Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  Even more curious? Georgia doesn’t seem as offput by the entire situation as she should be. Hasn’t had any meltdowns, hasn’t panicked about it, hasn’t screamed or yelled at me the way I’ve been waiting for her to.

  She’s been reasonably calm for a girl who’s gone and gotten herself married.

  When she walks in the door from practice later on in the evening, after I’ve cleaned myself up from my own training, she drops her duffle bag next to the door in the same spot she always does.

  “Lady Dryden-Jones, did you want me to order us dinner or were we just going to fend for ourselves?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Please stop calling me that.”

  I shrug. “I’m only calling you that because that’s what you are.”

  We’ve been home six days, and Georgia hasn’t returned to her own bedroom, sleeping in mine every night as if that’s been her rightful spot in the house all along.

  Still, she’s been loathing it when I call her Lady Dryden-Jones, which oddly I love the sound of.

  Lady Dryden-Jones isn’t the actual way to address the barony title—it’s Lady Talbot, and that is, and will only be, my mother. The wife of a baron’s first son has the courtesy title of “the Honorable” until her husband inherits his title, but the look on Georgia’s face when I call her Lady is so priceless I cannot make myself stop saying it.

  Besides, Mum’s not around to hear it.

  Georgia, who is theoretically now my wife, strides over and plants a kiss on my mouth, swatting me on the arse.

  We’ve not taken the steps to annul the marriage, but we did agree not to wear our rings.

  “Watch yourself or you’ll get caught being too domestic.”

  Too domestic.

  Is that a thing?

  “What should we do for dinner?”

  “Mmm, I’m not all that hungry just yet. Maybe a salad, I don’t know. I actually have some homework, and we have to video-chat later with Nalla, Priya, and the rest of the group so when we hand in our final project, everyone has their part completed.”

  I shove a cucumber slice in my mouth. “Ugh, fine—I’ll go work out until you’re done and then we can eat.” I wipe my hands on a nearby towel.

  Bzzt, bzzt.

  Bzzt, bzzt.

  No object makes that annoying sound except my mobile, and it’s buzzing on the counter next to the stove.

  I raise it to my ear.

  “Mum. What’s going on?”

  “You’re married?”

  “I…we…were sauced when we did it.”

  “Sauced,” Mum repeats, sounding scandalized. “My son went and got married without telling me, without a proper ceremony, and he was tossed while doing so.” I hear a sob on the other end of the line and glance over at Georgia.

  “It was a lark, Mum. We’re handling it.”

  Across the kitchen, Georgia mouths the word “Lark?” in my direction. I shrug at her. What the hell else am I supposed to say?

  “What do you mean handling it?”

  “Annulled. We just haven’t had the time to take care of it.”

  “Annulled?” My mother screeches so loud I have to yank the mobile away from my ear.

  “Mum, calm down—you don’t have to yell. What time is it there?”

  I mentally do the time-zone math and come up with roughly eleven o’clock, London time.

  “Don’t change the subject. Your father is having fits.”

  My father probably is indeed having fits, but not the same kind as the ones my mother has most likely been having if her semi-hysterical tone is any indication.

  “How did you know I got…” I don’t want to outright admit I’ve been lying to them, but Dad already knows about the cash missing from my trust fund. I’m just not sure how they discovered I went and got myself a wife. “…hitched?”

  “How did we know? How did we know? We know everything you do. Your father had our barrister follow the money trail. You didn’t think we wouldn’t get to the root of you withdrawing money from your trust, did you? Darling, marriages are public record, and he already knew you were in Vegas.” Mum takes a long, dramatic pause, calculating my transgressions. “Vegas! An annulment. Young man, I could die. What am I supposed to say to the ladies at my club? How am I supposed to show my face?”

  I sigh. “No one has to know, Mum. You’re not supposed to tell anyone anything.”

  Her long, drawn out silence says it all. She’s told plenty of her friends; the damage has already been done.

  “Mum?”

  “Does this girl make you happy?”

  “That isn’t the point. We were pissed and didn’t think it through. She wants to get an annulment.”

  “Who is she? You won’t even tell me her name. My daughter-in-law.” Mum sobs again.

  “Her name is Georgia. Please stop crying.”

  Georgia, who’s been leaning against the counter listening, makes a sad face.

  “Come home,” Mum demands. “Both of you—bring her with you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

  “Why? I want to get to know her.”

  “Because we’re…” I swallow. “Not going to stay married.”

  “Well I want to know what kind of girl my son is willing to marry since you’ve never brought a single woman home. You won’t let me match you up with anyone. Who is this girl?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say She’s just a girl, Mum, but I think Georgia would take issue with that. She is not JUST an anything—I love her and married her, drunk or not. She is my wife.

  I hesitate. “It’s not that easy to just hop on a plane and come home, Mum. We have classes still.”

  “Well when?”

  “A few more weeks.”

  “As soon as you have a break. Now. Next week, I don’t care, just get your sorry arse on the next flight and bring your wife.” More sobbing. “Oh I can’t believe I just said that. Your wife. My son is married and he didn’t invite his mum to the wedding.”

  When Mum latches onto something, she’s inconsolable, carries on like no other, and this is no different.

  Reminds me of the time the Honorable Winnifred Bennett won the Garden Bud Society Patroness of the Year after only being a member for six months when Mum had campaigned to win that title all year long only to have it ripped from her grasp.

  Took Dad three weeks and a trip to Fiji to soothe her ruffled feathers—I can’t imagine what it’s like at home for him right now in the wake of my shotgun nuptials.

  “Alright. I’ll talk to Georgia.”

  And at least one of us can fly home to my parents.

  I can do that for them; at this point I owe my family an explanation. Though it may take some serious convincing, I can’t imagine Georgia would pass up an opportunity to visit Great Britain.

  “Please do.” My mother’s sniffle carries through the phone. “I still can’t believe you would do this. It’s so unlike you—and taking money from your accounts for vanity purposes without telling anyone? What were you thinking, Ashley Arthur?”

  I’m not going to get into it with her over the phone; she and I both know the money is mine, inherited from Mum’s father, and I can do with it as I please.

  What I spent was a fraction of what’s in the account, a mere drop in the bucket.

  Best not to argue with her though. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Mum.”

  That’s a lie.

  I know exactly what I was thinking when I drunk-married Georgia, and it goes something like this: As soon as I saw her on the other side of the room at the rugby house, I wanted to know her. If she hadn’t come over to me, I would have eventually gone over to her.

  What she did was immature, but it didn’t harm anything other than my ego, and let’s be honest—it’s not that fragile.

  I’ve had enough smoke blown up my arse from random people growing up because of who my father is, enough women who make passes at me to know I’m not an ugly, unworthy piece of shite
.

  So, it bothered me, but…one look at Georgia and all that irritation and ill humor flew out the window. Now she’s my wife and I kind of want to keep her.

  Just to see what it’s like, even though she hasn’t behaved like a wife once.

  “As soon as your term is over, you are coming home. Do you understand me, Ashley Arthur Calum Dryden-Jones?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Repeat it to me.”

  I flush, not wanting to repeat any of that shite with Georgia still standing at the counter listening to every word I say, but Mum isn’t going to end this phone call until I do.

  “I’m coming home as soon as the term is over.”

  I sneak a glance at her and her brows rise, a raisin cookie halfway to her mouth.

  “Not a day longer at that school, do you understand? You are coming home and you are bringing your wife.”

  “Mum…” Another glance at Georgia lets me know she is in fact very intently listening. “I told you I’d ask, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “Is she with you now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please put her on the line.”

  “Mum…”

  “Ashley Arthur.”

  I lower the mobile after she uses two of my names and cover the receiver with my hand.

  “Mum wants to speak with you.”

  Georgia makes a choking sound, cookie going down the wrong pipe, and coughs several times. She’s bright red and takes a drink of water from the glass I poured myself before she came through the door.

  “She wants to talk to me?” She swallows, wiping her crumby cookie hands on her athletic shorts. “Um. Okay…”

  Slowly, as if walking in a funeral processional, Georgia comes to me and holds her hand out for the mobile.

  “Hello?”

  She pauses, listening carefully as Mum speaks, her face still red from choking on the cookie, embarrassment, and humility. I can’t for the life of me imagine what the hell Mum is saying to her, and waiting to find out is proving to be torture.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Georgia nods. “Thank you.” Pause. “Yes, he is.” She glances over at me, meek smile on her face; it’s a confusing smile, one I can’t read. Is that a pity smile or an encouraging smile or an—

  “Are you sure, Mrs.—uh, Lady Jones, um…” She flounders, unsure how to address my mother. “I don’t think it would be…” Mum must have cut her off because her voice fades, sentence unfinished. “Are you sure?” Pause. “That’s only in a few short weeks. Maybe I could make it work, but—” She gets cut off again, and frustration that my mother is talking over Georgia has my chest constricting. “Of course I will.”

  She’s quiet for a few more moments, then, “It was good speaking with you, too. Have a good weekend, ma’am.”

  Georgia is so polite, and I stare at her wordlessly as she hands me my mobile, placing it in my palm.

  I bring it to my ear.

  “She hung up.” My roommate-wife laughs, though it’s a sound laced with nerves and tension.

  An anxiety cocktail, if you will.

  “Well?” I say. “What did my mum say?”

  “I’m sorry, but…can we talk about it later? Please? My head is spinning.” Georgia leaves the room with two fingers pressed to each of her temples. “I’m going to take a bath.”

  A bath.

  Okay.

  Yeah, sure—I can wait until she’s done with her soak to learn my fate. To know what she and my mother spoke about, what Georgie thought she could maybe make work.

  She’s going to fly back to Britain with me.

  She just needs more time to get used to the idea.

  * * *

  “Here you go.”

  Georgia looks up at me as she soaks in the tub, surrounded by so many bubbles I can’t see her tits.

  “Thank you.” She takes the wine glass I hand her and doesn’t hesitate to take a small sip, closing her eyes when she leans her head against the edge of the basin. “I think I needed this.”

  “I think we both do.”

  The past six days haven’t been nearly as stressful as the phone call from my mother. We have basically all but ignored the looming annulment hanging over our heads, and leave it to Mum to bring it crashing down on us like a cold bucket of water poured on a coach after a winning match.

  Neither of us say much whilst we’re in the bathroom together, bubbles making a crackle-pop sound as they gradually dissolve. Eventually the water gets cold, and Georgia asks for me to pass her a towel.

  I hand it to her and give her privacy, going to my closet to grab sweatpants and a t-shirt—something to change into after my shower.

  “I think what we both need is to go to bed early.”

  She nods, wrapped in a towel.

  Climbs into bed with me an hour later wearing flannel shorts and a tank top, long hair dry and combed straight.

  She sighs and lies facing me, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

  And.

  She’s wearing her wedding band…

  …which she’s done only a few times since we’ve been back.

  “What? It’s pretty and I might never have a ring this beautiful again,” she said to me the night I caught her wearing it whilst typing a mass comm paper.

  It glittered and sparkled under the light from the lamp on her desk.

  I watched from the doorway and she put her hand out, turning it this way and that as it reflected prisms onto her bedroom walls.

  “Your mom would like to meet me.”

  I nod. “She does—they all do. I’m afraid she…” Let’s see, how do I put this. “Mum may have told a few people I got married. I’m not sure why, but I think she lost hope that I would.”

  Georgia gapes at me. “Lost hope? You’re twenty-two!”

  Her expression of horror makes me laugh, and I reach out to brush away the hair that’s fallen into her eyes.

  “It’s just that generation,” I explain, to little avail.

  Georgia is having none of it. “That generation? Your parents aren’t ninety years old, they’re what—fifty? Maybe? Why are they so consumed with getting you married off that they’d let you settle for someone they haven’t met?”

  I pull her over.

  She’s a feisty one.

  “What else did Mum say?”

  “She’d like to meet me, and she’d be happy to fly me over. First class, of course, so I’m comfortable. As soon as the semester is over.” Georgia pauses. “She wants to have a gathering.”

  “A what?”

  “Tea, she said, with a few friends.”

  “Tea with a few…no. Absolutely not. She’s most likely going to ambush you with a hen night—probably invite Jack’s stuffy girlfriend Caroline, who you will be bored to tears of, plus she’s a raging bitch.”

  Georgia’s mouth falls open. “Ashley! I can’t believe you just said that!”

  “What? The part about the hen night or the part where I call Jack’s girlfriend a bitch?”

  “All of it.” She laughs, and I relax. Phew, she isn’t going to be mad at me for cursing, though now that she’s pointed it out, I feel a hair guilty.

  “Sorry, but—she is. Dodgy, that one, just after Jack’s last name.”

  “At least she’s not the sort to get trashed out of her mind in Sin City and marry her roommate.” Georgia puts her head down on my arm and lets out a gigantic sigh. “I think going home with you would be a huge mistake.”

  “Why?”

  I mean—obviously, but I want to hear her reasons.

  She lifts her head to look at me. “Because, your mom is going to get attached and get her hopes up, and then everyone will be disappointed when the marriage is annulled. We’re twenty-two years old, for crying out loud. This is insane.”

  “Plenty of people get married in their early twenties.”

  I keep forgetting the fact that Georgia and I haven’t said we love each other since the night we eloped. Drunken professions of love we�
�ve not repeated since.

  Which…

  Doesn’t bode well, does it?

  But it can. My parents got married when Mum was eighteen and Dad was twenty-three, bound mostly by duty and all that malarky because of his title but also madly in love. It was a different time even though it was only a couple decades ago.

  Plus, according to Dad, Mum wouldn’t put out until they were married, and he wanted to shag her.

  “Did she say anything else?”

  She must have—Georgia hardly got a word in edgewise.

  My roomie-spouse kisses the tip of my chin. “Much of the same thing, how they want to meet me and they can’t believe we ran off without a proper wedding.” She giggles out a low laugh. “As if we were secretly dating to begin with.”

  We weren’t, not even a little.

  “I want to date you.”

  She glances up, our faces inches apart. “You do?”

  “Of course I do. I know it’s a bit late for it, but do you want to be my girlfriend?”

  “Ashley…are you just saying that so I don’t feel bad for getting drunk and marrying you?”

  “What? No.” What a weirdo. “No, I want to date you. Why do you think I went on that foolish trip to begin with? I was mad attracted to you—I didn’t see any other way to go about it, not with you living here.”

  “You didn’t want to cross the line.”

  “No, it would have been…bad form.”

  “Bad form,” she deadpans before laughing. “God, you are so cute.”

  “So what do you think? I can take you out tomorrow for a proper date. We can get dressed up, have dinner.”

  Georgia dips her head shyly. “Okay, sure.”

  “But don’t you think our first date was dinner in Vegas? That counted, yeah?”

  She nods. “I would think so—the entire time we were sitting at the table, I felt like a jerk for telling the hostess we weren’t a couple even though we weren’t. It felt like I’d kicked you in the nuts or something.”

  Kicked me in the nuts or something.

  I laugh. “I did wonder why you kept going on about it, but whatever. It wasn’t a big deal—wasn’t a lie.”

  “But still…I couldn’t stop babbling. I was so nervous.”

  “So was I.”

  “Were you?”

  “I’m always a bit nervous around you. Can’t you tell?”