“Jemma.” It’s Ashford. He kneels beside me, lifting me up against his chest. “What happened to her?”
Audrey Davenport arrives with a glass. “Drink this, dear, sugar water. Oh, Ashford, it was terrible! We saw her panting, she was as pale as a ghost and, before she could say anything, she collapsed!”
“Ashford, let me tell you that your wife looks terrible,” Neville grumbles. “I will send my personal doctor to Denby tomorrow.”
“Lady Audrey, would you please have our car prepared? Jemma needs some rest. Perhaps the wine and the crowd have been too much for her.”
I don’t utter a word; I do not know what to say. It’s true, I feel terrible, but I’m sure it’s not due to the wine or the crowd.
When I went out for a breath of fresh air, I saw Ashford and Portia from the window. They were on the balcony in the moonlight, in an attitude of unmistakable flirtation. He had his back to me, but he didn’t seem to be rejecting her advances. When she caressed his face, I started feeling dizzy, and I don’t remember anything else.
I’m quiet, pretending to be in a state of semi-consciousness until we get to Denby. I let them put me to bed like a rag doll – my bed, in my apartment – and, as soon as I’m alone, I abandon myself to tears until I fall asleep.
The next morning, I sit by myself in the dining room, where they’ve prepared a rich buffet to help me to recover, but nothing attracts me. I’m falling apart.
Ashford is already dressed, wearing one of those cashmere jumpers that look impeccable on him. He’s coming to greet me. “You made me worry! I wanted to have breakfast with you in bed, and instead I find you up already!”
As soon as he tries to kiss me, a violent wave of nausea attacks me, so I jump up and run for the nearest bathroom.
He won’t touch me with the same hands with which he touched Portia.
What I saw last night, the two of them on the balcony, is engraved in my mind, and every time I think about it, I have the same feeling of malaise that made me faint.
I feel Ashford grab my arm. “Where are you going? What’s the matter?”
“Let me go, Ashford,” I order.
“Not if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“If you don’t want me to throw up on the polished floor of your ancient manor, I suggest that you release my arm now.”
“Jemma, you haven’t talked to me since last night. I don’t even know if you’re okay or not. Remember that I found you passed out on the floor? I have the right to be worried about you!”
“No, Ashford, I’m not okay, if that’s what you want to know. And no, you have no right to be worried.” I set myself free from his grasp with a jerk. “I’m going to Cécile’s.”
80
Ashford’s Version
It’s exhausting. When Jemma acts like this, she drains me of all my energy. I wish I could get inside her head, to read all the things she’s not telling me.
There’s a menacing hypothesis that I barely consider but I don’t dare mention: maybe she saw me with Portia, or worse, someone told her they saw me with Portia, perhaps exaggerating their report with imaginary details.
I’m more than at peace with my conscience.
I’m in the study, trying to focus on the estimated value of the paintings of that unfortunate Russian artist whose death apparently restored my economic prosperity, but I can’t.
Besides, I’m worried that Loxley will turn Jemma against me even more.
Lance knocks on the door. “Miss Portia is waiting to be received.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, astonished.
“She has just arrived.”
If I don’t receive her myself, I’m sure she’ll ask to meet my mother, who will invite her to stay for lunch, and I want to prevent them from teaming up. I’ll do it, but I’ll be concise, then I’ll personally accompany her to the door and ask her to never come to Denby uninvited again.
“Let her in.”
