The Princess

by Jude Deveraux

  “Where were we?” he asked. “Oh yes, Warbrooke.” He continued to tell about his town and his family until she began to feel she knew the place.

  The plane landed in London for refueling and for hurried dashes to the rest room for the two passengers. When they reboarded, they started again with the study. This time J.T. asked her questions about her upbringing in America and about her own vital statistics.

  They fell asleep against each other somewhere over Russia and didn’t wake until they landed in Escalon, the capital city of Lanconia.

  J.T. looked out the window and saw blue-green, snow-topped mountains in the distance.

  “Most of Lanconia is very high. We’re about seven thousand feet elevation now, so the air is thin.”

  He kissed her. “You know nothing about this place, remember? Neither of us has been here before.”

  “Okay, babe,” she said, snapping her gum.

  “That’s better—sort of. Do you have to chew that stuff?”

  “It’s very American, and besides, I’ll have to give it up soon enough. Crowns and bubble gum don’t go together. Hurry up and get off, I want to make sure no one hurts the box of records I brought my sister.”

  “Kathy has no sister, remember?”

  He was looking at her very sternly, so she crossed her eyes and blew a bubble at him.

  “Go!” he said, laughing.

  The air was cool and fresh and sharp as only mountain air can be; even the fumes of the planes couldn’t override the cleanness of it.

  It was a small airport, and with the war there was very little traffic through it. A car was waiting for J.T. and Aria.

  “Lieutenant,” said a man who was wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase, “everything is ready for you. Good morning, Your Roy—”

  “Good to meet ya!” Aria said, grabbing the man’s hand and pumping it. “It always this cold in this place? It looks pretty dead around here. What’s to do?”

  The man’s eyes sparkled. “Good morning, Mrs. Montgomery.”

  “Just call me Kathy, ever’body does. ’Cept him. Sometimes he calls me other things.” Chomping away on her gum, she hugged J.T.’s arm and gave him an adoring look.

  “Well, yes,” the man said uncomfortably. “Shall we go to your hotel?”

  “Who’re you playing?” J.T. asked when he opened the car door for her.

  “Every Lanconian’s image of an American.”

  The man who drove them was James Sanderson and he was assistant to the American ambassador to Lanconia and only he and the ambassador knew the truth behind the imposter princess.

  “Otherwise, your story is well covered,” Mr. Sanderson said. “Tomorrow, Lieutenant, you will be escorted to the local water plant. You are supposedly an expert on distillation plants.”

  “Then someone is starting to work on the grapes?” Aria asked.

  “We are working with the king every day,” Mr. Sanderson answered.

  “How is he?”

  “Aging,” Mr. Sanderson answered, but said no more.

  Aria looked out the window. Lanconia looked the same as it had for centuries and she could feel the place creeping into her bones. The streets had been made for goatherders and for walking, so they were much too narrow for the long, wide American car. The cobblestones were hard on the tires and made for a rough ride.

  The houses were plastered and whitewashed and everywhere were the distinctive blue-gray roof tiles that Lanconia manufactured. In the twenties Lanconia had briefly become a fashionable resort and the people who were in the know took crates of the tiles home and had little Lanconian playhouses built. But the fashion hadn’t lasted long and the factory was left with thousands of surplus tiles.

  The people in the streets were on foot or on bicycles and there were a few horse-drawn carts, but no automobiles. Their clothes were simple, in a style that hadn’t changed in centuries: long, dark skirts, white blouses, and pretty, embroidered belts. For a while, those belts had been fashionable too. The men wore heavy shoes, thick wool socks to their knees, and wool knickers. Their white shirts were covered by a sleeveless embroidered vest. The women were proud of their skill with a needle and showed off on their own belts and their husbands’ vests. The children wore smaller versions of their parents’ clothes, without the belts and vests, but with finely smocked shirts.

  J.T. and Mr. Sanderson had stopped talking. “It’s like going back in time,” J.T. said softly.

  “More than you know,” Aria replied.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Sanderson said, pulling the car into the circular drive of the three-story white hotel. He leaned forward to look at Aria. “I don’t think anyone will recognize you, but you should be prepared if they do. You want to be seen as much as possible, so when the imposter is taken—it’s planned for tomorrow, by the way—they will have an idea of where to look for a replacement.”

  “No idea yet who ‘they’ are?” J.T. asked. “No idea who tried to murder the princess?”

  “We have suspicions but nothing concrete yet. Okay, here’s the bellboy, let’s go.”

  “Wait,” Aria said, her hand on J.T.’s arm. “I know him.” The bell “boy” was actually a man nearing seventy. “He was our third gardener. His wife used to bake me cookies. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “We’ve come too far to blow it now. You’ve never been here before and never seen this man before.”

  “Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  She stood on the bricked entryway while Mr. Sanderson went inside and J.T. helped load the luggage on a cart.

  The old man nearly dropped two bags when he saw Aria.

  She smacked gum out of the side of her mouth. “Seen a ghost, honey?” she asked the old man. He just stood and gaped so Aria leaned over and pulled her skirt halfway up her thigh and adjusted her nylons. The man was still staring. “Seen all you want?” she said rather nastily.

  J.T. grabbed her arm and pulled her inside the hotel. “You’re going to lower America’s reputation into the gutter. Use a little subtlety.”

  “Sure, ducky,” she answered. “Anything you say, sugar.”

  J.T. gave her a warning look.

  The inside of the hotel looked like a Russian czar’s hunting lodge: log ceiling, plaster walls, big pine furniture scattered about. Above the desk was a flag of Lanconia: a red ground with a stag, a goat, and a bunch of grapes on it.

  “Quaint,” J.T. said under his breath. “Do they have bathrooms in this joint?”

  “Remember America’s reputation,” she reminded him.

  While J.T. signed the register, the hotel clerk looked up and did a double-take on Aria. He stared at her until she winked at him. He looked down at the book.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant Montgomery, I must get something,” the clerk said, and disappeared through a door behind the desk.

  J.T. looked questioningly to Mr. Sanderson, who shrugged.

  The clerk reappeared with what looked to be his entire family: a fat wife and two plump teenage girls. They all stood and stared at Aria.

  Aria walked to the desk. “You got any postcards in this burg? Nobody back home will believe this place is for real.”

  No one moved; they just stared at Aria.

  She leaned across the desk and into the manager’s face. “What’s the matter with you people?” she asked belligerently. “How come ever’body’s starin’ at me? You people don’t like Americans? We’re not good enough for you? You think—”

  J.T. caught her arm and pulled her back. “Kathy, be quiet.”

  The manager began to recover himself. “Pardon our rudeness. We did not mean to stare. It’s just that you look like our crown princess.”

  Aria’s jaw dropped down. “You hear that, honey?” she said, punching J.T. in the ribs. “They think I look like a princess.”

  The manager’s fat wife reached under the desk and withdrew a postcard and held it at arm’s length to Aria.

  She took it and studied the official photo
graph of Her Royal Highness, Princess Aria. Aria’s face showed her disappointment. “Nice rocks but I’ve seen better-lookin’ women. In fact Ellie down at the diner is better-lookin’, ain’t she, honey? Hey! Wait a minute! You sayin’ I look like this stuck-up blueblood? I’ll have you know I was Miss Submarine Romance of 1941. I was voted, by two hundred and sixteen sailors, mind you, the girl they most wanted to submerge with.” She looked up at J.T. “I don’t look like her, do I, honey? She looks like somethin’ out of a silent movie.”

  He put his arm around her, took the postcard, and angrily slapped it on the desk as he glared at the clerk and his family. “My wife is much prettier than that woman. Come on, honey, we’ll go upstairs and you can rest and try to forget about this insult.” He led her away with her head buried in his chest.

  When they reached the room, the three didn’t speak until the bellboy had left.

  Mr. Sanderson looked at Aria in amazement.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Montgomery, you are the most obnoxious American I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

  She snapped her gum, grinned, and winked at him at the same time. “Thanks, toots.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  MR. Sanderson stayed in their room for three hours as he talked about the seriousness of the coming venture and how important Aria’s return to the throne was. He talked about America’s need for the vanadium and how much America needed to have military bases in Lanconia.

  “Our plan is this,” Mr. Sanderson said. “We will take the imposter princess and her aunt, Lady Emere, tomorrow just as they return from America, before anyone of her family in Lanconia sees Princess Maude, and I imagine the brigands who put her in Princess Aria’s place will contact Her Royal Highness immediately. For them to be aware of your presence, you two will have to be seen as often as possible within the next twenty-four hours. Once Her Highness is taken, Lieutenant, your services will no longer be needed. She cannot reenter the palace with an American husband at her side. The ambassador and I have arranged for you to be returned to America as soon as contact is made.”

  “But—” Aria began, wanting to tell the man that Lieutenant Montgomery was to remain as her husband.

  J.T. put his hand on her arm. “So we have a couple of days,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” Mr. Sanderson said, looking from one to the other, taking note of their closeness.

  “I am concerned for her safety,” J.T. said. “I don’t want her alone among her enemies. Someone tried to kill her before.”

  “Yes, but now whoever tried to kill her will think she is an American. I’m sure the murderers believe the actual princess to have been drowned in Florida. We plan to negotiate for the imposter princess’s return with whoever contacts Her Royal Highness. Princess Aria—they think—will be discharged once the imposter is returned. Someone believes the real princess is dead, but it may not be the same person who contacts Kathy Montgomery.”

  J.T. stood, pacing and frowning. “I don’t believe whoever planned this is as stupid as you seem to think. She’s bound to give herself away. I think I—”

  “Lieutenant,” Mr. Sanderson said sharply, “your services will no longer be needed. We can protect Her Royal Highness.”

  Aria was trying to control her emotions but she was very pleased that the lieutenant wanted to protect her, that he was so concerned about her safety. Perhaps it was a camouflage of the truth. Maybe he wanted to remain with her forever.

  J.T. turned his back to the two of them and looked out the window.

  “We, the ambassador and I,” Mr. Sanderson said, “thought perhaps that the two of you might give some evidence of not being a happily married couple; then, when Her Royal Highness is contacted, it will seem natural that she is willing to participate in this farce without her husband.”

  J.T. didn’t turn around but continued staring out of the window. “Yes, that makes sense,” he murmured. He turned back. “Shall we go to dinner? It’s been a long flight for both of us and we’d like to get to bed early.”

  Mr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “Tonight, if possible, we thought perhaps you two could stage an argument at dinner, a loud, public argument, and Her Royal Highness could run to the embassy in anger and spend the night there. We need the time to brief her and we need to establish her contact with our embassy. There are many details to work out yet.”

  “So, I’m no longer needed,” J.T. said, his eyes dark. He didn’t look at Aria. “I’m going to take a shower—if I can find a bathroom in this place—then we can go to dinner and start our fight. That should be easy.” He grabbed clean underwear from a suitcase, a towel from a rack, and left the room.

  “No, no, no,” Aria said to Mr. Sanderson the minute J.T. was out of the room. “You have everything wrong. We are not to be separated. The American government would not help me unless I agreed to put an American on the throne beside me. We are to remain married and it is better that he stay beside me.” She felt a bit of panic. America was still in her veins and she didn’t want to let it slip away. And she didn’t want to lose this man who made her feel so lovely.

  Mr. Sanderson gave her his best diplomatic look. “Of course we were informed of this aspect of your agreement, Your Royal Highness, but that was a military agreement, not a diplomatic or political one. You could not possibly consider putting an American on the Lanconian throne. He knows nothing of the duties of being prince consort, nor does he know about Lanconia. And from what I hear, he has no desire to become prince consort. He could not do a good job even if, by some freak chance, the Lanconian people would accept an American commoner as their queen’s husband. You must think of Lanconia and not your, ah…personal feelings.”

  Aria could feel Lanconia seeping into her, rather like someone opening a window and letting a room gradually grow colder.

  “But royalty does not divorce,” she said softly.

  “Your marriage will be annulled,” Mr. Sanderson said. “It was made under duress and the Lanconian High Council will agree to it, as will the American government. We are trusting that you can persuade the king to award the vanadium to America and that, as a result of the help we have given you, in the future we may station American troops in your country.”

  “Yes,” she said. “America has helped me and I will show my gratitude.”

  Mr. Sanderson’s face changed. “I am sorry to cause you any unpleasantness. I had no idea the two of you had become fond of one another in so short a time. I was given to understand that you’d welcome an annulment.”

  “At one time,” she murmured. Her head came up. “Let us have this time together, to say good-bye. We can part in anger when I am contacted. He can say that no wife of his will do such a thing and I can go against his orders. Later I can say that I like being a princess better than being a wife. The marriage can be dissolved when I am restored to my rightful place.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You may leave me now.” As soon as Aria said it she realized how long it had been since she had given a regal order.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Mr. Sanderson said, then stood and gave a little bow as he left the room.

  Aria walked to the window and looked down at the narrow street, at the people walking there. They seemed so old. There was no spring to their step. There were no children in sight. Every year more young people took their children and left the country. There was no industry for them, no jobs, no modern entertainment.

  As she watched, she became even more aware of how these people were her responsibility. The High Council passed laws, worked on the trial system, but it was up to the royal family to create interest in the country. In the last century she and her family had become a tourist attraction.

  She glanced down at her dress, the easiness of it, such a simple dark brown thing with no diamonds, no royal insignia, and she began to remember how she had to dress as a princess. It took three women two hours each morning to dress her and to arrange her long hair. All day long she changed clothes. There w
ere morning clothes, afternoon clothes, reception clothes, tea clothes, and long, formal dinner gowns.

  She thought of her social calendar: every minute of every day was filled with engagements. From ten A.M. until six P.M. she was on public display. She inspected factories, listened to people’s complaints, shook thousands of hands, sidestepped personal questions. Then there were the trips around Lanconia, for several days in a row when she did nothing but visit one hospital after another, comfort one dying child and his parents after another. Then at night she was escorted to some long, tiring ball where people talked to her with quaking voices.

  Before she had gone to America, she hadn’t minded her duties so much. They had been what she had done since she left the schoolroom and she had been trained for them. But now…now she had been able to shop in stores, she had gossiped with other women, she had jitterbugged in public. She had been able to be a normal ordinary person who wasn’t watched and judged every minute.

  She remembered once, when she was eighteen, that she had worn a dress with a low neckline to an afternoon garden party. At the party, a man had suddenly fainted at her feet. When she bent to help him, he whipped out his camera, snapped her picture, then scampered away. The next day every paper in the free world carried a photograph of the semiexposed bosom of Princess Aria of Lanconia.

  That was her life. She lived in a glass box, her every movement scrutinized and examined then exposed to the world.

  Yet she had considered asking this American husband of hers to share that life. How would he be as king? Would he toss reporters into swimming pools? Would he call people like Julian “Count Julie” to their faces? Would he dine with common-looking women in public places? Would he show up at dinner wearing his undershirt?

  And how would the people of Lanconia react to him? Would he be contemptuous of the goatherders? Of the grape pickers?

  All Americans seemed to think their country was the only one on earth. Could Lieutenant Montgomery give up his American citizenship to become a Lanconian? Would he bother to learn the language?