Jemma’s Version
Back at Denby, I’m being looked after like a child by the servants who see I’m hurt.
They think I cry for the pain and my swollen knee confirms that.
Yet, all I can think of is that arsehole, Carter, and all the horrible things I heard him say about me.
When Ashford told me all those stories about Carter, I realised how stupid I was. I didn’t have the courage to tell him what really happened, and I’m not sure he bought the lie that I was just crying because of the pain.
Carter! I’m disgusted with myself for even considering falling in love with him. Prince Charming, my arse!
For the first time, I feel sorry for myself, thinking that someone could talk about me that way. Of course, they never do it in my face, but every time I leave a room, the main topic of discussion is how inadequate I am.
This was such a miserable day for me that I didn’t even have the strength to argue with Ashford, as we usually do to conclude our social events.
He wanders around the house looking strangely satisfied (more than usual, I mean) and he has champagne served at dinner.
*
If I am to save myself, I’ll ask for help from the only person who speaks my language. That person is Lance.
It is a secret meeting: I arranged it by exchanging notes under the serving platter during dinner, and I sneaked – as best I could, given my injured knee – in the coat of arms room as soon as Ashford withdrew to the library.
What I’m doing is neither illegal nor forbidden, but I don’t want to let anybody know about my plans, since everyone seems to want an excuse to criticise me.
Lance must have heard my footsteps in the hallway because the door opens as soon as I put my hand on the brass knob.
“Your Grace, please, let me help you lie down.”
“Lance! Nobody saw you, right?” I ask him, throwing a furtive look around to make sure I haven’t been followed.
“No, I was very discreet.”
“I feel almost ridiculed when you all call me Your Grace. I’m twenty-five, but that makes me feel as if I were a hundred!”
“I’m sorry about how you feel, but that’s the correct form of address for a duchess,” Lance says solemnly.
“I’ll have to get used to it, then…”
“Absolutely, because all the servants and all those who come after you will use that form of address.”
“What do you mean, those who come after me?” I ask, curious.
“Very well, Your Grace, ‘Those who come after you’ is a perfect way to start our lessons. If you listen to me, integrating into society will not be a problem.” Lance starts walking up and down the thick blue carpet with almost imperceptible steps, while I pay attention from the sofa.
“I learn quickly, as long as you explain things clearly.”
“The title of duchess, as wife of the Duke of Burlingham, means that you’re more important than every other aristocrat with a minor title. This means, of course, that you’re preceded by those whose titles are more important than yours. But you’re lucky: as a duchess, you’re pretty high in the hierarchy.”
“How terrific!” I exclaim enthusiastically. “There are people who have to walk behind me because I am a duchess and they’re not!”
“That’s correct, Your Grace. Quite terrific,” Lance confirms without losing his composure. “But let’s follow an order. An official procession is divided into ranks: the dukes are first, then there are the marquises, counts, viscounts and barons. Obviously, the same goes for their wives.”
“What about Sophia Skyper-Kensitt? What’s her title?” I ask impatiently.
Lance reflects for a moment before giving me an answer. “She will be a countess as long as she lives in her father’s house.”
“Yay! That bitch can kiss my arse! And Linda Rickson? And Julia Bromley?” I urge him.
“The Ricksons are counts, the Bromleys are barons,” he replies with no hesitation.
I clap my hands, as I’m happy to have at least some sort of revenge through this title which has done nothing but make me feel uncomfortable so far. All right, it will be like having a brand new pair of high heeled shoes: very painful but so worth wearing.
“However, there are more important titles which take precedence over you. Being a duchess places you quite high in the hierarchy, but not enough to be the first to enter places. First of all, there’s the Royal Family, followed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord High Chancellor, the Prime Minister, the Lord High Treasurer, and the Lord Privy Seal.”
I’ve stopped listening to him to think about all the people who have to walk behind me and be respectful.
“So, as the wife of a Duke of England by hereditary title, I basically come right after the Royal Family!”
“And the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord High Chancellor, the Prime Minister, the Lord High Treas…”
“Yes, okay, I got that,” I interrupt him abruptly. “I just wanted to cut things short.”
Lance looks at the pendulum clock. “Instructing you properly will take much of your patience.”
“Are we having another lesson tomorrow?” I ask, anxiously.
“As Your Grace desires. Is there a subject in particular that you would like to cover?”
“I don’t know… is it essential to speak German?” I ask, hoping that it isn’t.
Lance nods his head. “And French, of course.”
I lean against the backrest, discouraged. For God’s sake, I should really be a genius to learn two languages!
Lance gives me a reassuring smile. “We will certainly find another interesting topic to discuss. If Your Grace allows me, I will escort you to your apartments. I’m afraid you aren’t able to walk on your own yet.”
“Cheers, Lance.” I beckon him to come closer so that I can put my arm around his neck.
With a fatherly expression, he helps me lie down in bed and puts my leg on a soft pillow. “For the next few days, I suggest that you stay in bed and move as little as possible. We will take care of your every need.”
He’s already turned his back to go out, when I stop him and ask, in a quiet voice: “And Portia? What’s her title?”
“Her father is a marquis.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. I haven’t met her yet, but I hoped her title was worth less.
“However, her family has held the title only since 1832,” he adds.
A bizarre sense of satisfaction fills my heart. “Cheers, Lance.”