Marrying Money: Lady Diana's Story (3 page)

“Not
with the new economy and all those dot.com whiz kids. Don't you read the papers?”

“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.

I thought about what Sally said, while l
ying there amid a mountain of bubbles in the massive claw-foot tub that night. I sat there for an hour or so, until the creaky old water geezer ran out of hot water and I was forced to get out and sprint to the warmth of my hot-water bottled and Vivaldi-free bed before I turned glacier in the chilly upper regions of Alexandria House.

It was a good plan, I thought to myself, catching sight of Lord Ralph's ugly mug in the portrait gallery as I ran, half-naked, to my bedroom. I like to think the look he gave me was an approving ancestral smile, not the dirty old man's leer that it resembled.

And as I settled in bed, it came to me that one thing the ancestors wouldn't have liked was my planned hunting ground. I had a good idea what my forebears would say if they knew I was off to hunt a new recruit to the blood line among the nouveau riche in Ireland. They'd looked down on this land since the first Queen Lizzie was on the throne. But I’d still be hunting among the titled Irishry. Surely the Celtic Tiger economic boom had dispensed wealth to more than just the peasantry? Worst case scenario, I'd settle for a millionaire peasant.  After all, to quote the Duke of Wellington, Irish titles might not count for much anyway.  The Duke, bless him, once said of his Irish birth: “Just because one is born in a stable doesn't make one a horse.”

So that's al
l right isn't it?
I muttered fervently to the portrait of Great- Great Aunt Maud adorning my bedroom wall. A wealthy peasant would do in a pinch, so long as he was rich enough to refurbish the estate, I told Maud.

Maud looked to put out by my plan that the promise of refurnishing the estate was a bit of a bribe, really. L
iving among a large art gallery of every known relative you ever had going back several hundred years is worse than having a conscience, I can tell you. I could almost hear my Cromwellian ancestors – the ones who raided Ireland and brought back a ton of loot – muttering in outrage at the idea of an Irish husband lording it over Alexandria House.

But they can all shut up, because if we don’t solve this problem soon, there won’t even be
enough cash left for the upkeep of their mausoleum. Let's see how they like those lumps!

That's what I told Sally when she dropped by for lunch the next day. I heated up a couple of cans of tomato soup and we sat in the conservatory to enjoy the rays of the late blooming spring sun. It can be the warmest place in the house when it gets full sun. The rest of the place is freaking freezing.

“My name is Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. And a-hunting
we
will go.” I announced cheerfully, raising a glass of a very fine red wine that I'd scavenged from the cellar once the warm light rays of morning had banished my fears of the night before. Not to mention my roaring thirst. There wasn’t much left where that bottle came from, I can tell you!

“We
?” Sally asked.

Oh, nothing gets past this girl.

“Oh
, yes, Sally. We. Because you don’t think I'm off to darkest Ireland alone, do you?”

“But
my dad says the Wogs start at Calais!”

“Dear
me, girl, don’t you know anything? Wog is the old derisory Brit term for westernised oriental gentlemen. And Calais is in France, not Ireland.”

“Oh
, well, that's all right then. I'll probably lose my job at the bank, and wind up penniless on the streets of Dublin, but just as long as I'm not among wogs, that's okay.”

Sometimes, just sometimes, I think Sally can be quite
snarky.

CHAPTER FOUR

“It’s awful quiet here this morning,” I said to the middle-aged young man on the reception desk as we checked for non-existent messages. Checking for messages for Lady Ashburnham in a loud voice is as good as broadcasting your presence over the television news. Within an astonishingly short period of time, everybody who is anybody in the whole of Ireland will know that another blue blood is in their midst.

“Everybody
,” said the desk clerk with the kind of emphasis on the word that really meant
everybody
who counted for something. Perhaps he didn't realize I belonged in that category. “Everybody has gone to Galway, madam.”

“Woo
, what’s going on in Galway, to cause this kind of mass exodus? Are they giving away free booze or somat?” Trust Sally not only to be on her best 'working class Brit in Ireland' impersonation, but also to betray the fact that we were novices in Irish Society by not knowing what was going on in Galway.

I tried a more subtle approach.
“Galway is nice, this time of the year, is it? This is our first time in Ireland. It’s hard to get away from running family affairs, you know.”

“The
only affairs you run have nothing to do with family,” I heard Sally mutter under her breath. I kicked her shin.

“Ow
!” she said, glaring at me.

“Oh
, dear, is your back bothering you again? I think you may well end up in a wheelchair if you don’t take it easy,” I said sweetly. But Sally caught the threat in my voice, decided she didn’t want to end up in a wheelchair, and shut up.

Meanwhile, the desk clerk
obviously suspected we didn't have a clue what was going on in Galway.
Wonder how he figured that out, Sally?
He was looking down his nose in that special way of hotel receptionists, but took pity on us and informed us that
everyone
was at the Galway Races.

“
Aha!” I said, “Of course! What was I thinking? Cousin Mairead had actually invited us to join her there, she has a box, you know,” I told the man, trying to ignore the disbelieving smirk on his face,

“You
don’t have a cousin Mairead,” Sally hissed as we walked away.

“That’s
where you’re wrong, I do. She’s a snooty cow weighing in at about forty pounds sopping wet, the teeth and temperament of a weasel, and six kids, but she married money.”

“Oh
, well, and will she remember her English cousin?”

“Of
course, we bluebloods stick together,” I said, using a tone of voice that sounded horribly like the receptionist's disdainful whine.

“Stuck
up cow,” Sally replied.

It took longer to find Cousin Mairead’s phone number than it did to find out that she was, indeed, in Galway at the races. And she did,
in fact, have a private box. I found out which hotel she was staying in and while Sally sloped off to find the newspapers so we could research what everyone was wearing at the races. I went down to the hotel clerk and asked to see the manager. The receptionist had to call in reinforcements for that request in the form of a sharp- faced secretary.

“
Who wants to see him?”

“
Lady Ashburnham.” Say what you like about eight hundred years of British oppression, when you mention an aristocratic name the Irish, like the rest of the civilised world, still jump through hoops to please you. Maybe they just can’t shake centuries of training. Or maybe it's envy.

Any
way, within minutes I was ushered in to the inner sanctum to see the manager.

“
Lady Ashburnham.” The poor man looked like he was itching to touch his forelock but valiantly fought off the impulse and asked me sit down. He remained standing, his eyes firmly fixed on my chest; this may have been because I was wearing a very low- cut shirt or it may have been because he was a really short little man and his eyes were level with my chest.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t seem daunted by the view.  In fact, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Which was
in my favor. I tweaked the hem of my shirt just a little, emphasising the cleavage, and explained that we were in dire need of a room at the swishiest hotel available for the Galway races.

“
Not a chance.” He sounded regretful. “They’ll be booked up, even the closets will have guests in them,” he replied, eyes never wavering.

I refrained from comments about people coming out of closets, and tweaked the shirt a little more.

“It’s our first time in Ireland, and my cousin, Mairead Ransome, that is, has invited us to join her at the races. She’ll be so disappointed if we don’t make it because of a simple problem like not having a hotel booking. I know she’d be so grateful if one of her fellow countrymen helped us.   She is married into the Ransome family, you know, the paper supplies people?” I said this casually and very craftily. Surely a hotel manager would be delighted to have an 'in' with the major paper products producer in the whole country?

I felt a bit miffed, though, that Mairead’s toilet roll manufacturing husband could have more influence on this creepy little man than my cleavage. Such is life.

It took a few minutes of telephoning, and a lot of hums and haws and pregnant pauses, but eventually the manager got us a room with a view, he didn’t say of what, at a ‘quality’ hotel close to the race course. I have to admit I was slightly sceptical, but at that point in time I would have taken a broom cupboard and a blanket, as long as there were bathroom facilities. A girl has her standards, after all. But anything to get close enough to the rich Irish to suss out potential husband material.

Sally wasn’t impressed. She was enjoying our stay at the posh Dublin place
. She had had her hair and nails done, plus a sauna and other ‘treatments’ that I didn’t even want to think about.

“
And the masseuse was quite dreamy looking, and the things he could do with his hands—”

“
Oh, shut up,” I said sharply, between clenched teeth.

“
You’re just jealous!”

“
No, I’m not. I find it very embarrassing that you are showing your naiveté and lack of breeding to the whole world by rhapsodising about some common masseur,” I snapped, trying to sound haughty. But she was right. I was jealous. I had had a horrifying thirty minute massage with what may have been a female masseuse; at least I think she was, weighing about three hundred pounds with fingers like steel re-enforced sausages. I probably had bruises.              

And after my brutal rejection by the Lettuce, I could certainly use a good
once over by someone dreamy looking and good with his hands. Sally was looking at me with a sly half-smile. The cat knew what I was thinking!

I sent a silent prayer that she would gain ten pounds and get a
big red zit on her nose. No, maybe a boil…

“
Oh, my, just look at that.” I could tell by her tone that Sally’s man antennae was all aquiver. I followed her gaze and saw the two most handsome specimens of manhood I’ve seen in a very long time. Lettuce faded swiftly from my consciousness as I admired the pair.  Both tall, one blond, one dark, with great physiques… then Sally was blocking my view as she bent over their table and asked if the two spare seats were taken.

The dark haired one politely looked around the room, dropping a major hint that there were several uninhabited tables up for grabs so why did she want to interrupt their power breakfast?

“Well,” Sally said confidentially, leaning down and giving them a terrific view of her newly massaged and oiled boobs. “It’s my friend, you see.” She cast a quick look back at me, and in a conspirational tone said: “She has this, like, major claustrophobia. If she can’t sit near a window when she’s in a strange room, she can get really weird—”

“Sally
,” I croaked, “Stop bothering the gentlemen!”

But it was too late.

“She can get very het up, you know, just like now, and who knows what she might do?”

I guess seeing me standing there, red in the face with steam billowing out of my ears, convinced the two guys. They nodded and cleared their papers and folders away from the two empty place settings. Sally smiled at me
, and like a caring friend, helped me into a seat.

“See
, honey, I said it would be all right. She’s not used to travelling, you see, we tend to keep her in at home, because of her condition.”

By now my teeth were grinding together. I reached slowly for the butter knife, murder in my eyes
…

“I’m
Sally Barnes, just visiting from England. And this is Lady Diana Ashburnham, the last of the Ashburnham family, poor thing. Do put that knife down, Dear, you remember what the judge said the last time, don't you?”

Great. Now it would be all over the town in about ten minutes that the last of the Ashburnhams was a mindless, bloodthirsty lunatic who wasn't fit to travel because she went
berserk in closed areas. Wasn’t that likely to get us an invite to all the best places?

“Uh
, I’m Joshua Overland, and this is my business partner, Bill O’Riordan.” The blond was smiling up at Sally. The dark one wasn't smiling at me. In fact he was avoiding my eyes altogether. This was hardly surprising. My fingers clenched around the knife handle.

“Well
, it was nice meeting you, Miss Barnes, Lady Ashburnham.” Josh said as the two men rose. “Perhaps we’ll meet again. Dublin’s a small town, more a village really. I’m sure our paths will cross.”

Sally made a series of sweet young
thing mewling sounds. I kept quiet. So did Bill O'Riordan. In fact, he avoided me about as much as the Lettuce had after my proposal. And this guy didn’t even know me, hadn’t even exchanged two words with me.

Was it something about me? Was I doomed to send guys running for cover every time they looked at me? Was I to be, in truth, the last of the Ashburnhams? The weight of five hundred years of aristocratic family history and expectations weighed heavily on me.

“I’d like the double chocolate cheesecake,” I told the waiter.

We’d had to do some fancy footwork at the shops in Dublin to put toge
ther outfits for Ladies’ Day at the Races. Nothing ordinary would do. Sally had chosen a surprisingly simple and smart little dress in a shade of green that emphasised her big, catlike eyes. The dress had a neckline cut down to…well, just down to… And a hemline that seemed quite modest… Until you noticed the side slits. She had a filmy chiffon jacket to cover the outfit, and a picture hat in a deep peach to match the strappy, spiked heels she could barely walk in.

For myself, feeling a bit down in the mouth after my Encounters of the Odd Kind with Lettuce and the two men in the hotel restaurant, I bought a sleek black sheaf dress, draped a brightly coloured gypsy shawl around the waist, and added a plain red hat with a tiny lace veil across the front.

I wore it with the family pearls and matching earrings which were long drops of natural black and cream which had been in the family for one hundred and fifty years, since Great- Great Granddad’s foray in the South Seas. I’ve often wondered if somewhere on a romantic island there is another branch of the Ashburnham family; one free of all the burdens of keeping the bloodline alive.