“Yes, okay, I got that,” I interrupt him abruptly. “I just wanted to cut things short.”
Lance looks at the pendulum clock. “Instructing you properly will take much of your patience.”
“Are we having another lesson tomorrow?” I ask, anxiously.
“As Your Grace desires. Is there a subject in particular that you would like to cover?”
“I don’t know… is it essential to speak German?” I ask, hoping that it isn’t.
Lance nods his head. “And French, of course.”
I lean against the backrest, discouraged. For God’s sake, I should really be a genius to learn two languages!
Lance gives me a reassuring smile. “We will certainly find another interesting topic to discuss. If Your Grace allows me, I will escort you to your apartments. I’m afraid you aren’t able to walk on your own yet.”
“Cheers, Lance.” I beckon him to come closer so that I can put my arm around his neck.
With a fatherly expression, he helps me lie down in bed and puts my leg on a soft pillow. “For the next few days, I suggest that you stay in bed and move as little as possible. We will take care of your every need.”
He’s already turned his back to go out, when I stop him and ask, in a quiet voice: “And Portia? What’s her title?”
“Her father is a marquis.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. I haven’t met her yet, but I hoped her title was worth less.
“However, her family has held the title only since 1832,” he adds.
A bizarre sense of satisfaction fills my heart. “Cheers, Lance.”
36
Ashford’s Version
I notice that the seat on my right at the table is empty again today.
Jemma has remained locked up in the room since the hunt. She can’t move because her sprained knee confines her to bed, but it’s been more than ten days now.
She doesn’t want to see me or talk to me – not that I’m sorry about that – but I would really like to know if she’s ever heard from that crook Willoughby again.
“Is there any news from the duchess?” I ask casually, so nobody thinks I’m anxious. To clarify: I am not anxious about the duchess, and I believe I will never be.
“She’s still in her apartment,” Lance answers promptly.
“How many days since she last came out? Ten?”
“Eleven, Your Grace,” he corrects me.
“Eleven. It seems a bit too much for a sprain. Shall I call someone? A doctor? A gravedigger? An exorcist?”
Just as Lance is about to answer, we hear loud footsteps on the stairs. “It’s here! It’s here! It’s here!” Jemma’s voice, which has now become familiar, interrupts us.
“I had just mentioned an exorcist, right?” I ask, but my question hangs in the air.
I recognise the sound of the heavy front door opening and, just then, a courier van stops in front of the house. After a few seconds, the van leaves and we hear Jemma’s heavy tread again, this time she’s climbing the stairs.
“What a savage,” my mother comments.
It’s clear that her sprain is long gone.
