How (Not) to Marry a Duke

by Felicia Kingsley

  I have a clear conscience.

  I hear people moving in the corridors, and this tells me that everyone is up and about already.

  I leave the library and lean over the parapet to establish what is causing all this activity so early. Everyone is bustling about in silence: doors are opened and closed, someone goes up the stairs, someone goes down, and the servants pass luggage from hand to hand. Finally, in a faint voice, Claire announces: “The taxi has arrived.”

  Who the hell is here, now?

  I head to the private parlour that overlooks the driveway, to spy on the mysterious guest.

  I go past Jemma’s room; the door is open but she’s not in there.

  It’s quite early for her standards, as it’s only 8:15 a.m..

  I pause cautiously on the threshold. “Jemma,” I call softly.

  No reply. I take a few steps inside, and notice something disturbing: the room is tidy. Nothing is out of place, every surface is empty and shiny, the armchairs are all free and the drawers are closed, with nothing hanging out chaotically. A terrible thought comes into my mind, and I go into the wardrobe to confirm it.

  It’s empty.

  Walking quickly, I enter the private parlour and see a taxi in front of the entrance: the driver is ready to leave and, on the back seat, there’s a silhouette which sits still and looks straight ahead, waiting for the servants to finish loading luggage into the car boot.

  She’s leaving. She’s really leaving.

  “She’s leaving!” I shout, incredulous, as I run down the stairs as fast as possible.

  I arrive outside once the taxi has already turned round; it’s now going up the driveway towards the gates, raising a cloud of dust.

  All the servants are staring at me.

  83

  Jemma’s Version

  “I was expecting to hear from you any day. It took longer than I had anticipated, but anyway, here we are,” Derek observes, stacking several folders on his desk. “Why isn’t Ashford here?”

  “Do we need his presence?” I ask, drily.

  “No, but since the documents relate to both of you—”

  “He was busy,” I say, interrupting him. “I wanted to speed things up, at least as regards my part.”

  Derek claps his hands. “Let’s go on, then!” He gives me a pen and passes a stack of papers to me. “You’ll find a Post-it note next to all the lines to be signed.”

  I start signing one page after the other, like a robot. I know that I should read everything, but I don’t have the strength. Thinking that Ashford and Portia are out there playing the happy couple while I’m here makes my blood boil.

  “Did you move to your grandmother Catriona’s house in Mayfair?”

  “No.”

  “Are you still at Denby Hall?” Derek asks.

  “No.”

  “I can see you’re sad, dull… forgive me for saying this, but you look rather terrible.”

  “Thank you, Derek. These are the words every woman would like to be told.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, but I can see you’re not okay.”

  “I’ll be better soon. About my grandmother’s house, I thought about it and I want to sell it. I don’t need it. I would have to live in a four floor Victorian town house by myself, because my parents won’t set foot in it. I would like you to deal with it on my behalf.”

  “All right. The housing market is a bit flat at the moment, but this is a luxury property, and luxury always sells well. I can get in touch with some banks. They always have wealthy clients looking for valuable properties.”

  I put the pen down on the table. “Am I divorced now?”

  “Ashford must sign the documents as well, but I would say you will be very soon.”

  “Good,” I say, getting up slowly.

  “I’ll let you know about the house,” Derek says.

  *

  As my taxi takes me back to the hotel where I will stay for a while, I decide to stop by at Godiva’s and indulge myself with a box of chocolate truffles. Perhaps I will also call room service. I’m staying at the Mandarin Hotel, where I booked a suite with a panoramic terrace looking onto Hyde Park, a Jacuzzi and a giant television screen.

  If I’m lucky, I’ll find a mushy film such as The Notebook or Love Story. It’s all I need: chocolate, tears and romantic films. The perfect pms combination.

  Wait a second! Why didn’t I write anything in my period diary?

  Because I had no period last month.

  It’s impossible! How did I forget about it?

  I need a chemist! Stop the taxi.

  84

  Ashford’s Version

  She’s nowhere to be found. It’s as if she has turned into a wraith. I called her so many times, but the recorded voice says that her number has been disconnected. She must have changed it.

  Derek knows nothing, he doesn’t know where she is. He only saw her once, last week.

  She went to his office to sign the divorce papers.

  Today, when he stopped by at Denby to give me the folder, I couldn’t believe what I saw.

  I looked for Jemma’s parents at the farm in Derbyshire. I drove there, but they had already left.

  The people who welcomed me said that Carly and Vance had left suddenly to be with their daughter, but they couldn’t give me an address.

  I don’t want to see anyone. Not even Harring.

  I spoke to him on the phone and I was very concise.

  Haz, who is not famed for his diplomatic skills, tried to comfort me by sending a case of Armagnac.

  Well, it’s not totally true. He also came to Denby a couple of times, but I wasn’t in the mood. As he was trying to distract me with amazing stories of his latest races, I stared at the ceiling, almost in a trance.

  I am a shadow of myself. I go from one room to another, trying to feel her again.

  I went to her room, I took the key of the main door away and I kept that of the connecting door.

  Every now and then, I go back there and I imagine her on the bed, reading her magazines, the way I saw her so many times. And yet, she’s gone, and I can’t even smell her scent any more.

  I would like to find her, force her to listen to my version of events, reason with her, but then I think that I have to respect her choice and let her go. I no longer have any rights over her, that is, if I ever did.

  85

  Jemma’s Version

  Winter has a single colour: grey.

  Everything is sombre, toned down by the constant fog and rain; even the smells are grey.

  Sitting at the window, I look at the rain drops running down the glass, and I follow them with my finger.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here. If it wasn’t for my mother, who comes in carrying lunch and dinner trays, I wouldn’t even notice the passing of the hours.

  “Come on, Jemma, you must eat something.”

  “I don’t feel like it, Mum,” I say, pushing the bowl of quinoa away.

  “You can’t fast. If you want to go through with this pregnancy, you must do it responsibly.”

  I gently touch my belly, which is taking on a sweet round shape. “I don’t even know if this is the right thing to do.”

  “I can’t give you the answer. You have to figure it out by yourself, but if you ask me, I love the idea of becoming a grandma. And so does your father.”

  “I’m all alone.”

  “You’re not,” says my mum, stroking my hair. “We’re here for you.”

  *

  I took three pregnancy tests, and all three gave the same result: positive.

  I didn’t even consider termination.

  I thought that, for a change, someone up there has given me a chance to be loved unconditionally and forever.

  I will never be alone again. Yes, maybe it will be harder for this baby and me than for others, as we will only have each other, but I’ll give him all my love, the love that everyone else has always rejected. Ashford will never know. I won’t al
low him and the negativity of his world back into my life.

  I’m looking for the strength to go on, but it’s not easy. I can’t help thinking about the good times we had when it all seemed to be true, when it seemed that it was really happening to me.

  And so, I’m here, watching the days go by, in this house I’ve rented to live in with my parents, who look after me with loving care.

  It’s very different from my dark basement or their ramshackle flat. In the end, I reconsidered my decision and, not without embarrassment, I confessed to my mum and dad that I’ve received Catriona’s significant inheritance, omitting the tiny detail that I had to marry Ashford to take possession of it.

  I can’t deny that at first they were pretty astonished, but resentment is an unknown feeling to them.

  Finding myself at home, waiting for time to pass with nothing to keep me busy, is quite hard to manage. At Denby Hall, I was always preparing for some event, trying to hide from Delphina, or studying following Lance’s precious lessons.

  Here, I’ve got nothing to do. This perennial idleness torments me. Last week, I even went back to the theatre to see if they needed me for anything, even sweeping the stage for free, just to keep myself busy. But the theatre has closed down and, as I predicted, the company has folded.

  After that, I went back home, stopping by at a second hand bookshop to look for copies of Pride and Prejudice and The Taming of the Shrew.

  I did my best to get Ashford out of my life, I changed my number, broke off my friendship with Cécile, I even left Derek without any means of contacting me. The tickets for the football match between Barcelona and Arsenal are fading, as they lie forgotten in some drawer; however, he constantly and inevitably reappears in my mind and, with my belly growing bigger and bigger, I’ll soon have the memory of our short and shallow relationship right in front of my eyes.

  86

  Ashford’s Version

  She didn’t come for me, but I’ll let her in anyway.

  I’ve been turning thoughts over for days now and I don’t know which ones to pay attention to. Seeing Cécile at the door is almost a relief.

  Like those disgusting bitter medicines that you’re happy to take, because you know that they’ll make you feel better.

  Cécile strides into the living room with her usual aplomb, she sits in the armchair next to the fireplace and rests her elbows on the armrests. Beams of light filter through the window behind her, outlining her silhouette and giving her a disturbing radiance.

  “You look awful, Burlingham.”

  A Loxley style opening line. There is no offence in her voice, only ruthless sincerity. And it’s true, I do look awful, I thought so myself this morning.

  “Always straight to the point, Loxley.”

  “It’s so obvious, that it would be hypocritical to pretend you don’t. I haven’t seen you like this since they showed us Schindler’s List, back at school.”

  I sigh, but I don’t answer. I want her to talk. Jesus, how much do I want her to talk.

  “Where’s Jemma? I came back from Bruges yesterday, and I called to invite her over, but her mobile was disconnected. Then Lance told me she’s not here, and you inexplicably invite me in, looking like crap.”

  “What do you know?” I ask her, abruptly.

  “What should I know?” She asks me in return.

  “She’s gone. Jemma has left.” As I utter those few, short unequivocal words, my voice breaks.

  “She has left?”

  I collapse on the sofa in front of her, I’m exhausted. “She packed her bags and she left.”

  “It seems a bit out of the blue. Just like that, for no reason? It would be too impulsive even for me.”

  “We had a fight,” I admit, ashamed. “We said very bad things to each other, we took off our wedding rings and she… she thinks that I have a relationship with Portia!”

  “Do you?” Asks Cécile, as direct as a rifle shot.

  “God, no! I could never… there’s no…”

  “There’s no comparison, I agree,” she ends my sentence.

  “Have you talked to her? Jemma, I mean.”

  “Obviously not. If I had, I wouldn’t be here. Do you know where I can find her?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “In London,” she assumes.

  “Maybe in Dover, or in Devonshire.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Burlingham. Jemma would never go to lick her wounds in a castle in the middle of nowhere. She must be in London.”

  “If she were in town, I would know. Derek would have told me.” At least I think he would.

  “I’ll have to find her myself, then,” says Cécile pragmatically, rising from the armchair to leave.

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “I have many disreputable acquaintances in London who could find a needle in a haystack. They will find her. Jesus, Burlingham. I’ve never liked you that much, but seeing you like this breaks my heart.”

  “If you find her, talk to her, tell her that you saw me and that I’ve never had a relationship with Portia.”

  “I know you haven’t. How could you, after Jemma. She’s the only one who ever managed to make you look like a real man. For a while, at least.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, offended.

  “If you were a real man, you would come to London to look for her, and tell her face to face.”

  “You never miss an opportunity to behave as if you are better than others.”

  “Because I am,” Cécile says proudly, with her back to me as she walks to the door.

  “You have sex with Harring, don’t you?”

  Hearing my question, she stops like a broken amusement ride. Cécile is a good girl after all, one of the best I’ve ever met, but she needs to be brought back down a peg or two sometimes.

  “What…” she tries to reply, but she’s lost for words.

  “How long have you been doing it? A month at least, or maybe more.”

  She turns round, trying to pull herself together. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to insinuate, here.”

  “I don’t think I’m inventing anything.” I stare at her.

  Cécile blushes, I see embarrassment in her eyes.

  “Harring is my best friend, Jemma loves you. Your secret is safe with me. God knows that Harring needs a woman to keep him on the straight and narrow, and if there’s one that can do it, it’s you. Your superior attitude doesn’t work on me, I know far more than you think. Now, wait for me while I get changed. As soon as I’m ready, you and I will search London down to the sewers to find Jemma.”

  For once, Cécile holds back her arrogance, and just nods in agreement.

  *

  We went to the theatre, to the former owner of her parents’ apartment, and to her grandmother Catriona’s mansion, that – wait for it – was sold a few days ago.

  We questioned Derek, but he doesn’t know where Jemma is, either. She’s in town, but she was very careful not to let him know where she lives.

  She’s somewhere out there, and she never wants to see me again.

  I have to accept it.

  87

  Jemma’s Version

  I look like a barrel. I can’t see my toes and I need to wee every half hour.

  Last night, I woke up at 2 a.m. craving mango.

  None of my clothes fit me any more, and I go unsteadily from the sofa to the bed all day, wrapped up in my mum’s patchouli-smelling kaftans.

  Today, I had the last visit from my gynaecologist. Patting my shoulder, he placidly complimented me on my health and for not gaining too much weight – really? I see no difference between me and a hippo. Later on, he tried to cheer me up because, according to him, ‘we’re not in troubled waters’.

  How silly. Only a man can make such jokes to a woman whose waters are about to break.

  88

  Ashford’s Version

  I feel as if I’ve been living in one of Dante’s circles of hell for months.


  My mother got it into her head that she will personally select the next Duchess of Burlingham, because she believes that my judgment is unreliable, given the latest incident.

  Yes, she downgraded Jemma to a mere incident in the course of her strategic planning.

  Since Jemma left, a number of candidates have been coming and going, and I have found them next to me at dinners, events, and evenings which were organised just to that end.

  More than once, Denby Hall has put up someone’s niece/daughter/cousin, all of them strangely fleeing London with the excuse of looking for ‘some fresh air’ and ‘my mother’s pleasant company’.

  And they expect me to believe it. The devil himself wouldn’t enjoy my mother’s company.

  She even invited Portia again, but I didn’t show up, leaving them hanging like two sausages, and I believe they got the message loud and clear this time.

  Then, obviously, came the turn of Sophia and her clones.

  All I did was stand there, as still as a statue, overwhelmed by apathy.

  I don’t care about anything now, and the longer I go on without Jemma, the more Denby Hall seems like an empty mausoleum.

  The only person I still keep in touch with is Harring, although the Grand Prix has started again, and we can only see each other between races.

  Like today. He’ll be back from Azerbaijan in a few hours.

  In order to occupy myself and escape my mother’s fiendish plans, I take Agincourt and go for a long ride in the park.

  However, when I come back, I find an alarming number of missed calls from Haz.

  “Haz? Twenty-three calls? You haven’t been this desperate to talk to me since you got arrested by the Border Force on your way back from Bangkok.”

  “You would have been desperate too, if an inspector had been about to search you with a latex glove in one hand and lubricant in the other.”

  “What kind of connections do you need this time?”

  “You can bury yourself with your connections! I’m calling you about Jemma.”