by Laura Briggs
"Right this way," said Lady Amanda. In his carrier, Edwin began fussing, his pacifier having lost itself in the blankets, so Gemma lifted him up.
"How's my little fewwow?" she asked him, in exaggerated baby speak, as he beamed up at her, tears vanishing — Edwin was definitely aware of his power over the rest of Cliffs House, and knew how to use it. It resulted in him being fed tiny animal-shaped biscuits dipped in milk from Gemma and me, and getting loads of 'horsey rides' from Geoff whenever he came to tea.
"Here, you're not holding him right," said Pippa. "He needs better support. I'll show you." Pippa now worked at a child care center, where she probably spent hours holding babies and toddlers; but this was mostly an excuse to cuddle Edwin, I suspected, who found her pixie haircut fascinating. The six of us made our way inside, where Marjorie was waiting to meet us.
"I'm so glad you're here," she said, pouring a cup of tea from a brown china teapot. "I've been positively frantic for the past few weeks — Samuel's still in London, will be until the end of the trial, and meanwhile, everybody's popping up, from a Danish ambassador to the dowager herself." She sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. "I told Helen 'the house isn't ready — it hasn't been open since Reginald died, not even for tours by appointment!' But she was so dreadfully insistent ... going on about how Josephine was positively hounded by the press after Magnus left, and there were whispers that Kristofer's family dislikes family drama ... that I broke down ere the end of her pleadings."
She poured tea for all us in turn, as Dinah bustled around in the background, unpacking her personal utensils. "And what a dreadful mess I've made of things," she continued. "I was never lady of the manor, as you know. After all, when Reginald was alive, his second wife — the one from Greece, remember? — she did the smile and wave bit for the tourists, and at the Christmas Eve open house for the village, while I was busy worrying about Downing Street and Whitehall's matters."
Marjorie had a position in government finance, I had learned, while her husband was part of the judiciary. "And now that she's gone, I've no one to turn to but you. Well ... and Aunt Darlene, I suppose. But she's a bit potty these days, isn't she?" She took a sip from her mug.
"Practically senile," said Lady Amanda. "Never fear, though. I've had loads of experience in your shoes — keeper of the castle, that is. And I've brought my very best to answer your needs."
"Thank heavens," said Marjorie, blowing a wisp of bangs from her forehead. "They've placed almost everything about the reception and the decor in my hands. Of course, that gimlet of a wedding coordinator is slithering about, but she's only here to pass judgment, it seems. Helen's so dreadfully nervous that someone will find out about the wedding that she won't let practically anyone of note provide so much as a tulip!"
"You won't hear a peep from me," said Dinah, who was sampling biscuits — shop ones — with a look that suggested they were better quality than the ones that Gemma typically favored at home.
"Nor any of us," I said. "We promise that no word of weddings or royal ties will cross any of our lips, here or at home."
"Helen will be relieved," said Marjorie. Whose voice took on a slight edge when uttering this name.
"Why's she so afraid of the papers?" asked Gemma. "It's not like Prince Harry's getting married."
"Or someone else famous, even," added Pippa, who snagged a biscuit from the plate as Dinah passed it within her reach. "That is, I know the groom's practically a prince — and she's from some branch of the Queen's family tree — but even so, it's not the event of the year when there's loads of celebrity gossip and scandal happening every day. Footballers getting married, actors caught cheating. M.P. candidates upsetting the national polls — selling national secrets, even."
"Ah, well, scandal's the problem," said Marjorie, with a sigh. "Helen's husband left her, you know. Magnus Oppenheimer — the shipping tycoon here and abroad. Five years ago, he absconded with his masseuse — off to Malta on his yacht with nary a word of warning. He left Helen in tears. The whole thing made for a horrible story in the papers, and poor Josephine was scarcely fifteen when it all descended on her."
Marjorie poured a cup of tea for Dinah, who joined us now. "Poor child couldn't stir from her own home without nasty questions about her father plaguing her," Marjorie continued. "She ended up in boarding school in Switzerland to get away from it all. Helen was a bit of a disaster then."
"Is that how she met the prince?" asked Gemma, whose mind undoubtedly leaped ahead to romantic meetings on a ski slope, the prince and his princess-to-be sharing a sleigh robe for a moonlight ride in a reindeer-drawn sled.
"I suppose it was," said Marjorie. "In truth, I think this proposal was rather ... arranged." She hesitated. "His parents were very eager to have him nicely settled — they're a bit strict, quite afraid of their only son choosing a wild child, probably. A lovely, educated girl from a noble family, albeit a foreign one, probably seemed like an excellent stopping point in love, in their eyes."
"And her mother?" I said.
"Agreed right along with them. No doubt because she's afraid that Josephine will make a less-than-sensible choice herself. Magnus wasn't always a tycoon, you know. And he had a reputation — a small one — when they met." She set aside her teacup.
"It can't be a loveless match," said Lady Amanda, scoffing. "The parents can hardly be forcing these two into a union unless there's something there."
"Oh, they seem fond enough of each other — Kristofer especially — but this whole courtship has been rather rushed towards the ceremony. Stiff old upper crust forcing youth into its proper roles." Marjorie smiled. "You'll have a chance to see for yourself these next few weeks."
Dinah was showing everyone the sketches for the cake, two drawings encased in plastic sleeves, along with a photograph of a trial version. I carried my teacup to the tray on the sideboard, gazing at the formal garden which resembled a neat square of bright emerald between stone walls, with hedges like leafy marbles on twiggesh trunks.
"That's the bride," said Marjorie. Referring to a girl in the garden, occupying the middle of the square. Posed like a dancer, or maybe playing statue, she seemed so perfectly still and graceful.
"Ballet, or something from its modern school," said Marjorie, as if reading my mind. "She was a student as a girl — once, when she was quite small, I brought her to see an interpretative Eastern European dance company at the Royal Albert Hall. One of the rare holidays I wasn't fretting over an M.P.'s upcoming vote."
Now, as the girl struck a different pose, I could see the resemblance to some little ballerinas in a jewelry box from my childhood. Josephine had the proper build — slender, a 'slip of a girl' as prim little old ladies would say, in her fitted leggings and leather riding boots, a soft summer top with sleeves flowing around her arms like a dancer's light costume. Her brown waterfall of hair was obscuring the sight of a pair of earbuds, I suspected.
"She looks so young," I said. "She looks sixteen or seventeen, not old enough for marriage."
"She's nineteen," said Marjorie. She was carrying all the tea things to the counter now. "And very bright — she finished her studies early by spending every waking hour with books and classes. Art history and literature. She's only recently been free of scholarly duties, and wished to travel for a bit before settling on a future — I suspect that's why Helen pushed for the wedding, really."
"I see," I answered, feeling sad at the thought of Josephine's possibly-dashed dreams. "What about after they're married?"
They would live in Kristofer's country, I suspected; but surely Josephine wouldn't be the antiquated 'lady of the castle,' sitting around planning formal teas ... or whatever passed for them in Scandinavia. Kristofer wasn't a future king — and this was the twenty-first century, anyway.
"She wants to start an arts program or literacy foundation for children, I think." Marjorie's brow furrowed, as if she couldn't quite remember. "It's practically the only thing she talks about, while Helen and the rest talk abo
ve her about couture gowns and the nuptial theme for the formal hall."
"And Kristofer?" I felt a bit nosy asking, but I supposed we would all be meeting Marjorie's royal relations in a matter of hours anyway. It was better to know now than ask them dull questions later.
"Something in government or finance, I think. He's only a few weeks away from accepting a position. He's a charming boy — a bit shy on the surface, but quite personable and kind. Josephine spoke so fondly of him ... well, until their families began meddling." Marjorie's tone was a bit darker at this point. Underlying family tensions, I perceived.
"Go and introduce yourself, if you like," continued Marjorie. "She has to be summoned inside shortly anyway — a meeting with the aforementioned dictatorial coordinator begins in a quarter of an hour. Practically high tea around here." She rolled her eyes. "Just mind the security agents of Helen's, if they're about. They're quite touchy about strangers."
Security agents? "Sure," I said. I opened the outside door, finding a slate pathway outside it, branching in three directions at its crossways. I chose the one leading to the formal garden.
Josephine was inclined almost earthwards, one leg extended behind her, arms stretched in a graceful upside-down 'V'. I paused until she noticed me, then smiled.
She smiled back: a charming, small one that I expected from a newly-minted adult assuming a role in society. She rose, and removed the earbuds; I caught the faint strains of classical music. "Hello," she said.
"Hi. I'm Julianne Rose," I said. "I'm here with your cousin's wife, Amanda. I'm her event planner at Cliffs House, and she's asked me to help out with your wedding's plans."
"You're an American," said Josephine. "From what state?"
"Washington," I said. "Have you ever been there?" Maybe Josephine and I could talk about travel — I had no idea what one discussed with a possible future princess. Were normal subjects acceptable? Should I say something polite about the royal family, or remark on the beauty of castles or crowns?
"Never. I've never been outside of Europe," she answered. "Mummy doesn't like air travel. It gives her a headache. And until recently I was quite busy with my studies, even for holidays. My father has, though." Her tone was short for this remark.
Magnus wouldn't be at his daughter's wedding; Mrs. Lewison had been insistent, not that he had complained or protested at being banished. He had written off his wife and daughter entirely after running away with his masseuse, it seemed.
I switched the topic back to something more cheerful, since we had inadvertently stumbled into sensitive territory for her. "This is such a beautiful place," I remarked. "I think it's a perfect choice for a wedding."
"It was Mummy's." A slight inward pinch of the lips, then Josephine smiled again. "I've always been curious," she said. "Is America really anything like it is on the telly?"
"I'll tell you anything you want to know," I said. "At least until we reach the drawing room where your wedding coordinator awaits."
Josephine's smile dimmed. "Of course," she said. "Duty calls." She turned off her music player and followed me towards the castle's entrance. To my relief, not a single bodyguard materialized from behind the manicured hedges as I began explaining life in Seattle.
***
While Josephine freshened up, I found my way to the drawing room, hoping for a quick introduction to Marjorie's 'gimlet,' the wedding coordinator. The tiny staff Marjorie had hired for the wedding was busy elsewhere, along with the caretaker, so the first two doors I opened upon my guess turned out to be some sort of nearly-empty armory and a vast hall that must surely be the site of the wedding ceremony, with the simple majesty of an ancient throne room, and tall windows filling the whole space with light.
Third try lucky: I found myself in a room with a beautiful modern suite of furniture, a handsome carved fireplace, and bookshelves occupied by leather-bound editions and curious antique knickknacks. Given Marjorie's home in London, I suspected these were mementoes of the house's former owners, Reginald and his wife — including the piano near the windows, where a young man was now playing a song.
Kristofer, I surmised. Not just because of his wheat-blond hair or blue eyes which would immediately suggest northern Europe to most people, but because there was no conceivable reason for anyone else this young or attractive to be waiting for a dull meeting in a drawing room.
"Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to interrupt. I was looking for the wedding coordinator."
"She will be here in a moment," he said. "Come in, please." The music had ceased when I opened the door, but what I heard before then sounded classical — an echo of the song from Josephine's music player.
"Don't stop playing," I said. "It sounded really beautiful."
"I must stop anyway, when everyone else comes," he pointed out. He rose and extended his hand. "Kristofer Rijink," he said. He spoke English extremely well, although I could detect his accent easily when he spoke at length.
"Julianne Rose," I said. "I'm here to help plan your wedding."
He laughed. "I didn't think there was room left for anyone to help," he said. "The coordinator, my mother, and Lady Lewison — they seem to have done a very remarkable job in very little time. They have made a wedding appear out of thin air." He smiled for his joke, but I wasn't sure it was a completely humorous smile.
The door opened and the rest of the company appeared: a very cool, elegant, and slightly plump woman who was introduced as Anneka — Kristofer's mother; a strong mustached, weathered General Gustaf — Kristofer's father, the prince; and a well-tailored middle-aged man with the family nose and a disarming smile, named Anders — a relative, I presume, although he was introduced as a diplomat.
Helen Lewison was exactly as I imagined her: tired, sad, and extremely dignified. With her fair skin and light ginger hair she looked more like a relative of Lady A's than William's — but with a formal bearing, even in casual situations, that seemed as old-fashioned as her formal — and expensive — afternoon dress.
She tended to interrupt the coordinator every third or fourth sentence to contribute some exacting detail — while Anneka said nothing, only telegraphed her opinions with her eyes to either Gustaf or the diplomat. Countering details or suggesting changes was apparently the job of Anders, whose disarming smile had the power to momentarily stupify both Mrs. Lewison and the coordinator.
The coordinator. Marjorie's brief words hadn't painted a picture of someone this ... commanding. I felt I should stand up straighter as I lingered on the outskirts of this party — or maybe offer a salute instead. Daria Krensky was as stark as her own black-and-white glossy business card. A sleek black helmet for hair, a dress so perfectly black and fitted it must have been sewn onto her body this morning. A long and grueling train trip and cab ride from London to here, yet she looked as business-like and unruffled as if she'd taken a leisurely fifteen minute stroll here.
"I have taken great pains to ensure the privacy and security of this wedding," said Ms. Krensky, as she drew off her black gloves. "Private photographer, private dress fitting, private magistrate for the ceremony — all with such 'hush hush' in the arrangement that no member of the press will be aware until the affair's conclusion." She accepted a cup of tea, and for the first time, I thought I detected a glimmer of human relief in her face. But it might have been the light reflecting off her eyeballs instead.
"Of course, your dear friend has discreetly arranged the rest," she said to Helen. "The food and the flowers — small details — but preserving the utmost secrecy. I look forward to seeing the menu and the flower arrangements in the coming week."
Marjorie looked as if she was suffering a sudden attack, judging from the sudden widening of her eyes. I wondered what detail she had forgotten, and winced inwardly.
"Dearest Marjorie," said Helen, with a sad smile. "My cousin, as you will recall," she clarified to Ms. Krensky, who apparently forgot 'small details' like this one from time to time. "There is no one so capable and efficient as Marjorie. Or so fond
of Josephine when she was a little girl." I noticed that Mrs. Lewison had evidently not considered the possibility that her cousin's business talents were not honed for decorating a castle for a wedding.
During all this conversation, Josephine had sat by, saying next to nothing.
She arrived at the drawing room last of all, wearing a powder blue dress that complimented her skin tone and her chestnut hair. The moment she entered, I detected a new light kindled in Kristofer's eyes. He automatically chose the loveseat, the logical choice for Josephine also, glancing away from his fiancée only when Anders addressed him momentarily.
Josephine smiled when he spoke to her — but shyly, with her gaze sometimes averted. It was several minutes before she warmed up enough that they were chatting quietly and laughing together like a real couple — but by then, 'Commandant Krensky' — as Marjorie referred to her — had called her meeting to order.
"Might I ask who the other young lady present is?" said Anders. He had been studying me from the corner of his eye during Ms. Krensky's narrative.
"Julianne Rose," I piped up. "I'm an event planner. I'm assisting Mrs. Ridgeford with the reception and flowers."
A collective murmur of acknowledgement and polite greetings followed. Daria Krensky surveyed me with a steely gaze that I suspect found me lacking in sophisticated qualities. Until now, she hadn't given me a second glance — but that was before she knew I was the latest lackey at Azure Castle.
"Let's talk cake," said Ms. Krensky, snapping open a leather-bound cell phone case, a stylus in hand. "Would Marjorie care to enlighten us on the chosen baker?"
I was glad when the grueling interview on Dinah's skills was concluded, and the portfolio of her magnificent creations and her sketches were tucked aside again. Now the conversation drifted towards more casual subjects — as casual as it got with this group, that is. For Mrs. Lewison, it was the subject of the Proms; for Anneka and Gustaf, the proud subject of their handsome son's achievements.