Jemma’s Version
Armstrong, Olstrom House’s butler, escorts me to the orangerie.
Lady Loxley is sitting at a white wrought iron table laden with a lavish afternoon tea. She must like dark colours, as this time she’s wearing a long black silk kimono.
“Lady Loxley, good afternoon,” I greet her with reverence; it’s not my habit, but she’s the first person to invite me to her house among all the nobles I’ve known so far.
“Jemma, sit down!” She greets me with enthusiasm, as if we were relatives.
“Thank you,” I say, as I sit in front of her, stiff and silent. Lady Loxley is silent as well, and she’s analysing me carefully with her deep blue eyes.
“You didn’t recognise me, did you, Jemma?”
“Yes, we met at the polo match—”
“Sure. You didn’t recognise me then, either. It’s quite understandable, it’s been almost twenty years,” she comments, raising her eyes to the sky after a quick count.
“No, I’d say I didn’t—”
“Saint Francis Primary School. First year. We were in the same class, you attended until the Christmas holidays, then your parents had you change school.”
I nod. “That’s right, they withdrew me to send me to a public school.”
“Every single day, the bullies stole my snack and you always shared yours with me. I never asked for it, you just spontaneously offered me half of your slice of buckwheat cake, and you did that until you left.”
I collect my thoughts and look for memories of elementary school inside my mental archive. I didn’t have many friends at the private school my grandmother had enrolled me at. Everyone thought I was strange because I went on foot or by bike, instead of being driven; I didn’t have a private teacher and I spent my holidays camping. However, there was a girl, she was very tiny for her age and had a French chef who always made her delicious treats, but someone stole from her snack basket every day.
“It’s you!” I exclaim in surprise. Under that perfectly styled long red hair, there’s my scared school friend.
She looks at me and nods. “Call me Cécile from now on. There is no reason to be formal!”
“I can’t believe it, it’s incredible! I would never have recognised you! You’re… well, you still have red hair and blue eyes… but you’re tall now!” What a stupid thing to say, twenty years have gone by, of course she’s taller! “You’re so fit and you look like someone who stands up for herself.”
“I’ve learned a lot…”
“Why did you want to see me?” I ask, curious.
“You’re even asking? I didn’t think I’d ever see you again and, voilà, I find out you married Burlingham!” Cécile’s cheerful expression is contagious, and even though she’s talking about the man who’s driving me mad, I can’t help but smile with her, as if it were amusing.
“Yeah, I’m sure that no one expected Ashford to marry someone like me.”
“You had caught my attention even before I knew who you were. When I heard the first gossip, I liked you already. Everyone kept on saying: ‘Do you know what’s new? Ashford Parker got married, he eloped with a girl from London! A commoner, no titles, no aristocratic family.’ I came to the polo tournament just to see you. Everyone was talking about Jemma. Jemma this, Jemma that… and then, seeing you cast my mind back.”
“I do remember that day. Many talked about me, to criticise me, mostly,” I say, with slight resentment for the gossip I heard in the toilets.
“Are you referring to the Triple Six? Oh my God! I hope you don’t pay attention to those scarecrows.”
“Certainly not! They’re just bored snobs!” I agree with her, pretending I wasn’t affected by their remarks.
“They have serious limitations,” she says, tapping her temple with her index finger. “Calling them snobs is rather reductive.”
“So, Cécile, aren’t you their friend?” I ask to make sure.
Hearing my question, Cécile looks at me wide eyed, as if it were pure nonsense. “Why should I be?”
“Well, I don’t know. Same environment, same connections… you have a lot in common with them, certainly more than I do.”
“Jemma, I have nothing in common with them,” she pauses, taking some sips of lemonade. “In fact, there was a moment in which I thought we were friends. We attended the same college and I spent most of my time with Sophia, Linda, Julia and, of course, Portia, their queen bee. We shared the same room and I finally felt part of a close knit group. Then, I discovered that they spoke ill about me and rummaged through my stuff while I wasn’t there. They are bitches, so don’t listen to them, because they feed on hatred. That’s quite a bad diet.”
“The reason why they criticise me is not a secret, but I don’t understand why they did it to you.”
“It’s very simple. I am the Marquise of Hungeford, and this is one of the few titles which can be inherited by a woman. My parents died – unfortunately, of course – but, due to this fact, I have a title without needing to get married. Instead, they are chasing a title through marriage. So, point one: they are envious. Furthermore, my family has been half French for three generations, and those bitches believe that the marquisate was tainted by our French blood. There’s nothing to do about it, the Loxley men have an unstoppable passion for Parisian women. Therefore, point two: they are racist.”
“Wow. Anyway, you have to know that I have nothing to do with these prejudices. I never wanted a title in my life, and the one I have is a mere consequence of my marriage. I married Ashford and I became a duchess. Like those ‘two for one’ offers at Tesco!”
Cécile bursts into hearty laughter. “Poor Burlingham! Two for one at Tesco! What a hell of a bargain!”
I shrug. “Racism is not my problem, either. In the block of flats where I lived, there are a Turkish, a Vietnamese and an Italian family, and they’re more than neighbours, they’re friends, not to say relatives.”
While I take a sip of lemonade, I find myself thinking that I’m feeling at ease for the first time since I’ve been living this double life.
“What did you do after elementary school?” I ask her.
“Middle and high school!” she replies, smiling for the joke. “And university. I graduated in Journalism and now I write for the Guardian under a pseudonym. I have a column called Poverty and Nobility, in which I describe the best and the worst of aristocracy, public virtues and private vices. What about you? How did you end up in this circle of hell?”
“I was a make-up artist for minor musicals. I met Ashford after a performance and it was love at first sight. I didn’t know who he was or that he had a title. Within a week, I had a ring on my finger and I made my entrance to Denby Hall to everyone’s bewilderment.”
“You’re not exactly one that goes unnoticed.”
“Astonishment is in the eye of the beholder,” I say.
“Very wise.”
“I was even forced to join my mother-in-law’s charity committee, and you know who’s on it? The Triple Six.”
“I can imagine them! Green with envy, seeing you do the honours at Denby.”
“Speaking of the Triple Six, one of them hosts another boring evening tonight. That mare… Sophia.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“What? Aren’t you coming?” I ask, disappointed.
“I wasn’t invited. There’s a polite dislike between my family and Sophia’s.”
“Shall I face the satanic trio on my own, then?”
“Of course not. Whenever they get on your nerves, just hold on to Ashford’s arm and play the bimbo. They will froth at the mouth with envy.”
*
They will froth at the mouth, said Cécile. I don’t know about that, but there’s one thing I do know: this time, I won’t wear the clothes Delphina provided. I will use mine. I have a dress I bought from a sale in Soho for only eleven pounds; it’s identical to one I once saw on Kim Kardashian, a slinky apple green criss-cross dress with a very low back. I also have a golden sequin clutch and some raspberry coloured fringe sandals which are perfect. No, I won’t let anyone say I’m wearing a garbage bag again.
“I would like to find some words to comment on your clothing, but I am petrified,” Ashford comments drily, as we go towards Crane House.
“What’s the absurd reason behind tonight’s dinner?” I ask him, shifting the conversation to something else. I already know he despises what I’m wearing, there’s no point in discussing it further.
“The Skyper-Kensitts’ anniversary party,” he replies concisely.
“What a nonsense! An anniversary is a private matter. If I had to celebrate my anniversary, I would like to do it with my husband only, not with fifty more people who don’t care if ‘we managed not to get divorced for another year’. It would rather be a romantic dinner just him and me, presents, and a night of passion…”
“Well, your husband is next to you and he doesn’t agree with that plan,” he points out.
“I’m not referring to you! I’m talking about my next husband.”
“Do you really think there’s another crazy man out there willing to marry you?”
“If not for me, it will be for my money. I’ve already found one,” I say, looking at him straight in the eyes.
“When are you going to cut it out?”
“Never. You tease me all the time!” I reply.
“I just can’t get rid of this bad habit.”
“Back to what we were saying, it just sounds absurd to me to summon fifty people to celebrate something so private.”
“They probably called it ‘anniversary party’ because ‘come and see the newly frescoed salon we spent two hundred thousand pounds on’ wasn’t that elegant.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds to paint a ceiling? Boy, they fooled them pretty well!”
Strangely enough, Ashford laughs. “I have to agree.”
When we enter the Skyper-Kensitts’ mansion, the reception hall is already crowded with guests. Sophia comes to meet us as soon as she detects Ashford.
“Ashford! You made it!” She exclaims with an overexcited shriek.
“I made what?” He asks.
“You made it to come here!”
“Yes, it was indeed an incredible endeavour to drive for less than twenty-five miles from Denby and get here safe and sound, if that’s what you mean.”
I am surprised by Ashford’s quick wit and by the sarcasm of his replies to Sophia. I thought that he liked all these arse-kissers.
Sophia ignores the remarks and puts her hand on Ashford’s arm. “You’re always joking! Didn’t your mother come along?”
“She had a concert in London. Stanev Kucera is playing.”
“What an event! I wouldn’t have missed it for the whole world if there hadn’t been this party. But my parents were so keen to celebrate their anniversary, that they even brought forward the end of the salon renovation. Did you notice the ceiling stuccos?”
“Um, they’re just…” Ashford says, as he looks up and thinks of a comment, but he’s rather doubtful. Then, he finishes his sentence: “… fine.”
“You can still smell the paint,” I point out.
“Oh, Jemma, you’re here too.” At last, Sophia has decided to talk to me.
“Exactly. I’ve been next to Ashford this whole time.”
He notices the tension between us. Sophia may be nice to him, but she isn’t to me, at all. “Isn’t it time to take our seats at the table?” She asks, leading me towards it.
Almost everyone has found their seats, while I’m still looking for mine. I bet that bitch has ‘accidentally’ forgotten to include my name among the guests.
“Oh no!” Sophia interrupts us. “The place cards are wrong! I had the arrangement prepared yesterday, but the Baron Reinhard von Hofmannsthal did us the honour of accepting our invitation at the very last minute. He came from Nuremberg specially!” So saying, she takes the card that reads ‘Duke of Burlingham, Lord Ashford Parker’ and replaces it with that of the baron.
“Where will Ashford and I sit, then?” I ask, suspecting that Sophia wants to humiliate us and send us home like unwelcome guests.
“Here, my dear! I had to rearrange the seats quickly, but I thought it might be very inspiring for you to meet the baron! He’s an eminent guest. Ashford, you can sit there, between Lord Windham and me,” she says, resting her hand on Ashford’s arm again in a rather confidential way.
I look at the place card on my left, and it reads ‘Carter Willoughby’. Who the hell is Carter Willoughby? Great, I’m sitting between two perfect strangers! I mean, I don’t know all the guests, but I’ve seen the others at least once.
“Ashford could sit on this bloke’s seat!” I say, indicating Willoughby’s chair.
“Oh, Jemma! That’s impossible!” Sophia exclaims as though she had just heard a funny joke.
“Why is it?” I ask, irritated.
“For etiquette matters, you know…” Sophia looks around for a moment, as if she were trying to avoid my questions. “But let me introduce you to the baron. He’s such an interesting person!”
Sophia disappears for a second in the crowd, and then she reappears with a tall bald man, whose blue eyes are almost white. “Lassen Sie mich Ihnen die Herzogin von Burlingham vorstellen, die Sie noch nicht kennen.”
“Die Herzogin von Burlingham! Es ist schön, Sie endlich zu treffen,” says the baron to me, taking my hand with the hint of a bow.
What did he just say? I look at Ashford in panic, but Sophia has already dragged him away. I understand, now. This is nothing but a strategy: leaving me alone with the baron on purpose, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to say a word.
The baron looks at me with a kind but questioning air, waiting for my reply.
“Um… hallo Baron!” Oh dear, what am I going to say, now? All I can say in German is ‘Sachertorte’!
The butler announces that dinner will be served and, while the other guests are taking their seats, the baron pulls out my chair for me to sit down. “Bitte.”
I nod my head to thank him. I feel as if I have swallowed my tongue.
I look for Ashford at the other end of the table, giving him desperate glances to ask for help, but Sophia has engaged him and other guests in animated conversation to make sure he ignores me.
The baron soon realises that it’s not out of shyness that I’m silent, but because I don’t speak a word of German, so he turns to his other side and starts a conversation with Earl Warlock.
The dinner is boring, everyone ignores me. The table is so wide that the people sitting in front of me are half a mile away, and there are monumental floral centrepieces that prevent us being able to see one another. The guest on my left, Carter Willoughby, didn’t even show up. I start thinking he’s an imaginary guest invented by Sophia to keep me out of the way.