He shrugs, holding back a laugh. “I won’t, actually. I perfectly comprehend why you’re at ease with a four year old.”
Kelib’s mum picks the child up and they disappear in a room; just then, a robotic voice announces it’s our turn.
While I’m standing up, Ashford has already gone into the room, so I follow him still barefoot, and arrive in front of the officer who will record the wedding. I had not noticed how tall Ashford is. I’m still barefoot, but he’s really tall. I feel inexplicably intimidated for a second as I cannot see over his shoulder.
Derek hands in a folder which contains all our documents.
“Where’s the other witness?” Asks the registrar, without raising his eyes from the folder.
Derek rolls his eyes and gives an exasperated snort.
“One is not enough, there must be two witnesses,” the man insists.
Derek tries to buy some time. “I know, my assistant is late, but she should be here any minute…”
“I can’t wait all day!” He says, noticeably irritated.
“There’s Claire, the clerk. It happens quite often that the couples fail to read the requirements in our guidelines. In those cases, sometimes the clerks are involved.”
Derek runs to the offices and comes back with Claire, the clerk we first saw.
The whole thing takes about fifteen minutes: the registrar reads out our rights, he asks Ashford if he’s free to lawfully to marry me (Ashford isn’t exactly enthusiastic as he replies ‘I am’) and then he asks the same of me (for a second, I consider shocking my husband-to-be by saying ‘I’m not’), we sign the register, we are declared husband and wife and we are sent outside.
It’s over. I’m married.
And I’m rich!
8
Ashford’s Version
I’m not petty enough to not feel slightly ashamed for having accepted money from someone else. While Jemma was signing all those cheques, I wished I could dig a hole in the floor of the bank and jump into it. However, if we rationalise the whole situation, we will find that, technically, it was a simple transaction. We can say that I lent my title to her so that she could receive her inheritance; therefore, I consider that money a reward.
This is what I thought until yesterday, when I went back home with a light heart, finally at peace with myself and with the banks. This morning I’m even euphoric. First of all, I assured my mother that the royal visit will be announced with a week’s notice, so she can feel free to go to Bath as she had planned. Therefore, in less than four hours, there will be a hundred miles between me and her.
Moreover, I realised something extraordinary that puts me in a position of absolute predominance.
Before this whole story, I was a fish to be caught by any debutante in Hertfordshire. Whether I liked it or not, one of them would have married me, eventually – even with the help of chloroform, if necessary – and my life would have been very similar to that of my parents.
But that’s no longer the case. I’m already legally married, but,de facto, I’m free, and nobody will ever impose on me again.
I never thought I’d say this, but this marriage has made a free man out of me.
My mother does have a difficult personality, but that’s nothing compared to a wife who’s also a duchess. If there’s something I don’t want, it’s having a pest in a Chanel dress who tells me where to go, what to do and how to do it, all day long, every single day.
I’m not exaggerating: duchesses, countesses and baronesses are all the same. Fairy tale princesses who sing while picking flowers do not exist. What do exist are an awful lot of nagging shrews who are always ready to compete with other nagging shrews: who’s most elegant, whose gala was more successful, who’s the best dancer, who’s thinner, and so on.
I’m so full of energy that I got up at dawn to go for a ride around the estate on Agincourt and, on my way back, I’m really looking forward to the hearty banquet I had the servants make for breakfast. However, while entering through the front door, I hear the desperate sound of a wailing woman.
My mother.
At best, she’s discovered that we’ve finished the bottles of 1986 Château Lafite and that is unacceptable with an upcoming royal visit.
At worst… well, there’s no limit to catastrophe.
I find her surrounded by her corgis in the study with Margaret, in a state of utmost anxiety.
She’s marching up and down with a tissue in one hand and the newspaper in the other.
