Part-time Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  I wore the pretty pink dress and stood, head held high, shoulders back, stomach sucked in, with Cristoph at my side in a long, high-ceilinged hallway in the Fredonia Royal Palace. Marble busts of former kings sat on pedestals and lined the corridor. Fetching oil paintings of coiffed Fredonia queens adorned the walls.

  “You look gorgeous,” Cristoph said. “I used to think red suited you best. I’ve changed my mind. I think pink might be your new signature color.” He smiled.

  “Thanks.” I bit one of my manicured nails.

  He took my hand and eased my finger from my mouth. “No nail biting in front of my family. They’ll perceive that as a sign of weakness.”

  I frowned. “What if they don’t like me?”

  “That’s not going to happen. You already know them,” Cristoph said. “Depending on which relative we’re talking about—you simply haven’t seen them in two or five or eight years.” He squeezed my hand. “Besides. They’ll take one look at you all grown up and curvy and gorgeous in pink and they’ll fall in love with you all over again. Just the way I did.”

  “You think?” I bit my lip.

  “I know,” he said. “Getting through the paparazzi and the magazine photo-shoots—that was the real pain in the ass. But you’ve charmed everybody.”

  I nodded.

  “This is the easy part,” he said. “This is cake. Just hold my hand and we’ll be good.” He leaned in and smooched me on the lips.

  His kiss was tender. It was sweet. There was more than a hint of sexy.

  I should have felt swoony. I didn’t.

  He pulled away, swiped his long blonde hair off his forehead and smiled. I batted my eyes and smiled back at him.

  As I thought of Nick. Where was he? What was he doing? Did he leave the country on another business trip? Oh for God’s sake Lucy—let the Nick thing go. You’re on a job here. Concentrate. Suck it up and concentrate.

  “If I didn’t know better Cristoph, I’d think you’re actually a good man disguised as a bad boy.”

  “Shh. That’s my secret.” He said. “You can’t tell anyone: it’ll destroy my wild-child image and reputation.”

  “But you’re-I mean-we’re getting married. You don’t need the bad-boy reputation anymore,” I said.

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” he said. “There’s no fairy tale more enchanting than the one about the girl who tamed the bad boy. The press is eating it up. Your picture is everywhere. Twitter. Instagram. Blogs. Facebook. Tumblr. The press had dubbed you ‘The Lady with a Heart.’”

  “I don’t get it? Why?”

  “Because you’re genuinely nice to everybody. You don’t reserve your kindness for the wealthy or powerful. You’re kind to a cameraman. You’re nice to the tuba player. You were even sweet to Ducklips.”

  “You call her that too?”

  “I overheard you mutter it under your breath when she mentioned your possible baby bump. You graciously told her you weren’t pregnant, just a little bloated, and that you’d give her the first interview once you were. Pregnant that is. Hey.” He tickled my waist and I jumped. “Maybe we should get working on that—soon.”

  “Right.” I nodded, then shook my head. “Not ’till after the wedding, mister. Why is being nice such a rare trait? Aren’t the majority of folks nice and kind unless they’re provoked?”

  “What happened to you in the States?” Cristoph asked. “You seem to have grown more idealistic.”

  When a uniformed butler in a penguin suit pushed open two tall, ornately carved wooden doors. He bowed to Cristoph, then to me, one hand held behind his back. “Your family awaits, your Highness.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Philips,” Cristoph said.

  I inhaled sharply and stared at the butler. He was indeed the spitting image of Mr. Philip Philips—but forty years younger. “Are you by any chance related to…”

  “Not now.” Cristoph tugged my arm and pointed to narrow stone steps that descended into the bowels of the castle.

  “Good luck,” the young Mr. Philips said and closed the creaking doors with two thuds as I jumped.

  Chapter 22

  Cristoph led the way, holding lightly to my hand. We descended three thin flights of stairs into a skinny, damp, dark passageway lit solely by flickering torches mounted high on the walls.

  The temperature dropped nearly twenty degrees in less than a minute and I shivered. The floors were made of cobblestones, as were the walls. We walked past ancient pens with short, sagging, rotting wooden doors accented with tiny peepholes covered in thick, rusty, chain-linked mesh.

  I looked up and spotted massive spider webs on the ceiling. The torches cast weird shadows and suddenly Cristoph’s handsome face appeared devilish and his eyes glowed a creepy color.

  Oh crap. This place reminded me of the dungeons on my favorite TV show. Note to Lucy: get a grip!

  It took all my will power to resist pulling away from Cristoph’s hand. “Why does this place look like a dungeon?” I asked.

  “Because it is a dungeon,” he said.

  Holy shit, had my real identity been discovered? Was I about to be incarcerated, fed stale bread and briny water through a small hole in the door to my decrepit cell and never see the light of day again?

  And after a decade down here my hair would have turned white, my spine twisted, turned and hunched. I’d never get to go the dentist for teeth cleaning and I’d become one of those snaggle-tooth hags that had bit roles on my fave TV show?

  My breath grew raspy.

  “What’s wrong,” Cristoph asked.

  I bent forward, clutched my chest and hacked. “I can’t breathe!”

  “It’s the mold,” he said. “Everyone’s allergic to the mold. Just tough it out for another hundred yards. Come on. You can do it. ” He yanked on my hand.

  Convinced this might be my death march, I followed him and composed my silent farewells in my head.

  Adios my BFF, Alida. I adore you and Mateo. Don’t let the asshats dictate how you run your life.

  Farewell Uncle John. My life insurance policy and will leaves everything to you. It’s not a lot but it will buy you a couple of years at The Vail Assisted Living. I hope someday you find peace.

  Bye-bye Buddy Paulsen from MadDog: I’ll always love you even though you threw me under the bus, which, by the way, I’ll never forget.

  Au revoir my Ladies-in-Waiting. I have no words. Actually I do: you are fabulous. I wish you all lived back in Chicago. Why did I have to fly thousands of miles away from home just to meet you? I hope when, or if, you discover I’m missing or dead that you will miss me too. That you will think a kind thought about Lucy Marie Trabbicio—I mean Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley.

  Last but not least, I am NOT saying goodbye to you Nick. Because I don’t care enough about you to include you in my grand farewell. I don’t care enough—okay—who the frick are you? Honestly, I’m not sure I want to know. But if I could leave you with parting words?

  * * *

  I wish I had met you, Nick, before the real Elizabeth did. I wish you knew me in kindergarten. I wish you had made love to me instead of Elizabeth in exotic locations including the Mile High Club. I wish I could have spent more time with you as, well, me. I miss you. I’m crazy about you.

  * * *

  Fondly,

  * * *

  Lucy Marie Trabbicio.

  * * *

  P.S. Will you please come rescue me from this dungeon?

  My heart was already pounding when a guard dressed in full medieval armor stepped out from the shadows and I jumped.

  He wore a codpiece and a metal helmet with a facemask. Something about him looked familiar. “Who approaches the secret royal door?” He casually tossed an axe back and forth from meaty hand to hand.

  My eyes widened and I started to cough. “No one! Oopskies, sorry to bother you. We’ll just go back the way we came.” I clutched my throat and I coughed some more. “I need some Claritin pronto!” I tugged on Cristoph’s arm but it was like his fr
eaking feet were glued to the floor.

  “Guardsman!” Cristoph bellowed. “It is I: Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third of Fredonia.”

  “And who accompanies you Dauphine?”

  “I’m not the Dauphine,” Cristoph said. “We’re in Fredonia. Not France.”

  “Sorry Your Highness. I recently relocated.”

  “Not a problem. Guardsman, this is my fiancé—”

  “The Lady must speak for herself. It is royally decreed!” The guard hurled his axe over our heads.

  “Eeps!” I ducked.

  The weapon embedded into a wall above a dungeon cell and the skeletal remains of a human hand fell to the floor and broke into pieces.

  “Yikes!” I jumped and pointed to the bony pieces.

  Cristoph squeezed my arm, hoisted me to standing and hissed, “Don’t show weakness!”

  It took all my courage, but I looked the guard in his eyes. Well, technically where his eyes should have been behind his metal headgear with the eye slits. “Nice throw Helmet Head. But frankly, that wouldn’t have even earned you a first down in a Bears’ game.”

  He harrumphed.

  I shook off Cristoph’s grasp and took a step toward the tin man. “I am Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley. I am betrothed to Prince Cristoph. And apparently we need to get through that door you’re protecting so I can officially meet his family and gain royal approval.” I shoved my hands on my hips.

  He grunted.

  “I spent four hours with my Ladies-in-Waiting getting ready for this shin-dig and so help me God and I swear on my mother’s grave if you get one piece of my dress dirty or ripped or covered in dead people parts?” I jabbed my manicured index finger in his face. “I will hunt you down. I will rip that ridiculous helmet from your pompous head. I will snatch that codpiece from your cod and send my Ladies-in-Waiting after you. And you, Mister Guard, will regret the day you were born, let alone conceived.”

  “Merde!” he said.

  “That’s right, whatever that means,” I said. “Open that damn door—now!”

  The guard’s hands shook as he pulled a key from a pocket. “Yes, my Lady.” He stuck the key in the door, wriggled it a few times and then turned the lock.

  “Way to get it done, Elizabeth.” Cristoph planted a kiss on my cheek.

  “You could have warned me about her ahead of time,” the guard hissed.

  I strolled through the entrance, head held high, gait regal. Even though my stomach was completely in knots I still practiced my royal wave on him—because I was a trooper. I had not only promised to get this job done—I was getting a fat paycheck for this.

  I would be the best princess impersonator—ever.

  I expected a large ornate room. I expected a majestic chamber with two thrones. I expected a posh, intimate cocktail party. I did not expect to see Cristoph’s family dressed in J. Crew-like casual attire, lined up in one long row on a grassy lawn surrounded by an impossibly tall fence.

  Some members of the royal family regarded me curiously. Others appeared bored—like the pimply teenage boy who tossed his basketball from one hand to the next. “Yo—what up Cristoph’s fiancé’?” he asked.

  Cristoph strode toward him, grabbed him by the ear and twisted it. “Her name is Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley,” he said. “Show some respect you little turd.”

  “Ow! That’s Duke Liam Little Turd to you cousin big-shot,” he said. “I said hello. Can I get back to playing hoops now?”

  Cristoph released him. The boy jogged off. Cristoph shook his head as he walked back toward me. “Welcome to the family,” he whispered into my ear. “Still up for this gig?”

  I nodded.

  A few nobles clapped their hands, jumped up in the air, giggled and high-fived. They collapsed on the ground in a heap as they pinched, kicked and kissed each other. They were a gaggle of five-year-old girls with decoratively painted faces wearing multi-colored tutus, ballet flats and sporting tiny tiaras.

  “Eliza-bet, you are so pretty!” one girl said. “I’m Lady Jeannie. But you can call me Jeannie the Beanie.”

  “We are the Ladies!” a second girl giggled.

  I smiled at them, held out one hand and they fist-bumped me.

  “I’m Lady Tonya,” a third girl with a head full of brunette ringlets said. “We want to look just like you when we grow up!”

  “You are beautiful Ladies but never forget how smart you are. Because smart girls rule!” Which led to more high-fiving and our chant: “Smart girls rule! Smart girls rule!”

  “Do you and Cristoph kiss?” Tonya asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Prince Cristoph is my fiancé, so of course we kiss.”

  “I kissed a boy once and he ran away,” Jeannie looked at her ballet shoes and kicked the ground. “Does Cristoph run away when you kiss him?”

  “No,” I said. “If a boy runs away when you kiss him? He’s definitely not the right boy for you.”

  “Excellent advice.” King Frederick Wilhelm Gustave Timmel the Fourteenth stepped from the line and walked a few feet toward us.

  The mini-Ladies giggled and ran off as I executed a near perfect curtsey.

  “Father. I’d like to present my new fiancé—Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley.” Cristoph bowed. “We anxiously await your official approval of our betrothal.”

  I pulled my shoulders back and imagined I was watching The Golf Channel. Mr. Philips had suggested that envisioning an incredibly boring sporting event could possibly help one appear more dignified. “So lovely to meet you again, Your Royal Highness,” I said.

  “You seem a bit more mature than last we met,” he said.

  “Thank you sir.” I curtseyed again and caught sight of Esmeralda dressed in a full-length luau themed dress cut low in the bodice. A flower lei draped around her neck, adorned her chest and vanished from sight down her cleavage. She sucked loudly on a straw stuck in a tall, festive umbrella drink impaled with chunks of fruit. She discretely placed two fingers to her eyes and then pointed at me.

  I subtly shot her a thumbs up.

  Frederick swiveled, eyed Esmeralda and grunted.

  She waved at him—cheery.

  “I see, Elizabeth, that you still spend time with the more risqué members of our family,” he said. “Who am I to judge? I sowed my share of wild oats when I was younger as well. Someday Cristoph, my first-born son—you will govern Fredonia. Is this the woman you want to be your queen and rule by your side?” he asked.

  Chapter 23

  “Yes Father,” Cristoph said. “I want Elizabeth to be my wife as well as Fredonia’s Queen one day.”

  King Frederick nodded and waved one hand high in the air. “You have my approval.” He strode back to the line. “Carry on. I must get back to work. I’m concerned about the Bergers.”

  Were the Bergers another noble family that would be threatened if the Billingsleys merged with the Timmels? Even more importantly—was a Berger endangering my/Elizabeth’s life?

  “Thank you so very much your Royal Highness,” I said.

  The forever-beautiful Queen Cheree Dussair Timmel stepped forward. She wore board shorts, a ‘Keep Calm, Carry on and Feel Free in Fredonia’ T-shirt and her blonde hair was pulled back in a high ponytail. She rolled her eyes. “For God’s sakes, Fredrick, you’re always worried about the burgers, the chicken, the steaks or the sausages. Just attend to the matter at hand for a change and your BBQ will turn out fine!”

  Apparently I didn’t have to worry about the ‘Bergers’.

  Queen Cheree took my hand and looked me square in the eyes. “I remember you—Elizabeth—from years ago. You’ve always been a very smart girl. You’ve filled out since the last time I saw you.” She took a step back and eyed me up and down.

  I inhaled sharply and froze.

  “Ahem!” Esmeralda coughed and my eyes swiveled toward her. She swirled her index finger and then pointed to the ground.

  “Right,” I said and curtseyed to Queen Cheree.

/>   Who turned and regarded Cristoph. “Is she the one you want to merge bloodlines and produce Fredonia’s future princes and or princesses?”

  He smiled at me, put his strong arm around my waist and pulled me tight to him—flush against his hard muscular chest and his hip. He winked at me. “Yes Mother.”

  I blushed and couldn’t help but fan my face. I heard a short whistle. I looked to the source and saw Esmeralda nonchalantly waving a dripping ice cube in front of her face and pointing to it repeatedly with the index finger on her other hand.

  I reminded myself to just play it cool and stopped fanning my face.

  Queen Cheree kissed me on both cheeks. “I approve.” She leaned in and whispered, “We need to talk later tonight about your upcoming schedule. Planning these types of things on abrupt notice can be monstrous, darling.”

  “Yes,” I whispered back. “Totally awful. I agree.”

  What types of monstrous things were we planning on abrupt notice?

  “And—I have an engagement present for you dear,” she said. “A special ‘Welcome to the Timmel’ family giftie.’”

  “I know what it is!” Cristoph said.

  “Don’t ruin the surprise!” She wagged her finger at him, turned and walked back toward the line of royals. “I swear the men in this family always ruin the surprises.”

  An elderly woman, whose chin nearly rested on her chest, wearing a lopsided tiara on her coiffed white hairdo, moved toward us with the aid of her walker: one painful step at a time.

  Queen Cheree paused next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You need help Mama?”

  “No my precious bundle of American joy,” the woman said. “I already surrendered my dream of my eldest son marrying into the British Royal Family. You’ve helped me quite enough for one lifetime.”