Grace the Royal Duke finds her adorable, and has expressly requested her presence at this evening, but where is she? As usual, she left on her own, saying nothing to anyone, and now I’m here pretending she’s gone to the toilet.”

  “You’re being paranoid. Shall I get you some champagne? It will help you relax.”

  “A whole bottle, thank you.”

  Harring blends into the crowd; I stand at the foot of the entrance staircase, examining the masks of the incoming guests while waiting for Jemma: there’s Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn with a blood trail on her neck – very tacky, to be honest – two Chancellor Cromwells, a Margaret Thatcher, an Archbishop of Canterbury… I don’t know who this one is, and that… hey, wait a second!

  I linger for a while on the first person I’ve seen who doesn’t look ridiculous this evening, who is coming down from the top of the staircase.

  I have a strange déjà-vu feeling. Everything in her causes flashes in my mind, but I’m not able to compose a single image.

  All I can do is acknowledge what is in front of me: it’s a young woman – she isn’t old enough to be dressed as Elizabeth I, but not young enough to be a Disney princess either – light brown hair with caramel and copper shades falls onto her shoulders in soft waves that make you want to caress them, her face has a shiny, rosy complexion and is covered by a simple lace mask which frames two deep blue eyes. She’s going down the stairs with a light step, wrapped in a floating ice coloured silk dress.

  An unknown force propels me to go to her and stand in her way before saying, with no hesitation: “You took your time.”

  “It’s not time for pumpkins, yet. I had to hitchhike.” Underneath all that silk, there is Jemma.

  I offer her my arm. “What are you dressed up as?”

  “The woman you want me to be.”

  “This is not how I imagined you.”

  “How did you imagine me, then? A mute?”

  “Let’s say you did better than the brightest of my expectations,” I candidly admit.

  Jemma looks speechless, as if she had been ready for a fight that’s not going to happen, and now doesn’t know what to do with the sword in her hands.

  “Come on, Ashford, I know you can do better. You spit up all your bile when you’re in good shape. I expected something worthy of your style, you’re disappointing me!”

  I look at her and I’m intrigued. “This must have taken some effort, hasn’t it?”

  “It’s all about mental strength. Besides, I was out of ways to shock you.”

  I lead her to the centre of the hall, just as Harring comes to meet us. “Champagne, for you,” he says, offering me his flute and taking Jemma’s hand. “And this charming young lady you found for me.” He raises his helmet visor to introduce himself. “Kenneth Harring, heir to the title of Viscount of Westborough.”

  “Haz. I’m Jemma,” she replies with unusual composure.

  “You… what? Jemma? Bloody hell!” Harring says in shock.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Harring. You could get it!” Cécile says, covered by various layers of black taffeta.

  “Loxley! The Dark side of the Force! What are you dressed up as? A manic depressive in early menopause?”

  “Early menopause, if it helps keep pigs like you away,” she replies with her typical sharpness.

  “You’d be amazed if you knew how many mature ladies appreciate my company,” he says, while winking at a trio of rouged oldies on our right.

  Cécile grimaces, looking away. “You disgust me.”

  “Very well, ladies and gentlemen, sex maniacs and sociopaths,” I say, addressing Harring and Cécile, “I’m going to hit the dance floor now, there’s some tolerable slow music. Jemma, would you care to join me?”

  “With pleasure,” she replies, with a broad smile.

  Jemma and I reach the centre of the ballroom and start moving together, following the rhythm of the music.

  “So?” I ask her.

  “So what?”
/>
  “How come you made this sudden change? What happened on the road to Damascus?”

  “I figured out that I needed a makeover,” she says.

  “And why?”

  “To be able to kick your arse and those of all these arrogant snobs.”

  “Here’s the duchess I know!” After all, we’re having a diplomatic truce, and her answers make me smile.

  “Seriously! You wouldn’t last fifteen minutes in my world. I’d love to see you catch the Tube in the rush hour without being crushed by the crowd, or survive the first day of the sales!”

  “But we’re not in your world,” I point out.

  “Exactly, I’m in yours. I won’t only survive, I will show you that I can do even better than people who were born to it.”

  “These are delusions of grandeur.”

  “Maybe, you’re an expert, aren’t you? Are you afraid that someone might steal your spotlight?”

  “Not really, no.” For some unknown reason, I feel like whispering in her ear: “I admit you’re good, but you still have a lot to learn.”

  “You haven’t said anything yet,” she reproaches me.

  “About what?”

  “About me! My look! After months of criticism and reproach, I polish myself up like Harrods at Christmas and all you do is ask me why I did it? No comments?”

  “Maybe you didn’t realise, but I did,” I object.

  “What would that be?”

  “When you entered the hall…”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I say, peacefully.

  “What do you mean nothing?” She frowns.

  “For the first time since you and I have been together in public, nothing happened at all.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

  “Let me explain: every time you entered a room, you drew all the attention to yourself. Don’t bother being flattered, it was not a good thing. Everyone turned to look at you, and was disturbed by your odd appearance. Tonight, for the first time, you went unnoticed. Nobody turned towards the staircase looking at you as you look at a gang of robbers.”

  Jemma looks away, lowering her head almost completely.