Ashford’s Version
I’ve been trapped. All my plans have gone down the drain.
I can hardly stop myself from shaking with rage as Jemma is getting in my car to come to Denby.
I drove her home first where she gathered some of her stuff in a sports bag. She then tossed it inside the car and now she’s sitting beside me in a cloud of incense, smelling like a Shanghai opium den.
“Do you live far from here?” She asks straight away.
“That depends on what you mean by ‘far’.”
“Don’t know, far. Like, far away.”
“Compared to what?” I insist.
“Can’t you just answer a question without making a fuss?”
I ignore her attempt to provoke me but when I turn to look at her, what I see sends a shiver down my spine. “Hey, get your feet off the dashboard, you’ll scratch it.”
“So much ado for such an old car.”
Are you kidding me! “It’s classic, not old!”
Jemma shrugs. “Whatever you think.”
“I don’t think, it just is. This is a 1956 Jaguar Roadster. There’s a certificate.”
“Why don’t you buy a new one?” She asks, tediously.
“Because I like this one.”
It seems she won’t stop. “How much longer?”
“Will you keep asking questions for the whole journey?”
“How do you turn the radio on, here?”
“Don’t touch anything, let me do it,” I say, pushing away her hand which is way too close to the buttons.
As if she were a child, she calms down as soon as the music starts. She’s completely mesmerised.
Why doesn’t she understand that I wish she weren’t here?
Just before arriving, I feel the urge to make a short introduction. One doesn’t need to be a genius to realise that she’s probably never been in a certain type of environment.
“Look, Jemma, now we’re almost there, I would like to inform you of a couple of things. First of all, Denby Hall is our family residence, and it comprises of a manor house and a park. Including all the caretakers, gardeners, servants and cooks, there are about twenty people who work for us. This means that we’ll never be alone, and there will be eyes and ears everywhere at all times, so you’d better watch your mouth and be careful what you say. Just know that you’ll have everything you need, you’ll be waited on hand and foot, and you’ll never have anything to complain about. The only thing I ask you is to be discreet and don’t throw tantrums and, even if we don’t get on too well, please, try and keep a neutral profile. Don’t contradict me openly and avoid conflicts, as they would be detrimental to the credibility of the story we made up. Everything will work just fine if we respect each other’s space. I hope you agree with me.”
I cross my fingers, hoping she understood what I said.
“Okay, fine, I got what you said about the servants and all that but, hey, ‘throw tantrums’? What kind of person do you think I am?”
I don’t have the strength to answer.
However, judging by Jemma’s reaction, it seems that I hit a nerve. “Listen, let’s get this straight: I don’t like you, you don’t like me and, as I see it, I’m doing you a favour, so I’d appreciate it if you cut the lectures.”
It’s a losing battle.
From the moment we enter the property, all along the driveway and up to the entrance, Jemma keeps her face pressed against the car window.
“Blimey! Is this place is all yours?”
“It is.”
“How long does it take to visit it all?”
“Days.”
“Don’t worry, Ashford, if you always talk this much, we’ll never argue.”
Is this our plan, then? Complete silence?
I give the keys to Paul and he takes the car to the garage. In the meantime, Lance comes running to welcome us.
“Welcome back, Your Grace. I see you have a guest.”
With my infamous cheeky face, which I’ve learned to show off pretty naturally in the last few days, I say: “I must correct you, Lance. This is not a guest, but someone who is here to stay. This is Jemma Pears, my wife.”
“So the rumours I heard were true?”
“Absolutely,” I confirm boldly.
“In this case, I bid the duchess welcome,” he says, bowing in Jemma’s direction.
She doesn’t understand and looks around.
“Who is he talking to?” She murmurs.
“You, you’re the duchess,” I whisper.
“Oh, all right,” she says, reaching out her hand towards Lance. “My pleasure.”
Lance looks at her in astonishment, then he looks at me questioningly, waiting to be told what to do.
I nod, so he shakes Jemma’s hand.
“If you allow me, I will take care of your luggage.”
“I’d rather not, it’s my stuff and I want to know where it goes. I gave my beauty case to an air hostess once and I never saw it again. I would like to avoid that.”
“This is not an airport, Jemma,” I point out.
“Whatever, my stuff goes where I go.”
Great start, isn’t it?
The click-clack of heels on top of the staircase takes us by surprise and a familiar voice hits my ear.
“Ashford, did you give a lift to a hitchhiker? Aren’t you aware that they’re all psychopaths with criminal records?”
My mother is looking at us from above, and it’s as though God had come down to Earth.
“Mother! Shouldn’t you be on your way to Bath?” I ask cautiously.
“Lady Bedlam,” whispers Jemma.
My mother descends the stairs and once before us she replies: “I thought that leaving your wife alone to settle in the property wouldn’t be wise, considering the royal visit. I decided to stay and instruct her on her duties. By the way, when is she expected to arrive?” She pauses and then looks at Lance, pointing at Jemma. “Is this the new help for the stable lad? Lance, escort her to John, so she can start immediately.”
“Mother, let me introduce you to Jemma, my wife,” I say impassively.
My mother’s flawless face falls apart. She has just realised that the woman in front of her is not the stable girl, but the new Duchess of Burlingham.
“Hey, there,” is Jemma’s opening line.
My mother looks at her in astonishment without uttering a word.
People of lower rank greet her with the hint of a bow, while middle class people make a complete bow. Jemma is holding out her hand with her head held high while sporting a cocky smile.
“Ashford…” says my mother, without knowing how to continue.
“Yes, Mother?”
“There’s a great deal of work to be done here.” She can hardly restrain herself.
“Mother…” I say, trying to prevent her from continuing, well aware that an unfortunate choice of words could cause Jemma to explode like a time bomb.
“It’s quite obvious that she has no idea of her role, or of the position of our family, or of the rules of good behaviour, and God knows what else. I fear this might open a Pandora’s box. Ashford, yours was a very dangerous choice.”
“Keep going, I’m not even here!” Jemma remarks.
“Exactly,” is my mother’s abrupt reply.
“Mother, perhaps this is not the right way to deal with this.”
“I’ll be in my study, waiting to interview her.” That said, my mother turns round and leaves.