The Marriage Pact

by Winter Renshaw

  “Sorry about that,” he says. “I’d hoped to show you around myself, but it seems my work here is never done. Is your room to your liking? If not, there are twenty-eight others I’d be happy to show you.”

  “This is fine. Thank you.”

  He lingers, studying me, uncharacteristically quiet.

  “I’ll give you a day to rest up,” he finally says. “But come Monday, your schedule is spoken for. You should get your rest now. When you wake, be sure to ring for Araminta. She’s on-call twenty-four seven. Her job is to ensure you’re comfortable at all times and to answer any questions you may have. She’ll also accompany you to any appointments, engagements, and obligations. My room is across the hall should you need me, but you’ll rarely find me there. Tomorrow someone will bring you a new cell phone, preprogrammed for your convenience. Your American phone won’t work here. Anyway, I’m going to retire to my room for a few hours and then I’ve got work to do.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  His mouth turns up at one side, giving away a flash of a dimple. “Yes, Emelie. On a Sunday. We royals are never off the clock. Not even for a minute.”

  “What am I supposed to do while you work?” I ask. I’ve always been the busy type. The idea of sitting around doing nothing holds zero appeal.

  “Tomorrow? Relax. Learn your way around. Familiarize yourself with some of the staff,” he says. “Monday you’ll meet me in the dining hall at eight AM. I’m still ironing out a few things with your schedule, but we’ll go over everything then.”

  I sit on bent knees beside my unzipped suitcase. A million questions spin around inside my mind, but I’m too exhausted to so much as attempt to ask them.

  “Get some rest, Emelie,” he says, his hand on the door knob. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  The door closes, echoing through my massive bedroom, and I locate a pair of pajamas and my toiletry bag. Changing and washing up, I grab my phone, make my way around the room to shut off the various lamps Araminta had flicked on, and then I head to my gargantuan bed and climb up the small ladder on the side. It may be comically large, but its heavenly softness makes up for it.

  If my friends could see me now …

  Climbing under the heaps of covers, I burrow myself under and scoot until I reach the center of the bed because I don’t want to see what would happen if I were to accidentally roll off this thing in my sleep.

  Sliding my thumb across my phone screen, I immediately notice the funny symbol in the upper righthand corner informing me of my lack of a signal, and then I remember Julian’s comment about getting me a new phone.

  Tapping on my music icon, I pull up an old playlist filled with familiar favorites. Lowering the volume, I place the phone on a pillow beside me and close my eyes.

  This place doesn’t feel like home. Doesn’t look like home. Doesn’t smell like home. But if I close my eyes, it kind of sounds like home.

  I think about my mother and sisters back home. And I think about the ocean that now separates us. My chest swells with homesickness, but I don’t allow it to linger.

  I can do hard things.

  And I can do this.

  Rolling to my other side, I slide my hand under the cool side of my pillow and squeeze my eyes tighter.

  One day down.

  Eighteen hundred and twenty-five to go.

  Chapter 10

  Julian

  “There’s the royal website, the Chamont Times, the Sunday Telegraph, and of course the international news network,” Trevor, the royal family’s public relations advisor, prattles on, his sterling silver pen pressed into a white legal pad as he takes his own notes. “We don’t want to announce on a Friday. Monday would be preferable ...”

  “Your tea, Your Highness.” One of the maids prepares a cup of Earl Grey for me before disappearing through double swinging doors. I check my watch. It’s almost eight o’clock Monday morning. Emelie should be here any minute.

  I didn’t see her once yesterday, though I had several of my staff check on her. I was assured she slept well, received a full tour of the grounds, was given a new phone, and that she was "a welcome addition” and “quite lovely” and “a joy to have around.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think my staff is beginning to like her more than they like me.

  “I do have to ask, Your Highness,” Trevor says. “Does Princess Dayanara know about your engagement?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “She’s not privy to what’s going on in my private life. She’ll find out along with the rest of the world.”

  Trevor pauses.

  He knows Dayanara well, which means he knows she’s going to hate being the last to know that I’m marrying Emelie, but that’s not my problem.

  “Now for the write up, how would you describe Ms. Belleseau?” Trevor asks, readying his pen.

  I check my watch.

  8:03.

  I’ll have to have a talk with her later about timeliness.

  “Yes.” I clear my throat and reach for my tea, pulling it closer. “Ms. Belleseau is a force to be reckoned with. She’s headstrong. Intelligent. Beautiful inside and out. When she cares about something, she cares about it too much. She has a fondness for children and a passion for educating tomorrow’s generation. When she loves someone, she’ll do anything for them. Anything at all. If you ask me, that’s a rare quality these days. Anyway, in my eyes, there’s no one better suited to be the future queen of Chamont.”

  Trevor is scribbling with a fervor when he stops midway through a sentence and glances up across the room. Placing his pen aside, he rises from his chair, arms at his side.

  “Ms. Belleseau, I presume?” he asks. “Trevor Martin, public relations advisor for the royal family. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

  I stand, adjusting my tie.

  Emelie makes her way to our end of the table. I haven't the slightest idea how long she’s been standing there or if she heard all the nice things I just said about her. Chances are if she heard them, she wouldn't believe them anyway—not coming from my lips.

  “Wonderful to meet you, Trevor,” she says. “Where would you like me to sit, Julian?”

  I point to the chair at my right, the one directly across from Trevor, and once we’re all seated again, I press a hidden button under the dining table to page the kitchen.

  A second later, one of the kitchen aides emerges with a tray covered in various breakfast items. I wasn’t sure what she liked, so I told them to make her a little of everything.

  Of course, I won’t say that in front of Trevor. He can’t know about our arrangement. Non-disclosure or not, it’s no one business except ours.

  “Ms. Belleseau, I was just asking Julian how he would describe you,” Trevor says, flipping to a clean page on his legal pad. “Now I’m curious as to how you would describe him? He tells me you two were childhood sweethearts.”

  Emelie shoots me a two-second look before returning her attention to Trevor.

  “That’s right,” she says without missing a beat. “I’ve loved Julian for as long as I can remember.”

  Lie.

  “Growing up, our families summered together in North Carolina. Our fathers were best friends who met at boarding school. Anyway, year after year, I always looked forward to my summers with Julian,” she continues.

  Another lie.

  “He was the sweetest,” she lies again, hand clasping over her heart for emphasis. “Always leaving flowers on my bed.”

  Toads.

  “Always sneaking off with me to watch the stars,” she says.

  More like informing her parents that she had snuck out past curfew because watching her get in trouble was pure entertainment for an only child like me.

  “He made my childhood … unforgettable. To say the least.” She sighs.

  “Sounds like you two were meant to be,” Trevor says, his round cheeks rosy and his voice jubilant. “Fated.”

  I reach, covering her hand with mine. “Yes, fated. Somehow I always knew
we’d end up together.”

  She shudders at my touch, but Trevor is too busy jotting down Emelie’s fictitious story to notice.

  “Now, Trevor, if you have everything you need, I’d like to enjoy a private breakfast with my beloved,” I say.

  “Right, well. Yes. I’ll just be on my way.” Trevor gathers his belongings and slides his onyx leather portfolio under his arm. “Ms. Belleseau, again it was a pleasure meeting you and I look forward to your future with us.”

  Trevor shows himself out and for the first time since we arrived, it’s just the two of us.

  “Sleep well?” I ask, sipping my tea.

  “I thought you said no PDA?” she asks, massaging her hand as if my touch scalded her.

  “We’re not in public, Princess.” I wink and I sip and I place the cup aside.

  “Does anyone know about—”

  “—no,” I say. “And it needs to stay that way.”

  “So what’s going to happen after the wedding?” she asks. “Specifically with the bedroom situation?”

  “You’ll move across the hall into my room,” I say. “We’ll share a bed like married people do.”

  She drags a hard breath into her lungs. “See, these kinds of details would have been wonderful to know before I boarded your jet.”

  “Oh? So sharing a bed with me was a deal breaker of yours? You’d have backed out of this had you known?”

  She’s quiet.

  Of course she wouldn’t have.

  I made her the offer of a lifetime and she knows it.

  She just doesn’t know why … not truly.

  “I’m a planner,” she says. “And I hate surprises.”

  “I know.”

  “From now on, please keep me in the loop about anything and everything pertaining to me or my living arrangements or anything else of that nature.” She picks at the food on her plate. I resist the urge to explain to her exactly what everything is.

  I wouldn’t want to offend her by treating her like a “toddler.”

  Her words, not mine.

  “Eat up. We have a big day today,” I say, buttering a slice of toast. “After breakfast, you’re to meet with Araminta. She’ll take you to your wardrobe fitting. After that you’ll meet with your etiquette coach, Elisabeth. It’s imperative that you look and act the part of a royal at all times. You never know who’s watching and the media is going to be especially scrutinizing of you given the fact that you’re, well, American. And given the fact that you’ll be dashing the hopes and dreams of every Chamontian bachelorette on the island. They despise you already, and they don’t even know you exist.”

  She stabs a slice of sausage.

  “I’m just being honest, Emelie. You said you wanted to know these things,” I remind her.

  “You’re right. I do.” She takes a bite, an expression of dislike registering across her face as she chews, but she swallows nonetheless, proper and polite.

  “After your meeting with Elisabeth, which will run through lunch, we’ll meet back here so I can personally introduce you to the prime minister. Now, we’re going to really need to sell our affections for one another. Make this as believable as possible.”

  “I thought we did a decent job just now,” she says.

  “That’s not what I would call a decent job.”

  “Did Trevor buy this?” She points her fork at me and back.

  “Trevor buys everything,” I say. Public relations types are never interested in the truth because anything and everything can be the truth if it’s worded properly. “Our prime minster is a bit more scrutinizing.”

  “All right. Got it. I’ll look at you like you hung the moon.” Her voice is monotone.

  “And I’ll look at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I ask.

  “Never mind.” She reaches for a glass of orange juice.

  “Anyway, tomorrow morning we’ll go to Grandmire so we can break the news to my parents,” I continue.

  “You haven’t told them yet?”

  “It’s been a busy week,” I say. “And I’m afraid my father is unreachable most of the time and my poor mum has her hands full dealing with all the slack he leaves behind and the chaos he creates.”

  “They’re going to see through this.” She shakes her head. “They know our history. They know how we were, how we felt about each other.”

  “We were kids then. People grow and change and reconnect all of the time,” I say. “And sometimes they even forgive each other.”

  She’s quiet, eyes dropping to her lap where she smooths a crisp linen napkin over it.

  I let it go.

  But only for now.

  “After we leave Grandmire, we’ll return to the palace for official engagement photos,” I say. “Trevor’s working on the announcement and once he has the photos, he’ll put together a press release. We’re going public first thing next Monday.”

  She’s still silent, shoulders rising and falling with each contemplative breath.

  “You can’t hold onto that forever,” I say, voice low. “You have to let it go at some point.”

  “Have you?” she asks.

  "Clearly I have,” I lie.

  But in my defense, she lied first.

  Chapter 11

  Emelie

  “All right, Emelie, now let’s practice your curtsy once more.” Elisabeth paces in front of me, her hands clasped behind her hips and her chin jutting forward. If Mary Poppins had a daughter, she would be Elisabeth. “Right foot behind the left, bend at the knee, bow the head, smile … perfect. And when do we curtsy?”

  “When greeting a royal and again when they leave,” I say.

  “Fast learner.” Elisabeth offers a pleased smile. “I think it’s time we move onto our mealtime etiquette lesson.”

  I’ve spent the last three hours with Elisabeth, going over everything in great detail. At one point, I had to grab a notepad because I knew there was no way I was going to be able to remember every single thing after today. She obliged and then told me someday all of this will be second nature to me.

  Flipping through my notebook, I go over some of what I’ve written down so far:

  Always wear hats and gloves when making public appearances.

  Tiaras are to be worn in place of hats after six PM.

  Rise when the king and queen rise.

  Dress modestly at all times. Nothing above the knee.

  Hold your clutch with both hands to avoid shaking hands with the public.

  Have penny weights sewn into the hemline of all your skirts.

  A quick rap at the door precedes the rolling in of a long garment rack filled mostly with dresses. The shelf along the bottom is piled with shoe boxes and a small stack of hats.

  Shortly before I met with Elisabeth, the royal tailor took my measurements and gave them to a stylist, who then sent back these hand-selected pieces.

  According to Elisabeth, I’m not to wear jeans or leggings in public at any time. Dresses, skirts, and pantsuits with blouses are my only options.

  “Thank you,” I tell the woman with the garment rack. “I’ll try these on after lunch.”

  “Come now,” Elisabeth says. “A royal is never late for anything.”

  I follow my etiquette coach down the grand staircase that leads to the main floor entry, and then she leads me into the formal dining room where I had breakfast this morning with Julian.

  I take my seat and she stands behind me. The weight of her stare creeps over me, but I tell myself to get used to it. Everyone’s going to be watching me this closely from here on out.

  “Ms. Belleseau?” Araminta stands in the doorway. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. I wanted to let you know that I’ve gone ahead and selected the dress you’re to wear when meeting Prime Minster Tisdell. Hair and makeup will be here in one hour.”

  “Thank you, Araminta,” Elisabeth says before placi
ng her hands on my shoulders. “I’ll be sure to have her back before then. All right, Emelie. Shall we begin?”

  “We’re finished, Ms. Belleseau.” The makeup artist slides a brush into her black apron and stands back to admire her work.

  Glancing into the mirror across from me, it takes a second before I realize the person on the other side is me.

  My skin is polished, glowing and glass-like. My lips are painted a tasteful shade of nude rose, and my hair is swept back into an elegant chignon at the nape of my neck. Diamond-wrapped pearl earrings adorn my earlobes and a matching bracelet encircles my left wrist.

  I rise from my seat, smoothing my hands down the front of my black, knee-length Stella McCartney dress and step into the black heels they’ve laid out for me.

  With my head held high, I head back into my bedroom—only I stop in my tracks when I find Julian standing in the center of it, hands slid into the pockets of his suit pants. His eyes light with a quick flash as he drinks me in, but the rest of his expression remains unreadable.

  “The prime minister will be here any minute,” he says. “But before we head downstairs, I wanted to give you something.”

  Retrieving a small wooden box from his left pocket, he props the lid open, revealing a dazzling and oversized round diamond ring. The stone alone is practically the size of my thumbnail, and I realize everything about Julian and his lifestyle is a bit larger than life itself. I suppose it’s only fitting that he chose a rock of this caliber.

  I step closer as Julian plucks the ring from its velvet throne and then he reaches for my left hand, sliding it over my ring finger.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  “You don’t think this is a little … much?” I ask, examining the glimmering abundance of facets that dance in the light. This thing is like a disco ball, even in the dim light of my dark bedroom.

  “Not at all.” He extends his bent arm and I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come now. The prime minister can’t wait to meet you.”

  Julian leads me to a room on the other side of the palace with sweeping views of a courtyard, wall-to-wall bookcases, Chamontian flags, a mahogany desk, and a small conversational area with leather sofas and chairs. From where we are, I spot the back of a woman’s head—her hair firework red, each strand reflecting from the daylight that pours in through the massive windows.