by T. K. Leigh
“He’ll come to his senses.”
“No one wants you here, so just go home, you American skank.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to not whirl around and give a piece of my mind to the assembly of mean girls I recognize from several of my public events. All college-aged girls who follow my every movement to the point of obsession.
When we finally reach the car, I glance at Nora. Her expression cracks slightly as more derogatory statements are thrown at her without a single care for the fact that she’s a living, breathing human with feelings. Then again, the second I introduced her to this world, she ceased to be human in their eyes. She’s their future princess, a thing put on display for them to criticize as they see fit.
I quickly help her into the SUV before jumping in behind her. The instant the door slams closed, the guard behind the wheel, Lieutenant Montgomery, drives the car down the street at a slow pace, the police helping to disperse the crowd.
It’s not until we’re a mile away that either of us seems to relax, Nora letting out a long breath.
“You okay?” I give her hand a squeeze.
She nods. “‘If you can paint, I can walk,’” she answers in a shaky voice, quoting the last line from a movie that has a special place in our hearts — An Affair to Remember.
During our journey along Route 66, we’d often fall asleep watching that movie together. At first, we were drawn to the similarities between the storyline and our lives — two people meeting on a journey who fell in love with each other. But after our journey ended, it held a deeper meaning. That despite the obstacles we face, we’ll get through them together. Like Terry McKay tells Nicki Ferrante when he realizes why she didn’t show up to meet him at the top of the Empire State Building… “If you can paint, I can walk.” It’s become an unspoken promise between Nora and me, our vow that no matter what, we won’t give up on each other. On our love.
“If you can paint, I can walk,” I repeat, brushing my lips against her knuckles.
A thick silence descends on the car as the city disappears behind us, our surroundings becoming more residential. When we’re about to turn onto the driveway leading up to my residence, Nora finally speaks again.
“It won’t always be like this, will it?”
I open my mouth, unsure how to respond. I could lie to her, tell her this kind of thing doesn’t happen often, but it does. I have a feeling it will only get worse in the coming weeks. Nora’s fresh meat, and the masses are like a pack of wolves that hasn’t had a meal in ages.
Instead of feeding her any lies, I bring her hand to my lips and kiss the ring I gave her. “I’m sorry.”
It’s the best I can offer right now.
Chapter Fourteen
Nora
“Did you hear what I just said?” a woman’s condescending voice cuts through as I struggle to keep pace with everything my PR team has thrown at me in the past several hours, giving what can only be described as a crash course in learning how to act like a royal.
If I thought I’d ease into my new role as the crown prince’s fiancée, I was mistaken. Instead of sleeping in this morning, I was woken up before the sun and informed I needed to be at the palace at nine. I barely got to see Anderson for more than a few minutes during breakfast, which Lieutenant Colonel Bridge dominated, running through his packed schedule for the day. Then Lieutenant O’Kelly whisked me away for my day full of meetings with the palace’s PR team.
“Something about my image,” I say, my response sounding more like a question.
After sitting in this room for the past six hours, my mind is complete mush. Color-coded schedules. Social media. Etiquette classes. Self-defense instruction with a special ops team.
“Not something about your image.”
I look at Pippa, the head of my dedicated PR team, which consists of five people with strong opinions about everything. Inadequacy fills me as I compare myself to this group of people who look more like they just stepped off the runway at Paris Fashion Week. They’re all beautiful, stunning, the picture of confidence. Tall frames and slim bodies, not a single hair out of place. Even with my own personal stylist doing my hair and makeup in the morning, I feel awkward and frumpy next to them.
“Everything about your image.” She gives me a tight-lipped smile, masking her obvious annoyance. “Which is why we need to ensure it’s squeaky clean. From now on, your social media accounts are no longer controlled by you. In fact, we’ve taken the liberty of deactivating all your personal ones. The only social media you’ll have now will be of your…royal life.
“Tomorrow, after your morning instruction, you’ll go out with our team of photographers to spruce up your social media presence. They’ll stage photos of you exploring the city. Going forward, you won’t go anywhere without my social media guru, Daphne.” She nods at the heavily made-up woman to her right. “She’ll capture everything you do, from etiquette classes to wedding planning, and everything in between. It’s my job to make the public think you’re princess material.” She gives me a contemptuous smile. “That you’re worthy of marrying Prince Gabriel. And this is how we do it. By making you appear likable on social media.”
Unable to stop myself, I bark out a laugh. My entire PR team stares at me in obvious disapproval that I’d even dare to question their plan.
“Not to sound rude, but wouldn’t it be more beneficial if people saw me connecting with the community? Volunteering perhaps? I don’t see how staging photos of me doing things no one can relate to will make me likable. Isn’t it more important for them to find me…I don’t know…relatable?”
Pippa keeps her back straight. “Making them view you as relatable is the absolute worst thing you can possibly do as a potential new member of the royal family.”
I scrunch my brows. “Why? I—”
“Because it’s our job to make people think the crown is divine,” a firm voice interjects, carrying through the room.
Everyone snaps their eyes toward the source, jumping to their feet, bowing and curtseying with a chorus of “Your Majesty”.
I don’t even have to look to see who it is. Of course Anderson’s grandmother would walk in at the precise moment I’m no longer being the obedient puppet they wish I were.
On a deep inhale, I pull myself to my feet and turn, greeting her with as sweet of a smile as I can muster. “Your Majesty.” I curtsey.
“Do you know why the crown is divine?” she continues.
“No, ma’am.”
“Because it’s a position ordained by God himself. This may be a difficult thing for you to understand, considering your country was founded on the notion of separation of church and state, although one questions the effectiveness of that little experiment. However, in a monarchy, the king is not only the head of the country. He is also the head of the national church. He draws his power from God himself. Not the people.”
I part my lips, fighting to bite my tongue. She’s right. This is a difficult idea for me to wrap my head around. I’ve lived my entire life in a country where the people elected who they wanted to lead them. Although you could argue that’s less and less true these days, considering the amount of corporate money that finds its way into elections, particularly on the national level. But to say the role of the monarch and royal family in general is divine? I don’t fully understand.
“Right then. I believe it’s time for a chat.” She looks at the man appointed to be my private secretary. Like every other private secretary I’ve met, he’s obviously former military, clean cut and authoritative, yet still obedient to the Crown. “Lieutenant Thomas, would you be kind enough to send word to have tea prepared for us in the rose garden?”
“Ms. Tremblay hasn’t been instructed on proper tea etiquette,” Lieutenant Thomas interjects, his posture stiff. “Perhaps it’s best if—”
“Then I shall take this opportunity to do just that. Tea. Rose garden.”
He bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
She fixes her steely gaze back on me. “Come with me.” She doesn’t wait as she spins on her heel and strides away.
Acting the part of the trained dog I am, I rush to catch up, my steps quick.
“Once you begin your etiquette classes, you’ll learn that when Prince Gabriel becomes king, you’ll need to remain two steps behind him at all times.”
“Does the reason for this go back to the whole divine and ordained by God thing?”
“Yes. And because no one should ever be seen to be on equal footing as the king.” She pins me with a glare. “Even his wife. The sooner you dispense with any feminist notions of maintaining equality in your relationship, the better.”
I falter for a minute, her statement hitting me hard. Harder than I thought it would. I knew once Anderson took on the role as king, I’d have to show a certain level of deference to him. But to never be able to walk beside him in public? Never be able to hold hands as we stroll the streets? It’s borderline sadistic to take that away from a couple.
What other rules will I have to follow? What other rules will dictate our relationship?
I try to not allow my mind to wander. Instead, I remain the silent, obedient future crown princess Queen Veronica wants me to be as we walk through the hallways.
Palace attendants are stationed every few yards, their black and red uniforms blending into the wall. It reminds me of that scene in Annie when Daddy Warbucks takes Little Orphan Annie to the movies for the first time. How theater attendants lined the pathway from the doors all the way down the aisle as a show of opulence and overindulgence.
This feels the same.
As we approach a pair of double doors, an attendant magically appears. After bowing toward Queen Veronica, he opens a door, and we step onto the palace grounds.
If it were any other time, I’d take a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Grass so green I question whether it’s real. Fragrant flowers of a dozen different varieties. There are even a few butterflies flitting about from flower to flower, as if the famous Lamberside Palace gardens aren’t picturesque enough already.
A man in black tails and white gloves escorts us past a large, marble fountain and toward a more secluded area, overhanging trees creating the feeling of a private alcove. A single table with two chairs sits in the center, and the man ushers us in its direction.
“Your Majesty…” He pulls out a chair for her.
“No, Michael. Ms. Tremblay first. I’d like to see how she sits.”
I stare at her smug expression, as if she’s expecting me to collapse into a heap on the chair, completely uncivilized. I didn’t realize there was a proper way to sit.
Apparently there is.
Trying not to let my nerves show, I walk to the opposite chair and lower myself, sitting with my legs at a ninety-degree angle.
“Slant them.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you keep your legs positioned as such, it’s possible for someone to glimpse what’s underneath your skirt. Always sit with your legs slanted down, preferably crossed at the ankles.”
I fight the urge to tell her this wouldn’t be a problem if I were allowed to wear pants. I do as she asks and slant my legs slightly to my right, crossing them at the ankles. It’s not exactly the most comfortable position, but I act as if it’s normal.
“Lovely. Now you look a little more polished, although we still have our work cut out for us.”
She lowers herself into the chair across from mine, her movements graceful and refined, head raised and back straight. Once she’s situated, she nods at the man, who pours tea into her cup before mine. I don’t make any move to bring my tea to my mouth just yet, waiting for her.
When she does, I watch her movements, attempting to mimic them.
“Keep your pinky in,” she chastises. “Pinch your index and thumb through the handle, using your middle finger to support it. At no time should you ever extend your pinky.”
I correct myself, the position awkward at first, but I eventually get used to it. I lean over the table slightly, meeting the cup halfway to take another sip.
“You don’t go to the tea. The tea comes to you. Don’t lean in. Don’t hunch your shoulders. Keep your back straight. If I were to put a book on your head, it should remain there the entire time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond, squaring my shoulders and doing my best to follow her directions.
Perhaps if she’d instructed me to just pretend I had a giant stick shoved up my ass, I would have known how to sit, because that’s how this feels.
“Better.” She nods her approval. “Now, return your cup to the saucer.”
I do as she instructs, confident I can’t mess this up.
Wrong again.
“Three o’clock if you’re right-handed. Nine o’clock if you’re left-handed.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s pardon. By some miracle, you may be royalty soon. You never excuse yourself. You pardon yourself.” She waves her hand at my cup. “And I was referring to the handle on your teacup. Since you’re right-handed, it should always point to three o’clock when on your saucer.”
I glance down to see my handle is pointing more to five o’clock and correct it.
“Good.”
I sit straight, afraid to even breathe for fear she’ll say I’m doing that wrong, as well. It seems there are rules for everything.
Do they have rules regarding sex, too? Is someone going to be in Anderson’s and my room on our wedding night to critique us?
“Good form, sir. Perhaps a nipple pinch would help. Maybe suck on it, too.”
I do my best to push down a laugh at the image of some uptight member of the royal household giving pointers to Anderson in the bedroom, but it’s impossible. A snicker escapes.
She sets her teacup on its saucer and levels a disapproving stare at me. “Is something amusing, Ms. Tremblay?”
I adjust my posture, holding my head high. “Sorry, ma’am. I just remembered something Anderson—”
“Prince Gabriel,” she admonishes. “You will refer to him as Prince Gabriel. Nothing so…familiar as a middle name. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This world isn’t like anything you’re accustomed to. We have strict protocol and traditions for everything. You’re already questioning our reason for doing things. However, I can assure you that everything we do, these rules we have in place, are there for a reason.”
“And what reason is that?” I ask, despite the voice in my head telling me to just accept what she tells me and not act like an impudent toddler.
“To maintain the illusion.”
“The illusion?”
“Precisely. I’m going to give you a piece of advice Queen Angelique gave me when I sat where you are right now. And that’s to never let the cracks show. People in this country and around the world harbor a sort of fascination with the crown. It carries a certain mystique, casts a spell over all those who aren’t allowed to see behind the curtain. It’s our job to make sure they never do. To make sure they don’t see that being close to the crown can at times be more of a…burden than a blessing. You’ve heard that saying ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown’?”
I swallow hard. “I have.”
“Do you know what it means?”
I shake my head. I have a feeling, but doubt I’d phrase it correctly anyway.
“It’s from Shakespeare’s Henry IV, although it was actually ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown’. It more or less means that those who are charged with incredible responsibility also carry a heavy weight most people can’t even fathom being able to shoulder. That we are…burdened. There’s no way around it.”
I nod in agreement. I’ve already had to sacrifice my own needs for the monarchy in regards to my wedding. What else will I have to sacrifice in the future? What else will I be burdened with in the future?
“As royals, we undertake a responsibility to our country, our people, and God
,” she continues. “We commit our lives to service. To charity. To the betterment of our people. But in order to do that, we must also further the illusion of a charmed life. Of an unburdened life. The king doesn’t just rule over the country. He also must reign. That means entertaining the masses with the fairy tale that’s always been associated with royal life.”
“And if we don’t?” I ask. “If we allow them to see behind the mask?”
“We risk becoming a mere footnote in the history books.”
She peers into the distance for a beat, revealing a crack in her own armor, despite her warnings I not do the same. In that split second, she appears vulnerable, looking like her almost ninety years. But it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, her expression hardening on me once more.
“Which is why I need to be quite frank with you. The job looming in Prince Gabriel’s future won’t be an easy one. Not only will he need to manage the running of this country, he’ll have to do so in a way that will keep the spectacle alive and well. It’s not an easy task. And is one best carried out with as little…distractions as possible.”
“Distractions? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Love is a distraction.”
I blink, my blood pressure beginning to rise, heat prickling my skin. “How can love be a distraction?”
“Feelings make you weak. Make you vulnerable. Force you to lose your focus on what’s important.”
She brings her teacup toward her mouth and takes a sip. I simply stare at her. I couldn’t even drink my tea if I wanted, nausea rolling through me.
“I assume the crown prince has mentioned the referendum that’s going to a vote in a few months.”
“He has.”
“That’s a prime example of why he cannot afford any distractions. This isn’t the first time such a referendum has garnered enough support to be taken to the people for a vote. And it won’t be the last. I’m sure you’re a…lovely girl…” The distaste in her expression is evidence she thinks otherwise, “but Gabriel will face enough hurdles with his condition. He doesn’t need anything else to distract him. And that’s all you’ll be. That’s all you’ve been to him this past year. A distraction. You’ve taken him away from his duties. Made him shun his responsibilities not only to the Crown, but to his country. I have every reason to believe he’ll do the same in the future, as well, as long as you’re still in the picture. It’s generally frowned upon for the heir apparent to marry for love, and for good reason. It causes needless problems. Ones this country cannot afford, particularly right now.”