“You married a lunatic, you brought her family of freaks here, this house looks like a circus, and all your wife does is embarrass me! I’m telling you, loud and clear: I’m the only one left of sound mind, here. If you’re fine with being humiliated and turned into the laughing stock of high society, go ahead; as far as I am concerned, I will not stand by watching a sinking ship.”
Her soliloquy barely touches me. “Perhaps you’re missing a tiny detail: I’m not holding you back, I’m just expressing my opinion on your reaction. It was a charity fashion show, not the launch of an intercontinental ballistic missile. If you want to go to Bath, you have all my support.”
“Of course I’m going to Bath! I have no reason to stay here! After last night’s disaster, there isn’t the slightest chance of a royal visit left! The Queen will never set foot in this madhouse.”
While my mother is venting the best of her hysteria in front of her car, which is ready to leave, Jemma appears by my side, peaceful and smiling, as if nothing had happened.
“There you go,” she says, almost singing, while waving a bunch of cheques in front of my eyes. “Look, there are thousands of pounds here! I did the accounts and, when I called the bank to arrange to make the deposit, they told me that the Union Jack fashion shows have never made this much money!”
In disbelief, I look at the cheques signed by my mother’s friends and acquaintances. “This is astounding!”
“And look here!” Jemma hands me her smartphone with an open Twitter page. “Three fashion designers have tagged me in their posts to compliment me! Real fashion designers who do fashion shows in Paris! It was a triumph!”
Seeing Jemma revelling in her own success, my mother is fuming. “A success! You annihilated years of pride and tradition with your antics!”
Jemma gives my mother a freezing look, and keeps swinging her cheques. “As far as I know, you don’t feed the poor with pride and tradition.”
“I fully agree,” I say.
My mother stamps her feet and gets into the car, shouting: “Go to hell, both of you!” And then the Rolls Royce starts moving along the driveway, raising a cloud of dust.
“Where is she going?” Asks Jemma.
“I think I owe you one.”
“Why?”
“She’s off to Bath.”
45
Jemma’s Version
My stay here in Denby has been miraculously more tolerable since Delphina and her disquieting lady-in-waiting left.
Ashford and I see each other very little, basically just during meals, after which he disappears into his study, goes to London for a meeting at the House of Lords, to the club with Harring, or to polo practice. Not that I dislike this kind of balance. It’s not that bad, I must say.
I can roam around Denby Hall undisturbed, without having to do it on tiptoe. I must say it’s quite a nice place and there’s little left of that dark and austere manor house I saw when I arrived. The warm season lights up the long corridors from the stained glass windows (Lance told me that’s what they’re called).
And the park! It’s massive, I could go riding for days and not tread the same ground twice.
My parents and I take long rides in the afternoon before tea time, which is a nice way for them to get to know the grounds and all parties to get some exercise.
It’s been quite a while now since they settled here, much more than would be acceptable for a short visit. I realised this because, on the few occasions we talk to each other, Ashford often asks me if my parents’ stay at Denby is pleasant, if they like Denby, if their accommodation suits them. He asks about this just a little too often, his questions must have some sort of hidden agenda.
Today, Ashford will be home earlier from London to have tea with the three of us, but I have the feeling that it might be an excuse to ask them to leave. Due to this thought in my head, I’m not enjoying the ride at all.
In addition, the weather, which was beautiful and sunny earlier, is now overcast with grey clouds, and the woods are immersed in semi-darkness which is not good for my mood.
“Hey cutie-pie, what’s wrong?” My mum asks me.
“It must be the change in the weather,” I reply vaguely, as I don’t want to make them anxious with my suspicions.
“Be happy, baby, there will be time to be sad further on in life. But now you’re young, beautiful, lucky and loved: the sun rises for you every day!”
“Aye, Ashford is a good laddie, and that’s quite surprising considering your standards – trust a dad on this, they were all quite odd,” says my dad, who is following us on Westfalia.
“Yes, he comes from an old-fashioned conservative family, but what counts are his feelings, and he cares a lot about you,” insists my mother.
