The Marriage Pact

by Winter Renshaw

  He claims he “needs an American bride,” but me? Of all people? And after what he did?!

  “You’re looking radiant as always,” Mama says in her sweet Southern accent, blowing across the top of her coffee mug before smiling. “Twenty-four looks good on you. How was your night with the girls? Run into anyone you know?”

  She flutters her mascara-painted lashes, but I know better.

  “I see you heard Julian is in town,” I say, cutting to the chase. We might as well.

  “Busted.” Mama sips her coffee and winks. She thinks this is cute. I wonder how cute she’ll think it is when she knows why he’s really here …

  “He stopped over last night,” I say, quick to add, “At one in the morning.”

  She freezes mid-sip, a skinny blonde brow arched. “Oh?”

  “Strange little chat we had, Julian and I.” I clear my throat before rearranging the silverware in front of me. “He wants me to marry him.”

  I brace myself, prepared for some kind of Delphine-sized, overdramatic reaction … that never comes.

  “Oh. Mm hm. And what did you say?” she asks, her tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather forecast.

  “What did I say? Mama, please tell me you’re not in on this. I find your calmness about this concerning.”

  “Julian’s a fine young man and he’s always had a thing for you. I’m honestly surprised this didn’t happen sooner,” she says. “Then again, you two had that terrible falling out. I suppose you needed your space … but don't you think it’s been long enough?”

  She knows nothing about what happened … just that something happened.

  If she knew the truth, I doubt she’d be so chipper about any of this.

  “Anyway, you know how much your father adored him.” She pauses to grab a paper napkin before dabbing at the inner corners of her eyes.

  “Mama … please don’t bring Daddy into this.”

  “You would be taken care of for the rest of your life,” she says. “You would have opportunities afforded to you that you would never have otherwise. Do you know how happy that would make him? I’m sure he’s up there worrying himself sick about us all the time ...”

  I’m pretty sure that’s not what happens in heaven, but I don’t tell her that.

  “You know Julian stopped by this morning and made the sweetest offer,” she says, pouring the tiniest splash of creamer into her black coffee before giving it a stir.

  Julian … nice? “Enlighten me.”

  “Well, he stopped by when the movers were doing their thing,” she says, clucking her tongue and waving her hand. “And he saw the house.”

  I cringe.

  My mother has had that house all but stripped down to the studs over the past year. It started with a couple of chandeliers. Then an antique piano. A few pieces of art. Then it was the light fixtures and the plumbing fixtures. She sold everything she could, and then she waited until the bank was about to kick her out for not making payments. In her eyes, she had no choice. My father left her with nothing but mounds of debt and no way to pay any of it.

  “Julian mentioned that if the two of you were to wed, we’d be … royals-by-proxy? Something like that? Anyway, he said we would be given a stipend to cover our expenses and then some.” Mom clinks her spoon against the side of her cup. “The girls’ college would be paid for. Can you imagine what a load that would take off my shoulders? And well, I could take my time finding a good job. Maybe do some vocational training. You know I submitted eighteen resumes last week alone and didn’t get a single call back on any of them? Not one.”

  Our orders arrive, but I can’t stomach to look at mine.

  I’m well aware of my mother’s financial situation, and to be honest, some nights I lie awake in bed worrying about her … particularly how she’s going to make ends meet if she doesn’t find a job.

  For the past year, I’ve been covering her utilities and I’ve added her to my cell phone plan, but I teach third grade at a public school and my faithful Volkswagen is approximately two-hundred and thirty-four miles from losing its last leg.

  I’m not exactly rolling in the dough.

  “Mama, I can’t believe you would put this on me,” I say, leaning in and whispering. I’ll be damned if I’m that Southern diva throwing a tantrum in a public establishment.

  I love my mother more than life itself, but this isn’t fair nor is it right.

  “I don’t understand your reluctance, Emelie,” she says, keeping her voice hushed. “He’s an incredible young man and he is wild about you.”

  She doesn’t get it.

  But I can’t hold that against her. I never told her what happened, and I never plan to. Only now that complicates things because all she sees is a wealthy, handsome prince who wants to marry her eldest daughter and provide for her family for the rest of their lives. I don’t blame her for having stars in her eyes, especially after the year we’ve all had. On paper, it’s a dream come true.

  But it’s not that simple.

  “Your food is getting cold.” My mother changes the subject as she slices into her eggs. “And I’m only going to say one more thing about this.” She chews before pointing her fork at me with emphasis. “I didn’t ask Julian for help. I tried turning him down, but he insisted. Even if the offer wasn’t there, I would still push you to marry him because I think the world of him and I know your father would approve. Daddy adored Julian and you know that. Anyway, forgive me for being a mother and worrying about my child’s future.”

  She sets her fork aside and reaches across the table, past the small vase of drooping carnations, and places her hand over mine.

  “I love you, Emelie,” she says. “I’m behind you no matter what you choose to do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, and one more thing,” she says, winking. “He’s staying at The Palmetto in town for a few more days if you change your mind.”

  “Mom.”

  She lifts a hand. “I know, I know. I said one more thing and that was two. But I’m done now. And I meant what I said. I support you either way. Now eat.”

  My third graders are at recess and I’m grading papers Monday morning alongside my assigned teacher’s aide, Afton. I’ve just finished filling her in on my situation when she says, “No offense, and please don’t hate me for saying this … but what is wrong with you? A prince—a freaking prince—asked you to marry him and you said no?! And it’s not like he’s some hairy, seventy-year-old sheik who asked you to be in his harem. We’re talking about Prince Julian. His name alone makes my ovaries ache.”

  Afton places her hand on her lower belly for added theatrics, but I focus on the current paper beneath my red pen.

  “Prince Julian,” she says his name with extra emphasis on each and every syllable, as if that alone would be enough to prove her point. “Prince Julian of Chamont. Duke of Montcroix.”

  I’ve never understood the multiple title thing or why a prince would also need to be a duke, but I suppose it has something to do with tradition, and those Chamontians are nothing if not traditional.

  “It’s complicated,” I say as I draw a smiley face and mark 98% at the top of Harper Denzil’s multiplication quiz and move onto the next.

  “Enlighten me.” She peers up at the clock above the door. “We still have six minutes and I’m all ears.”

  It’s going to take a lot more than six minutes to give her the rundown, so I keep it short and sweet.

  “Our fathers were friends. We grew up vacationing together. He was the bane of my existence for years—until he wasn’t. There was something different about him the summer after my sophomore year of high school,” I say. “He was sweet. He didn’t tease me. He even apologized for making my life a living hell all those years before. And then he told me he thought I was beautiful …” I hang my head for a second, gathering my thoughts. “I was sixteen and this handsome, real-life prince was telling me how much he adored me.”

  “Lucky you ...”
>
  “Yeah, well. Not so much. Things moved pretty quickly. And to be completely honest, for a while it was kind of magical,” I say. “But it turns out he hadn’t changed at all. He was still a liar and, as it turns out, an amazing actor. He deserves an Oscar for his performance that summer, I’m telling you.”

  Afton frowns before grabbing another math quiz from the pile. “How so?”

  My lips move, but nothing comes out.

  I’ve never repeated the story to anyone.

  Shaking my head, I decide to downplay it. “He was a teenage boy who did a stupid teenage boy thing.”

  Afton studies me. She’s curious, but she’s too polite to pry.

  “It’s kind of a long story.” I glance over my shoulder at the clock. “The kids will be back from recess any minute.”

  Afton rises from the seat across from me and places her stack of graded quizzes on top of mine. “Who wants to be a princess anyway, right?”

  We exchange soft smiles, and I’m not sure if she knows just how much her support means to me.

  “Right,” I say.

  The recess bell rings from the hall and the sound of trampling, giggling elementary students grows louder by the second.

  Rising from my chair, I head to the whiteboard in the front of the room and wait for my students to come in and take their seats.

  In these small, quiet moments, my mind conjures up a conversation I had with my father a couple of years ago. He was working late in his office and I was home from college. The keen firstborn child in me chose to lecture him on the health perils of working too many hours at a sedentary desk job. As I sat across from him and watched him devour my mother’s beef burgundy from a Tupperware container like a man who hadn’t eaten all day, I couldn’t help but notice how exhausted he looked, like he’d aged nearly a decade almost overnight. His shoulders were slouched and his belly was beginning to pooch over his waistline. In the dim light of his office, he was hardly recognizable, a shell of the man he once was.

  I told him he was working himself to death.

  He laughed.

  And then I begged him to go running with me, like we used to.

  He reminded me of his bum knee.

  I mentally made a note to stock his office fridge with bottled water and fresh fruit the next chance I got, and to order him a fitness tracking watch, something to vibrate every so often to remind him to get up and walk around.

  But those aren’t the things that stand out to me the most about that moment.

  It was what he said. “Em, you’ve always been the caretaker of this family. Always worried about everyone else. Always there when we need you. If anything ever happens to me, I know the family will be in good hands.”

  He chuckled through his nose and patted my shoulder, like he was joking, but we both knew he wasn’t.

  I promised him that night that I would never change. As a first-born, I’m inherently responsible and, at times, bossy. But that’s how I get things done. And that’s why I’m never afraid to take charge when the moment calls for it.

  I think about my mother and how I wish I could help her more. And then I think about my sisters—both of whom are in college, both of whom have hopes of attending graduate school in the near future. Isabeau wants to study law and Lucienne wants to be an architect.

  I'd do anything to be able to take care of them the way my father would’ve wanted … but keeping my promise to him means breaking my promise to Julian.

  “Miss Belleseau?” Clayton Crabtree, one of my most diligent students, tugs on my arm. “Are you okay? You’re just, like, standing there staring off into space.”

  A few other students chuckle. This is not my finest moment as an educator.

  “Yes, I’m fine, Clayton. Please return to your seat.” I uncap a blue marker and begin scrawling our science lesson on the board behind me.

  If I married Julian, I wouldn’t be simply breaking a promise … I’d be sacrificing my career … a normal life … my freedom and anonymity … a chance at finding real love.

  He’s asking the world of me.

  But my family is my world.

  “Okay, today we’re going to be exploring animal adaptations,” I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as I can. I can’t sacrifice student engagement just because I’m distracted. “Who can tell me what adaptation means?”

  I turn to my students, wearing a smile despite the fact that everything inside me is twisting and turning, heavy with sick worry and a sprinkle of anxious dread.

  I can tell Julian no.

  I can dig my heels all I want.

  But at the end of the day, marrying Julian would mean never having to worry about taking care of my family ever again. And if that’s the case, what choice do I have?

  Chapter 4

  Julian

  They’re already dubbing him The Mad King.

  “The Mad King Is At It Again!”

  “The Mad King Has Lost His Head!”

  “The Mad King of Chamont Rants on Live Television!”

  Not quite the legacy my ancestors had in mind, I’m certain.

  Outside my hotel balcony, an entire throng of local women are chanting my name. But inside, I thumb through the latest online articles from a news outlet back home.

  My father is at it again. This time he interrupted live television to go on some raving tangent about diplomatic relations with Russia which inexplicably segued into doing away with our tourism division altogether, which accounts for approximately fifteen percent of our gross domestic product.

  We’re a small island nation but a major travel destination. The island of Chamont is a paradise. Heaven on earth. Palm trees. Blue waters. Perfect weather year-round despite the fact that we’re in the northern hemisphere and completely surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, our island is so coveted that the British and the Americans fought over it in the War of 1779. When neither party was making any remarkable advancements toward winning, our people rebelled and declared our own independence with the help of my six-times great-grandfather, whom the Chamontians appointed as their King.

  I fear that now, without a proper and timely intervention, every day that passes is one day closer to the official end of the Chamontian monarchy.

  “Pardon the interruption, sir, but might I recommend addressing the young ladies outside your window?” My royal advisor, Harrison, stands before me, his hands tucked behind his hips. “Perhaps it would … calm them down.”

  We’re on the tenth floor of The Palmetto and we took all our usual security precautions, but somehow word spread that I was in town and now here they are.

  “Right, right.” I darken my phone screen before rising from the chair and slipping my suit jacket over my shoulders. Royal protocol dictates that I must be formally dressed during each and every public presentation.

  Making my way to the balcony doors, I draw the curtains, slide the door open, and step outside.

  As if I’m some kind of pop superstar or professional athlete, the crowd below goes wild. Even from my high perch, I can tell some of the women have tear-streaked faces, as though merely being in my presence is some sort of dream come true.

  I’ll admit, there was a time I used to relish in this sort of thing. I lived for it. It fed my starving ego and I had very little shame about that.

  But times have changed.

  Priorities have shifted.

  I give the crowd below a formal wave, my hand cupped the way my father taught me long ago, and flash a megawatt smile.

  Lingering for a few more minutes, I head inside when I spot a news crew van rolling up and a woman in a pant suit and heels jogging across the hotel lawn, microphone in hand as a camera man chases behind her.

  Harrison closes the balcony door behind me before pulling the curtains.

  “Our pilot is needing a confirmation for tomorrow,” he tells me. “Are we still planning to depart at two o’clock?”

  I decided yesterday that dropping in on Emelie unannounced and in the
middle of the night was a desperate move. At the time, my intention was to show her how urgent and pressing the matter was, to illustrate to her that I came straight from my chartered plane to her doorstep.

  When I realized the error in my logic, I decided to give her space, and I left her alone all of Sunday. My hope is that once the shock of my request wears off and she speaks to Delphine, she’ll realize all the ways this marriage will benefit her and she’ll be resigned to change her mind.

  Checking my watch, I surmise that Emelie is likely finished teaching for the day and en route to her home.

  “Sir?” Harrison asks. “I hate to bother you about this, but our flight crew is requesting a confirmation as soon as possible so we can coordinate our runway time.”

  I think about the throngs of women below. Emelie was right. I could handpick any American girl to be my bride and bring a swift end to my current problems … but I don’t want just any American girl.

  I want Emelie.

  Just this past week, I held a closed-door, confidential meeting with our official royal publicist and explained my intentions. He was quite pleased that, should Emelie Anne Belleseau accept my offer, he would be able to paint her as my “childhood love” and highlight her educational background, love of children, inherent beauty, class, and timeless poise. Not to mention, she’s of French-American heritage, and the Chamontians have a particular fondness for the French.

  On paper, she has all the makings of a beloved future queen—a “people’s queen” as they call them—and an engagement with her will be an excellent distraction from all the nastiness and negative publicity that has engulfed our nation over the past year.

  My kingdom needs this.

  And I need her for reasons she can’t even begin to imagine.

  “Harrison, tell the pilot we’re going to need an extra day,” I say. “And when you’re finished, have the driver come around. I’m going to pay Ms. Belleseau another visit.”

  Chapter 5