“I don’tthink, 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.
