“Just out of curiosity: it is your habit to turn up at events and then disappear?”
“I do it less often than I would like to. Unfortunately, most events require my presence and I have to shake hands and so on, but tonight was a pleasant exception. Even more pleasant, in the last five minutes.”
I tell him about the rest of the evening. “The gentlemen have withdrawn to the games room for a brandy, while the ladies are having coffee in the study. Which is a mere excuse to gather in groups of three or four and gossip.”
“Are you part of a group of three or four?”
“No, but I’m most likely the main topic of discussion of every group.”
“Not that I’m interested, and I won’t even ask you the reason, but let me tell you one thing: if I listened to everything they say behind my back, I would have already been sectioned and sent to a mental hospital.”
“I realise that these people are usually bored to death, so I must have brought a breath of freshness into their lives, even if they insist in denying it.”
Carter stares at me with his big, intense blue eyes. “I have no doubt about it.”
“Anyway, I should be mad at you.”
“Really? And why is that, if I may ask?” He says, intrigued.
“I was sitting between two people, at the dinner table: Mr Carter Willoughby, who did not show up at all, and Baron von Hofmannsthal. I was tongue tied all evening, with the baron who muttered something every now and then, but I don’t understand a word of German.”
Carter lowers his head, letting a cascade of gold threads fall down on his face.
“I really regret it. If I had known that I could have had dinner in such pleasant company, I wouldn’t have missed it. I owe you an apology.”
“And tell me, do I have any hope of meeting you at other similar events?” I can’t help but ask him.
“Most likely.”
“Then I think I’ll face these invitations in a different way, from now on. Finding out that someone else is as annoyed as I am was the revelation of the whole evening.”
Just when we’re about to have another toast, as if to seal an agreement, I hear the door handle click.
“Jemma, are you…” Ashford asks, entering the room. As soon as he sees me, his question remains hanging in the air. “… here.” And after an even more serious pause, he adds: “Willoughby.”
Ashford’s eyes move from me to Carter, and scan him with a mixture of coldness and contempt. It’s very strange to see Ashford behaving like this, as he seems to get along with everyone.
He’s so full of himself.
“Yes, Ashford, as you can see, I’m right here,” I say, drawing his attention.
“Do you know each other?” Carter asks me.
“She’s my wife,” Ashford replies, with his usual unkindness.
Carter gives me an enigmatic smile, which makes me fear for a moment that his liking has turned into dislike. “If I had known I was in front of the Duchess of Burlingham, I would have used a more deferential tone,” and then he briefly nods his head to say goodbye and leaves the room. “Parker,” he says to Ashford, returning his coldness.
Ashford doesn’t reply and, once Carter is at a safe distance down the corridor, he turns towards me in an almost angry tone: “It’s late, it’s time to go.”
“Yes, Master,” I say, heading out of the room.
As I go out, I feel Ashford grab the hem of my dress and pull it down, muttering: “This fucking dress.”
John is waiting for us in front of the entrance staircase, and we get in the car to go back to Denby.
For a while, Ashford is silent and then he blurts out: “What were you doing in that room with Willoughby?”
“What nobody else wants to do with me: making conversation.”
