Marrying Money: Lady Diana's Story

by Glenys O'Connell

  Lord, I hate it when Sally sees right through me.

  “And remember, this place is like a slightly larger Ashburnham End. Everybody knows everything everybody does, and if you want to nab a rich society husband, you'll spoil your chances if everybody knows you've been in bed with someone unsuitable.”

  Curses! I doubly hate it when she sees right through me and reads my mind.

  “But I have to tell you: Bill is from a good family, went to the right schools and is Lord Joshua's best friend. He's also an architect with his own construction company, a man who's good with his hands, as they say.

  “So, did you have a nice time with Josh?” The question was heavy with other questions she wouldn’t ask me. Before I could answer her, my godson piped up sleepily: “Josh said my Mummy's beautiful.”

  I had no time to explain because someone was hammering on the door.

  Finding Richard Ransome at my hotel door would be a major turn off at any time, but to find this wild-eyed, dishevelled parody of my cousin's husband was more than a little shocking.

  “Richard!” I said heartily, trying hard to think of how to get rid of him politely when he pushed past me into the room. That was when I saw the gun in his hand.

  Sally, who's never slow on the uptake, saw the gun at the same time. Her eyes went wide with shock, followed by anger. I tried to put myself between her and Richard, more for his protection than hers. I've seen Sally in a rage, and an army of grown men would quail before her.

  Richard started waving the gun around and yelling something about how perfect his life had been before I showed up and spoiled everything, bringing the Gardaí into his house and dragging his affairs into the public eye.

  “Richard, they were at your house to get details about the Ashburnham Emeralds Sally borrowed and Mrs Roberts-Pierce stole. Well, she didn't really steal them…”

  Richard was looking bewildered at my babbling, which was a good thing as I slowly backed towards the bed, pushing Sally behind me. “Get your arse out of me face,” she whispered ungratefully in my ear.

  Lord, you try to make yourself a human shield to protect your best friend and all you get is insulted.

  “I’m trying to get you and Adam towards the bathroom,” I explained in a whisper. Unfortunately, the kiddo heard.

  “I don’t want to go to the bathroom with Sally,” Adam said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. Then his gaze landed on the gun and he came wide awake.

  “Adam, it’s okay.” I stuttered, wondering how to quell the fear of a five year old faced with a wild-looking man waving a gun.

  But Adam wasn't a bit afraid. He leapt from the bed with a mighty whoop and demanded a closer look at the snub-nosed handgun encased in Richard's soft hand.

  “Get off, you little brat.” Richard struggled to fend off the sticky fingers that reached out determinedly. Visibly another thought crossed Richard's face in a crafty flicker that even I could read.

  The kid would be a valuable hostage!

  I dived across the corner of the bed, hitting my hipbone on the wooden footboard as I tried to grab Adam before Richard could.

  But I was too late. Richard, father of six, had no problem scooping up my godson and backing from the room, still waving the gun in our direction.

  “If you ever want to see this kid alive again, you'll not try to stop me. I'm not going to rot in jail because of you, you stuck up bitch.”

  And after that offensive speech, my cousin's husband fled the scene.

  I had one last quick glimpse of the pure terror and bewilderment on my godson's face as Richard backed quickly through the door.

  Too late the kid knows the danger he is in.

  “Mummeeee!” The terrified cry was going to ring in my ears for a long time to come.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sally and I stared at each other in open-mouthed shock for about two seconds before tearing out the door. The only thought in both our minds was to get Adam away from Richard before Mairead's husband finally lost what little was left of his mind.

  At the curb a friendly doorman waved his hand to get a taxi for another hotel client, but we rudely pushed her aside when the vehicle stopped and we piled into the backseat. 'Sorry!” I mouthed through the window at the woman's shocked face.

  “Follow that car!” Sally tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed to a red Ferrari stuck in traffic just ahead of us. Leave it to Richard to try to make a quick getaway during a Dublin rush hour. The man couldn’t even get that right.

  “I’ve always wanted to say that’” Sally’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  “And I've been waiting my entire taxi-driving career for someone to come along and say that,” the cabbie said in a voice strongly laced with sarcasm which was lost on Sally as she rested against the upholstery.

  I fumbled in my pocket and found my cell phone, relieved to see that it still had some credit and battery function. It took only seconds to call the number on James' card and explain what was happening.

  “Looks like the man had a guilty conscience and having all the cops around the house must have pushed him over the edge.” Sally speculated when I’d finished the call. “You didn't tell Mairead what was going on, did you?” The way she looked at me said she'd believe I was stupid enough for anything.

  “Didn’t we promise James we wouldn’t say anything?” I sidestepped her question. Mairead had sworn she wouldn’t say anything, but I did wonder if she'd confronted Richard with the little hint I’d given her about CAB looking into Richard's tax dealings.

  Okay, I'd made a quick call to my cousin before falling asleep, but that was all I’d said, honest!

  I couldn't help that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that if anything happened to little Adam, it would be my fault.

  The taxi driver was a lot more street smart than Richard. Even though the man would never have admitted it in a million years, you could tell he was enjoying playing cat-and-mouse with the Ferrari. Every so often we got a glimpse of Richard's wild-eyed face through the window as we pulled up alongside him. The cabbie may have been having a great time, but I just wanted to squeeze down onto the floor of the backseat and howl.

  Finally we pulled into the driveway of Mairead's house, moments behind Richard. He threw himself out of the driver's seat, dragging a terrified Adam with him into the house.

  I could already hear police sirens getting closer.

  It looked pretty much like a stand-off back at Chez Ransome. Richard had barricaded himself into his study with Adam and the rest of us, including a dozen assorted police officers and Juicy James, huddled in the spacious living room.

  “Fortunately, there's no fireplace in there, so he can’t be destroying evidence.” I heard James tell one of the detectives.

  I didn't mention that I'd seen a paper shredder sitting at attention alongside the waste bin when I'd used the phone in there before we'd been taken to the police station.

  We had to keep up the morale of the troops, right?

  There was a scuffling sound at the front door. “Madam, you can’t go in there, This is police business, this house is a crime scene,” said an outraged officer standing guard.

  “Why don't you feck off and get out of my way!” This retort was screeched by a wild woman who looked a lot like a very dishevelled Mairead. Her hair was flying about like Medusa and she had a crazy look in her eyes that didn’t bode well for anyone who stood in her path. The poor young policeman she just shoved past was no doubt licking his wounds on the doorstep about now. Sally and I exchanged glances and shivered.

  “Where’s Richard? What has that fecker been up to now?” The crazed-woman, formerly known as Cousin Mairead, demanded as she strode into the room.

  “Mrs Ransome? You need to leave immediately, Ma’am, it’s not safe.”

  “Not safe? Well, what the hell are Miss Priss and her low life buddy doing here, then?” Mairead gave us the death glare.

  It took me all my strength to restrain Sa
lly, who was ready to rip Mairead's throat out with her teeth after the comment.

  “Don’t know why you’re protecting her, she called you Miss Priss,” Sally muttered viciously, stopping me in my tracks.

  That was me? The bitch called me Miss Priss?

  I bared my teeth and went for the kill.

  Fortunately, James got between us in time. “Mrs Ransome, I’m afraid we have a very bad situation here. We were executing a search warrant on your property, and I'd asked your husband to accompany me to the police station to answer some questions in an ongoing inquiry when he took off. He evaded police and it seems he found Lady Diana's hotel room, kidnapped her godson, and is now holding the child hostage inside his study.”

  “You mean questions about the five million he has stashed in an offshore account? You don’t have to dance around it, Sonny Boy, I know what the fecker has been up. The man’s an eejit. He always was. Without me, he wouldn’t have a penny to his name. He has no business sense at all. And I’d have told him it’s easier to pay the tax and rip off the government in other ways than trying to hide money unless ..” Mairead's eyes narrowed to slits. “Unless he's planning to run off with that whore of a secretary of his?”

  “Err, the police did find two tickets to Brazil in his desk drawer,” I told Mairead reluctantly, “But I’m sure he was going to—.”

  “Two tickets? He wasn't taking me, then, was he? What about the kids; he knows I’d never leave without them. I wouldn’t go to live in some backwater town in South America, anyway. Stupid fecker.”

  Mairead strode towards the study door.

  “Mairead,” I pleaded. “Richard has Lord Brookmere's five year old son in there. Please don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid?” Mairead whipped around to look at me. “The only stupid thing I did was marrying Richard fifteen years ago.”

  “But you have six kids, if you didn’t like him—”

  “Nobody said the idiot was completely useless.” Mairead said with a soft flush creeping up her cheeks.

  Sally made retching sounds.

  Mairead didn’t notice. She turned to the door, yelling, “Richard, you dumb fecker, I’m coming in.” Then she raised a tiny foot and crashed the door in.

  A flurry of police officers stood staring in shock as skinny five foot tall Mairead marched in to the study where a desperate criminal held a child hostage. We heard some shouting, mostly Mairead, some whining, all Richard. A slap and a couple of bumps, and then Mairead yelled, “What were you thinking? Every reporter in the country is out on our front lawn; they're ruining the hibiscus and disgracing this family.”

  Mairead appeared at the doorway, six foot tall Richard crouched behind her. Guns were raised towards them until everyone saw Richard wasn't using Mairead as a hostage; she was dragging him along by his ear lobe.

  At that moment all hell broke loose. Police scattered everywhere, radios chattering, Richard begging the police to take him to a cell where Mairead couldn't get to him. And a tiny bundle of energy flew out the door, eyes shining.

  “Gosh, Mummy, you shoulda seen what Auntie Mairead did to Uncle Richard!”

  And they say children need protecting from trauma.

  Yeah, right!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mairead kindly threw a going-away dinner for Sally and me. Perhaps she was celebrating getting get rid of us.

  Before the guests arrived, Mairead took me aside and handed me a slip of paper. “I am so sorry you didn't find a rich husband, but I thought maybe a little loan would help tide you over. It's the least one can do for family, after all.”

  My eyeballs nearly popped out of the sockets when I saw the amount Mairead had written on the bank draft. One Million Euros!

  There hadn't been that much cash in an Ashburnham Bank account since my great, great granddaddy stole it from an Indian maharaja! And this cash was legitimately obtained, at least as far as I was concerned.

  Mairead looked at me with innocent eyes when I asked if this cash was something the Criminal Assets Bureau would like to know about.

  “I am a very resourceful woman,” Mairead said. “You didn’t think I’d let Richard screw up me and ruin the kids' lives, did you?

  Sally’s theory is that Mairead had been putting away money for a few years out of the housekeeping. I tried not to comment that that was a working class way of looking at things. Because I’d tipped Mairead off, I was pretty sure she’d accessed Richard’s accounts by computer and shifted some of the money into her own offshore account. Still, as far as I was concerned, the loan was legitimate and would be paid back, with interest calculated semi-annually, the whole package carefully worked out by Mr Chatterton, the faithful Ashburnham accountant.

  We were called in to dinner. I sat at a table listening to six or seven Nouveau Riche Mummies complaining about the terrible manners kids' have these days and how hard it is to train them into posh manners if you're not born to it yourself.

  That's when another Great Idea hit me.

  I couldn’t wait to get home and call Mr Chatterton.

  “I’m going to start a business, and I need your advice.”

  There was a strangling noise on the other end of the line, but in fairness to the man, he heard me out, made a few helpful comments and said he'd wait to hear more.

  It's been a year now since work started on Alexandria House, and the conversion is startling. At first I’d been worried the house would lose its character.

  Bill the Builder was now my contractor. We went to visit some of the other stately homes that had been turned into schools or other institutions or commercial ventures. We both hated the institutional feel these places had developed; the sense that the buildings had been stripped of their history, their links to the people who had lived and loved and fought and triumphed in them. I didn't want that for Alexandria House.

  Bill has been marvellous. He made a fortune in construction during Ireland's Celtic Tiger boom and it was easy to see why his clients had loved him and not balked at his fees. He understood what I was looking for, and together we’ve brought the old place to life in the 21st century. We have fifty young ones at any given time, teenagers whose parents want them to be socially adept. Not a finishing school in the posh sense of the word, none of that useless sticking out the little finger around the teacup and snobbery that I’d detested in the school my parents sent me to. Sensible behaviour in polite society, good manners and charm.

  Even Auntie Kay has rallied; she's still as nutty as a fruitcake, but the kids love her and as long as she takes her medication her flower arranging classes should thrive.

  Old Chatterton seemed to get a new burst of enthusiasm for his Ashburnham accounts. I made him a director to ensure the cash flow worked and wasn't squandered, as he'd seen happen with other Ashburnham ventures. Sometimes I’d catch him looking at me a bit bemused, like he couldn't quite get his head around the idea that an Ashburnham could actually run a business and be good at it.

  And I am good at it.

  We’re turning a profit, we have a waiting list of kids who want to come, the kids who are here are actually enjoying it as well as having their lives enriched. They leave here better than they came, and not just in terms of social manners. I like to think they leave with something akin to social responsibility, an idea that there is a world out there that goes beyond the protected confines of Daddy's bulging bank account.

  My one concern now, as I sit in my newly renovated study, is Bill’s account. He’s put a lot of money, time and energy into the restoration, and while I’d paid the wages and the materials’ bills, I was still waiting for his invoices to come in. I didn’t want him to think we were spending our days and nights together because I expected him to work for free. He was back in Ireland for a few days, seeing to some of his own business, and I really missed the man.

  I'd phoned last night and asked him to send an account, making the excuse that old Chatterton was fussing about settling things.
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  The next day my secretary came in with an envelope bearing Bill’s company logo. She had a funny look on her face, but that’s not unusual. The labour pool in Ashburnham End isn't very big. I’d hired Florrie Peters, a girl who went to school with us, to work for me part time. Florrie was a bit excitable and we all remembered the day she’d peed herself in third class because Mrs. Rafter hadn’t picked her to answer a maths question - so I didn’t bother her too much, A letter with Bill’s logo was enough to give her that funny look.

  I slit open the envelope and pulled out the invoice. It took me a few moments to understand why there were no figures that needed looking at. Jim Chatterton was going to be disappointed with this one, or maybe not.

  Bill's account read:

  Invoice #1: For love received, and for devotion on a continuing basis for the rest of my life.

  Amount Owed: A promise from you to love, honor, and cherish.

  Will You Marry Me, Lady Diana Ashburnham?

  I know I had a stupid grin on my face when I looked up to see Bill standing in front of me. The look on his face was so full of love. My heart was thumping like crazy as I pulled a chequebook from the desk drawer and wrote in the amount column, Yours Forever. I signed it and handed it to him.

  Bill took it and placed it carefully in his wallet. Then he kissed me with a fierceness that set my blood singing.

  “I think maybe we should take our discussions elsewhere,” I muttered when we came up for air.

  “That’s a wonderful idea, partner,” he replied.