Okay, maybe it’s not a very strong argument, but if you knew Cécile Loxley, that would be enough. She is strange! She’s the most moody person I’ve ever known. Critical, neurotic, a real contrarian, she’s unbearable and antisocial. There’s not a single person who gets on with her. Well, maybe… Jemma could.
25
Jemma’s Version
Armstrong, Olstrom House’s butler, escorts me to theorangerie.
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?”
