by Rachel Hauck
Adelaide pressed on to the fifth-floor landing, the old wide board steps creaking.
“Test? What do you mean?”
“Could he be king and servant?” Adelaide raised her finger. “’Tis the number one rule in the kingdom.”
“In Brighton?”
“In the kingdom. To rule one must serve.”
Corina stuttered her next step. What was she talking about? The kingdom.
“Get along, lassie. Me arms are tired.” Brill gently bumped her shoulder, and Corina stumbled along the dark passage under a low, exposed-beam ceiling.
“Hold yer horses, Brill. I’m a-telling her about the kingdom.”
“Are we talking that already?” Brill adjusted the suitcases in his grip. “You said to let the girl rest.”
“I see, today you decide to listen to me and quote meself back to meself.” Adelaide led the way down a narrow corridor toward a wooden door while Brill grumbled in his chest and Corina snickered softly.
What a hoot, these two. How she got picked for this adventure she’d never know, but she made a mental note to keep an eye out for hidden mikes and cameras, and take notes for yet another story to go along with the movie review and premier story.
At the door, Adelaide worked a key into the lock and twisted the knob, exposing a grand, sprawling room that ran the length of the inn.
Corina hesitated, peering inside before going in. It was beautiful, inviting, and despite the icicles of trepidation about this place, the kindness of Adelaide and Brill stoked the furnace of peace growing in her spirit.
She hadn’t known what to expect of a room here, given the condition of the Manor, but the space was exquisite, state of the art, with an open, vaulted ceiling, cream-colored, textured walls, and polished, gleaming hardwood floors.
A fragrance hovered and Corina breathed it in, filling her lungs.
As Corina passed into the room, Adelaide handed her the key. “You won’t need it, but I pass it along as a sign.”
Corina laughed though her skin tightened with chills. She gripped the key against her palm. “A sign? What kind of sign?”
“That it’s yours, Corina. Just believe.”
She froze, rooted where she stood. Did this woman know about Stephen? How? “Adelaide, what’s going on here?”
“Quite loverly, isn’t it?” Adelaide cradled her arms at her waist, smiling as she glanced around the room, quite pleased with it all.
“Quite.” Corina crossed the room, taking it in. The outside wall was a large single-paned window, like the one in the lobby, that framed a breathtaking view of Cathedral City and the River Conour. “It’s beautiful.”
“Think you’d like to stay?” Adelaide’s eyes twinkled.
Corina regarded the strange couple. “I’m not quite sure what to make of you two or this place. Is this some sort of movie stunt? What’s going on here?”
“Movie stunt?” Adelaide patted her hand to her chest. “Mercy no, lass.”
“Then what is all of this?”
“Ahem.” The man of the place stood in the doorway, Corina’s bags in hand. “Where do ye want these?”
“Brill, I’m so sorry. Just put them by the door. I’ll arrange them later.” She took the roller board from him and tucked it in next to a walnut cabinet.
“Yes,” Adelaide beamed. “You will do nicely. You are the one.”
“The one?”
Adelaide’s eyes sparked with a glint that set Corina’s spirit on fire. “Anyway, as you see, here’s your bed.” She patted the massive mattress covered with a cream-and-brown quilt. “It’s made for dreaming, I say.” She moved about the room. “Here’s your sitting corner.” She switched on what looked like an authentic Tiffany lamp. “And the loo is just down this jaunty little corridor.”
Corina followed Adelaide around the bedroom wall into a bathroom haven. Tile and granite with a sunken whirlpool bath, a vanity, a shower with gold fixtures, all washed in the morning light sinking in through a large skylight.
“I don’t know what to say.” About any of it. The inn, Adelaide, her kingdom talk, and the friendship she felt with the odd couple. Corina inspected the porcelain sink, running her hand along the smooth, slate-colored granite.
“Say nothing but that you’ll stay.” Adelaide patted the cabinet’s smooth drawers. “Here are your towels and linens. We’ll leave you to get settled. If you need me, just tug on this here.” She pointed to the thick damask pull next to her bed. “One Old World thing we hung on to. We thought you’d like it.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Isn’t everything to your liking? The colors, the furniture?”
Corina scanned the room. Very much so. All pieces she’d select. In fact, she’d debated purchasing a cabinet just like the one with the towels and linens. “Why won’t you answer my questions about what’s going on here?”
“My dear girl.” Adelaide grabbed Corina’s hands. “You have just flown all the way from Georgia. We have plenty of time to talk.”
“See, that’s what I mean. How do you know that?”
“My sweets, ’tis me job. Now, take your rest.” She motioned for Brill to start down the stairs. “We’ll bring up tea and cakes, leaving them outside the door. When you hear a knock, you’ll know we was here.”
“Wait! Hold on.” Corina retrieved her purse from the bottom of the luggage pile, digging for her wallet. “Tip. I need to give you a tip.” She offered two ten-pound notes to Adelaide. “One for you and one for Brill. Thank you so much. You’re a life saver.”
Adelaide shoved the money back at Corina. “Keep it. We’ve no use for it.”
“No use for money?” Corina shoved the money at the crazy old woman. “Who on earth doesn’t need money?”
“Folk who are not of this earth.”
“Huh?” The word came as a dull reflex. A weak challenge from her soul to something Corina knew to be true in her spirit. This moment contained something from the Divine.
Adelaide’s soft footsteps echoed down the stairwell as Corina sank through the light of the Tiffany lamp onto the chaise lounge, money still in hand. She was confused but oddly at peace.
While this place made no sense, Corina knew she was supposed to be here. Not by her intellect but by her heart. Otherwise, she’d be out of here in a Georgia Bull Dog minute.
After a few minutes, she collected herself and walked to the window, filling her lungs again with the peace that surpassed her understanding.
Cathedral City sprawled before her view. Breathtaking.
Ever since she came out of the fog of death in January, God seemed to be whispering to her. In small ways. Large ways. Through everyone from Gigi to Ida Mae to Melissa and Mama, Daddy, and Daisy. Stephen. And now perhaps this odd pair of Adelaide and Brill.
Unless they were actually actors posing as Old World innkeepers to publicize the film. Corina glanced toward the door, listening, expecting to hear the sound of other guests arriving.
But her room remained quiet except for the timbre of her own heartbeat.
She just had to make sense of it all. She had to conquer her doubts about Stephen, be willing to risk her heart in God’s hands. Would he come through?
God owed her nothing. In fact, he’d already given her a gift beyond measure when she neither deserved it or knew enough to ask for it.
But oh, this “love well” adventure was scary. Downright frightening.
What if this journey meant gaining nothing for herself but losing everything to God? To Stephen? What if the journey meant she returned home empty-handed yet all the more Christlike. She shivered, the idea plucking at her sense of self-propriety and preservation.
She’d known all along this Brighton trip wasn’t about movie premiers or celebrity interviews but about “loving well.” About the motions of a prayer she’d prayed on a cold, hard chapel floor when she felt obliterated and empty.
TWELVE
Friday afternoon Stephen waited backstage at the Madeline & Hyacinth Li
ve! show for his cue, hot and sticky in his starched white shirt and dark blue Armani jacket.
The makeup artist hovered, patting the shine from his brow. “You’ll cool off on the set. It’s freezing out there.”
A few feet from him, tucked in the folds of the stage curtain, Thomas scanned the crowd, talking to his team of three through the com tucked into his sleeve.
Stephen angled around the hulking bodyguard to see the bleachers. The audience of mostly women seemed harmless enough. He had insisted Thomas’s security measures were overkill, but the man stuck to protocol without wavering.
Stephen clapped him on the shoulder. Thomas glanced back with a nod. He should be grateful for the man’s vigilance. It was Stephen’s lack thereof that got men killed. His trust of another man with hidden vicious intentions.
He scanned the audience once again. But not for intruders, but for . . . who?
Corina? The look-alike Corina?
The encounter with the look-alike yesterday in The Wellington lobby tapped his feelings for her. The ones of love and affection he’d rucked to the bottom of his heart’s playing field, piling on every excuse and emotional baggage he could find, never letting them up, never letting them free, never letting them score a try over the goal line of his being.
How did they dare push against him? He should’ve never gone to Florida.
“All secure, sir,” Thomas said, low, in Stephen’s ear. “Outside security is still sweeping the car park, but in-house we’re all clear.”
“Thank you. But I don’t think the King’s Office would’ve cleared this appearance if they weren’t confident of security.”
Thomas made a face. “You know my rule. Never underestimate dinosaur terrorism.”
Stephen laughed. “Isn’t that a ‘blast from the past.’ I’ve not heard you mention that term in a good while.”
“I thought it time to remind you. Never relax your vigilance. An attack can happen anywhere, anytime, at any given moment, unearthed by the anger, passion, opportunity of mere men. Ignored by naive governments. We trick ourselves into believing it all might have gone the way of dinosaurs until it rears its ugly head. It’s the tyrannosaurus rex of our day. Didn’t you see Jurassic Park?”
“So what are you in this scenario? The velociraptor?”
“If you like.” Thomas grinned. “I rather fancy that image.”
Stephen shook his head, smirking, checking his watch. He was due on any second. However, Madeline and Hyacinth were cooking up a meal on stage with animated chef Connie Spangler.
The stage manager flashed “five minutes.”
Still too warm, Stephen slipped off his jacket, draped it over the back of a stool, and took a seat.
Public appearances. He’d kept them limited since Afghanistan. Though lately he’d carried out his share of royal obligations.
However, a few years ago when the Brighton Eagles asked Stephen to do a publicity junket—as their most renowned player—the Crown declined. Too risky. Too public.
Stephen spent most of his rugby years avoiding the spotlight, ducking into the locker room after a test to avoid the press. The recent Fan Day was one of his rare public appearances for the team.
The lads understood. Stephen told them his low profile was for security.
Every time he stepped on the pitch, however, he was aware of the risk. Someone might try to kill him. As time passed, Stephen handled more and more public appearances on behalf of the Crown. But security would always be maintained.
Madeline and Hyacinth had wanted him on the show for years. The King’s Office reported they were “thrilled”!
The stage director approached with a bow. “Your Highness, you’re on after the commercial.”
“Thank you.” Stephen hopped off the stool, adjusted his collar, and tucked his shirt into his jeans, then slipped on his jacket. He liked the casual prince-as-rugby-player attire. He exhaled. He was a wee bit nervous. But this should be fun.
The applause lights flashed and the camera’s red light dimmed. Makeup artists scurried onto the stage like elves, patting and primping the show’s stars, then backed away when the stage manager called, “Thirty seconds.”
Thomas clapped Stephen on the shoulder. “Break a leg.”
Stephen laughed. “Isn’t one ankle enough?”
The show was back from commercial. “Ladies, hold on to your hats. We’ve a surprise for you today.” Blond and fair-skinned, Madeline beamed at the audience, then at her cohost. “I’m beside myself, aren’t you, Hy?”
“Don’t you see the bags under my eyes, Maddie? I slept not one wink. Not one.” Hyacinth, dark-haired and thin, with piercing blue eyes, slipped from her high hostess chair. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to our show for the first time ever, His Royal Highness, Prince Stephen.”
Stephen moved into a wall of cheers and applause, shoulders back, chin up, doing his best to minimize his awkward, booted-foot gait. He strafed the front row, shaking hands, waving at the audience. Then he embraced Madeline and Hyacinth, a break in royal protocol, and took his place between the presenters.
“Well, well, we’re so excited,” Hyacinth started, her comment fueling the audience.
A low chant began in the back. “Strat, Strat, Strat!” An abbreviation of his surname started by sports presenters when discussing the way Stephen maneuvered up and down the pitch.
“His sidestep is like, strat, strat, strat . . .”
Stephen acknowledged them with a wave, relaxed, smiling. He liked his identity as a rugby player. It made him an everyday man.
He felt quite sure he’d surrendered his essence as a prince when men died for him.
“Settle down or we’ll never get to chat.” Hyacinth walked past the cameras into the bleachers, patting the air down with her hands. “We’ve only five minutes with him and you’ve used one already.”
The audience laughed but complied, yielding to Hyacinth’s remarkable charm.
As Hyacinth returned to her chair, Madeline pressed her hand on Stephen’s arm. “We are thrilled to have you. Tell us, what have you been up to, Your Highness?”
“Stephen, please, call me Stephen.” He’d hear from Mum about omitting his title.
“Prince Stephen is your name. Who you are. His Royal Highness, Prince Stephen Marc Kenneth Leopold of Brighton Kingdom.”
“Prince Stephen.” Hyacinth had been around. She knew better. “How’s your ankle? We’re so missing you on the pitch for the summer games.”
“It’s coming on. Still a bit of physio yet to go, but I’ll be back for the fall Premiership.”
Cheers and whistles from the audience.
“Will you be coronated as Prince of Brighton in this downtime?” Madeline read the question from her cue cards. It felt odd, out of place, and perhaps strategized by the King’s Office to get him to yield.
“We’re still talking.” A nonanswer always worked.
“So you’ll be patron of the new War Memorial? We’re so proud you served king and country along with the other chaps.” Hyacinth applauded toward the crowd, stirring them to join in. “He’s a hero on and off the rugby pitch.”
Stephen went cold under the hot lights, shifting forward. He came here to talk about the movie premier. “No, no, the other lads are the true heroes. But it’s all part of the dialogue.” He shot Madeline a sly glance. Move on. Change the subject.
Madeline communicated to Hyacinth with her eyes and the pair moved on. Stephen’s chill morphed into some sort of gummy perspiration, sticking to his skin. All the while the wide sound-stage caged and moved in on him.
Daytime panic was not part of his struggle. Until moments like this—which were rare. Stephen breathed in, long, deep, staying off the very faint sound of a bomb exploding.
Then and only then was he desperate enough to whisper the only prayer he ever prayed these days. God, help.
He caught sight of Thomas in the audience, front and center, and focused on his friend and protection officer. Thom
as nodded assurance, and Stephen’s spiking panic abated.
These cryptic moments irritated him. He was a trained RAC airman, a seasoned rugby player. What right did the confines of a telly stage and mention of the War Memorial have to fill his veins with fear?
Because he knew if the world looked a little longer, a little closer, they would see right through him. At his core, he was a poser, a fraud. The exact opposite of a hero. In every sense of the word.
“Tell us what’s going on this summer? We hear you have a busy diary.” Hyacinth tapped his knee, catching on that Stephen had mentally stepped off for a moment.
“Quite right. Yes, busy.” He gathered himself and all of his royal charm. “I’m attending the King Stephen I premier Monday, then I’m at the Children’s Literacy Foundation Art Auction at the Galaxy on Tuesday. So yes, quite a bit going on.”
“Speaking of the premier . . .” Madeline’s expression sparked a different alarm in Stephen’s chest. “We heard you’ve yet to select a date to the event.”
Stephen worked up a laugh. “W–what?” Someone in the King’s Office would pay for this.
“If you don’t mind, Your Highness, we’ve been playing a little game lately with our audience and viewers.” Hyacinth held up her iPhone. “You see, it has not escaped our notice that you have not been in the company of a beautiful woman in quite some time, Madeline and I the exceptions of course.”
“Of course.” He decided to relax and play along, a picture of Corina in his mind’s eye. He’d just been in the presence of a beautiful, intelligent, loving, kind woman. She was one of the mold breakers.
“Ladies, since it seems impossible for any one of Brighton’s fine lasses to catch this hunk of gorgeous prince”—Madeline laughed but her serious tone remained—“we want to hear more from you while Prince Stephen is here. For the rest of the show, tweet how you think a girl could catch the world’s most eligible prince. Be sure to use our favorite hashtag, #howtocatchaprince.”
“Or post on our Facebook page with the same hashtag,” Hyacinth said. “You don’t mind, do you Prince Stephen?”