Marrying Money: Lady Diana's Story

by Glenys O'Connell

  Auntie Kay had locked herself into the very last room at the end of a corridor thick with dust. As I coughed and sneezed my way along it, I wondered whether I had the nerve to remind Millie she was supposed to clean up here, too. As the dark shadow of being Millie-less loomed over me, I decided maybe a bit of dust on the fourth floor wasn’t such a bad thing. But the hammering and banging from the old maid’s room was a bad thing. Kay was obviously barricading herself; this was not a good sign. The last time she really went over the top I had to call out the fire brigade to get her down from the very top of the old oak tree by the stable block. She claimed she had a dream where she’d been told to go to the highest point on the estate, and there she’d be given the answer. What was it with Kay and the highest point of things? .She never actually said what the answer was, or even what the question was. But after suffering the humiliation of having half the village watch as she was rescued from the tree by Ted Simmons and his cronies in the fire brigade, I wasn’t much interested in hearing her side of the story.

  Ted, of course, had made a real show of being the hero. He coaxed Kay along the branch until he could grab a hold of her, and even managed to ensure she kept some modesty in that awful flannel night- gown as he carried her down over his shoulder. Auntie Kay was screeching like a banshee the whole way down.

  Oh, the amused guffaws from the assembled villagers! I suppose I should be glad really, there’s not much entertainment around here. The Ashburnham family has to be good for something.

  When Ted finally helped Auntie Kay to the ground, she had looked up at him with huge wide eyes, told him he was her hero, and declared since he’d seen her in her ‘night attire’ her father would make him marry her, even if he had to get the shotgun out.

  That wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t promised to show him a terrific time in bed. The joke is probably still going around the village. I just hope Ted, who took it all in good fun, has gotten over his embarrassment now. Certainly, he still speaks if we meet in the street, and to his credit he doesn’t smirk much when he asks after Kay’s health.

  My cheeks were burning at the memory. I was still saying a little prayer to St Jude not to make this hopeless case suffer more than she had to, when suddenly everything went quiet.

  When Auntie Kay is having one of her turns, quiet, is worse than bad. I flew the rest of the way along the corridor, threw myself at the door and was launched into the room with a screeching sound of breaking wood and door and the brass lock gave way.

  Auntie Kay lay on the floor, her face blue, and she wasn’t breathing.

  What happened after that is a blur. I remember screeching for Millie to phone for an ambulance, and I remember kneeling down in the dust beside Auntie Kay and somehow those CPR moves all came back to me. They must have worked, because the EMT’s told me, when they arrived and took over, that Auntie Kay was breathing again.

  The ride to the hospital, holding Kay’s hand, seemed never ending. Her bones were so fragile. Somehow, I’d always seen her as the big, loud, whimsical woman she was when I was a child. When had she become so frail? Do we ever notice the years passing until it’s too late?

  I paced around the hospital waiting room, flicking occasionally through ancient magazines that told me how to make my home look like a stately house. Maybe I could raise a few bob writing an article about how to make your stately home look like a place you'd want to live in.

  Sally rushed into the waiting room and wrapped her arms around me in a reassuring hug. Her mother came with a big thermos of tea. All sorts of people stuck their heads in the door to see about Auntie Kay, claiming they were just passing by. I cried, because I never knew we had so many people who actually gave a damn.

  “Lady Ashburnham?”

  I looked up to see a tall, handsome man who looked like he could take the lead in a TV soap set in a hospital. Who would mind receiving bad news from a hunk like this?

  I would, I thought grimly. I stood to shake his hand. “Miss McKinley-Jones needs a lot of rest. She’s suffered a cardiac infarction - a heart attack. She must be kept from over exciting or exerting herself. She will be just fine as long as she lives by a few simple health rules.”

  Obviously, this man had no idea of that a normal life for Auntie Kay consisted of fighting with the vicar over evil spirits and climbing up oak trees to get answers from the universe. These were normal for Auntie Kay but she’d never be up for them again. I sniffed, and Sally’s mum handed me a huge snowy white handkerchief.

  “I believe she was, um, in an attic room four floors up?”

  His raised eyebrows made me feel very small.

  “She wasn’t living up there. She has a nice room on the second floor with a lovely view of the river and the meadows…” I was babbling, but I didn’t want him to think Auntie Kay was neglected and locked in the attic by an unfeeling family.

  “Unfortunately, she had a few sips of vodka, and it didn’t agree with her. I didn’t know she had it. Uncle Billy must have left it behind. Aunt Kay decided she had to be in the highest point of the house to avoid the evil spirits, you see.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, as if what I was saying was perfectly logical.

  “Lady Ashburnham, I think it would be a good idea if your aunt spent some time recuperating in a nursing home. She will need regular nursing care for a little while, and it would be easier if she was in there rather than relying on occasional nursing visits to her home.”

  Auntie Kay’s stay at a private nursing home was arranged. I went home and worried about how to find enough money to pay for her stay there.

  “At least you won’t have to worry about her being looked after while she recuperates,” Sally said as we sat in our usual seats in the Scraggy Duck that evening. We had stopped in for a reviving pint on the way home from the hospital. “A nice, quiet nursing home with a staff to keep an eye on her—”

  “And no attics or hidden bottles of booze,” I said. “I could almost hear the doctor thinking what a cuckoo crew we Ashburnhams must be.”

  “Well, you did ramble on about evil spirits and stuff,” Sally said, with a great big grin. And suddenly, I was grinning, too. At least today’s crisis was over.

  Or so I thought.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A lot of people came by our table to inquire about Kay, which brought tears to my eyes. It’s easy to feel taken for granted as the local aristocratic oddities. But the amount of concern shown for Kay, and the number of consoling libations bought for Sally and I showed that we Ashburnham’s may be odd, but we’re still appreciated.

  We were pretty tipsy when the lights dimmed for closing. We decided to leave Sally's car at the Duck and walk home. We walked up the laneway to where Alexandria House gleamed bright in the moonlight. The pride of ownership caused me to burst out into a loud rendition of “There’ll Always be an England”. The next thing you know Sally and I were sitting on the small stone bench near the fountain, crying our eyes out. Whether it was the stress of the day, the beauty of the moment, or the absolutely awful singing, I don't know. But we hugged each other and howled. It was truly a Kodak moment.

  We were still sitting there when Sally's mum and dad drove up to collect her.

  “I told you the Ashburnhams were mad.” I heard her dad say. “She’ll have our Sally as bats as she is, you mark my words.”

  “Hush, Len, “Mrs Barnes said in a carrying whisper. “ The poor thing has been through an awful shock today, with that funny aunt of hers. Kay is her only kin, other than that gormless uncle, and she is in the hospital hooked up to all kinds of machines and things.”

  Sally got up and stumbled her way to the car trying her best not to look like a drunk, which only made her look more drunk. Her dad rolled his eyes, the whites shining like headlamps in the moon. I arose with as much dignity as I could muster.

  “Thank you for your kindness today, Mr and Mrs Barnes.” I said. “It is much appreciated.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. Would you like to
come over and spend the night? We have a spare room now that Roger is away at college. It wouldn’t be a bother. I don’t like to think of you all alone in that big old house.” Mrs Barnes asked with a note of concern.

  “Oh, I'll be fine, thank you for the offer,” I said, noting Mr Barnes' look of relief.

  But as they rolled away down the driveway I suddenly didn’t like the idea of being alone in the big, old house, either. I felt like running after them and asking if I could stay, after all. But the memory of Mr Barnes’ look of relief when I'd refused the invitation straightened my spine.

  Ashburnham’s don’t go where they aren’t wanted - aside from some ancestral forays into the colonies - and we aren’t about to start now.

  The big house seemed quite jolly that evening, with the steady stream of phone calls from people wanting to know how Kay was. Even Millie had made an effort with a nice supper, and she'd left a note on the fridge: “A little something to build you up after all the worry.”

  But eventually the phone went silent. Millie had long since left to spend the evening with Mr Millie. Alexandria House was as quiet as a big old place can get. The house felt so empty without Auntie Kay. I know she’s as crazy as a fruit bat, but she’s always been there. I thought about having a drink, but there wasn't much in the cabinet and I didn’t feel like searching to find one of Uncle Billy's hidden stockpiles of booze. The other alternative was to go down to the dark, shadowy cellar for a bottle of the quality wine my forebears had thoughtfully set aside. I told myself that it would be a waste to sit and drink a really good vintage all alone. Truthfully, I almost wet myself at the idea of going down there alone in the dark with perhaps only the ghosts of my ancestors to hear my screams.

  Maybe it was the strain of the day, but my nerves were stretched to bursting. My initial buzz of the free booze from the Scraggy Duck clientele had worn off. I thought a nice warm bath and a good book in bed would be just the ticket. I reminded myself, as the house creaked and groaned around me, the only ghosts were those of my ancestors and they'd not want to harm me. If anything happened to me, then, gone were five hundred years of unbroken lineage.

  Of course, not all the ghosts are kindly disposed ancestors. I shivered as I thought about the suicidal mistresses. And there was the second son of the fourth Lord Ashburnham who went batty and murdered his wife and her lover...

  Okay, now I am thoroughly spooked. With this amount of adrenalin flowing, maybe I can think up a way of getting us out of this mess. I don’t want to give the ancestors something to really complain about, like the estate being sold to some nouveau rich pop star or dot.com entrepreneur.

  I jumped into bed with notepad and pen in hand, and screamed when something cold and clammy touched my thigh. I leapt out of bed with the speed of an Olympic gold medallist, and cowered in the corner beside the bookcase. My heart thundered so loudly I thought I would faint and wake up next to Auntie Kay in the heart attack ward.

  But eventually my breathing was back under control and I told myself I was behaving irrationally. I slowly stalked over to the bed and rolled back the covers to see Vivaldi, Auntie Kay's pet toad, looking as shocked and forlorn as I felt.

  “Ah, Vivaldi, are you missing her too?” I asked. I knew the toad usually slept on Kay's pillow. I thought it was a mild eccentricity compared to some in my family.

  But I never thought I'd be happy to have the company of a toad in bed, but I was. And that will remain forever a secret.

  Despite my hopes, Vivaldi didn’t turn into a wealthy handsome prince during the night, maybe because I didn’t kiss him before we went to sleep. When I woke up, like most of the toads I have known, he was gone.

  I still didn’t have a plan to save the Ashburnham ancient pile.

  But inspiration was to come from an unusual source.

  As it worked out, it was actually Reverend Morrison who gave me the Great Idea. I'm sure he would be appalled if he knew it, but Rev. Morrison's service inspired me. I’m not much for religion, generally, but it’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime and we Ashburnhams had been patrons of the Parish of St Jude’s for centuries. The fact that it was St. Jude’s, the patron saint of hopeless cases, had not escaped my notice.

  So, as usual, on Sunday, I put on a nice skirt suit, having been brought up in the Edwardian belief that it's not ladylike to wear trousers to church. I added some lipstick and mascara and hauled myself off to the big stone church in the village. I nodded and smiled and generally did my lady-of-the-manor bit. It's an old habit that was drummed into me by Mummy, and Grand Mummy, and Great-Grand Mummy when I was just a toddler.

  “As Ashburnhams, we have a duty to set an example to the common populace,” I can hear Grand Mummy postulating even now.

  And it seems a pretty fair deal, really. In exchange for two hours of dull, boring example-setting on a Sunday morning, I can live the wild life of Reilly the rest of the time; high off the hog and guilt free on all that lovely loot my ancestors stole from the peasants in the first place.

  This brings me back to the problem I'm trying to forget. All the lovely loot is gone, and there doesn't seem to be any more where that came from. The peasants are a tight-fisted bunch these days, and the government no longer seems inclined to hand over a bit of spare cash to the blue-bloods every now and again.

  With the cash all gone and too many entries in red in the account books, I simply have to do something before Alexandria House goes under the hammer and becomes the country retreat of some cheap vino-swilling lottery winner, or coke sniffing pop star, or, heaven forbid, a developer.

  When I think of that, I imagine all my ancestors rising up out of the private family graveyard and haunting me for my failures. Frankly, we wouldn’t be in this position if they'd been a bit more penny-wise, but I somehow don’t think they'll look at it that way. Ah, me.

  That's where the vicar came in.

  Rev. Morrison isn't usually a fire-and-brimstone preacher. You have to go to Nettleby, the next village along, and listen to the new Catholic priest if you want a bit of hell fire. But residents of Ashburnham End are a more sedate bunch and quite happy with a gentle, comfortable homily from their man of the cloth.

  Suddenly, Reverend Morrison spread his arms over the congregation and shouted: “When Peter spoke of being a fisher of men, he intended for us all to cast our nets wide to harvest the richness of the souls of the believers.”

  For a moment I thought maybe the vicar had overdosed on those serial killer books he likes to think no-one knows he reads, all that harvesting souls and stuff.

  But then a light went on inside my head and I knew, I just knew, this was a message sent directly to me.

  I was to cast my net wide, and harvest the richness.

  “So that's it, really. I'm off to find a wealthy husband. One who's besotted enough with me not to care his cash is leaching away in builder's fees. A man who is smug enough to want to be lord of the manor, and who's so dumb he won't see he's being used until it's too late.”

  “Sounds like a daft plan to me. You're likely to wind up with some old codger who looks like my dad.” Sally was known for pouring cold water over hot plans. Thinking of being married to someone like her dad, I gave a delicate shudder. Never in a million years. I’d die a pauper first.

  “Your dad's not still buying those Euro-lottery tickets, is he?” I asked nervously.

  “Hey, you just keep your claws off my dad. He and Mum have been married for thirty-seven years now, and they don’t need the likes of you trying to break them up just for his money.”

  “Your dad's got money?”

  Sally grimaced. “Well, no, not really. But he's sure his numbers will come up and he'll have the winning ticket one day.”

  “Yeah, well, I'm not going to hold my breath.”

  “Still, it's likely you'd get stuck with some old geezer, anyway. Them's the ones that have the money.”

  “Not with the new economy and all those dot.com whiz kids. Don't you read the papers?”r />
  “And when did you see one of these rich young computer geeks without a couple of super models hanging off them? You think you can compete with the likes of that? You wouldn't get a look in, so accept it, you're going to be stuck with some old fella for years.”

  I hate it when Sally is right. Looking smug doesn't suit her at all; it shows up all those double chins.

  I sniffed loudly. “Young, old, I don’t care. I'd like him to be reasonably presentable. I don’t intend to have much to do with him after the initial ensnarement of the wedding night, so I don’t mind too much,” I said firmly. “I can close my eyes and think of Alexandria House for one night, anyway.”

  Yes, sir, the only qualification my unknown husband needs is pots of money. And he must be willing to sign a prenuptial agreement that will make his solicitors weep.

  But where would I find the likes of him? Where would I find stray millionaires hanging around, just willing to be harvested and duped into marriage with a penniless, titled lady? That's where the vicar's sermon about casting the net wide comes in. I need to look further than England's green and pleasant shores, to quote that old hymn.

  “I reckon you need to go to Ireland. There's supposed to be tons of Euro millionaires over there now, and they'd maybe like the idea of sticking it to the Brits by becoming a lord of the manor and having their kids grow up to be Irish talking peers of the realm.”

  I stared at Sally, completely speechless. You'd never know it to look at her, but every now and again she comes up with a bit of absolute genius. I was so impressed I hugged her and actually forked out cash for the next round.

  “You’ve certainly given me something to think about,” I told her, setting the gin-and-red down in front of her. She looked a bit surprised, like she'd never known me to buy a round before, and her hand clamped tightly around the glass in case it was whipped away from her again.