A Thoroughly Modern Princess

by Wendy Markham

  New York was a bizarre, foreign world, she thought, as the train screeched around a curve in the tunnel.

  She could never be at home here. She could never be like that woman who was standing a few feet away, somehow maintaining her balance while holding a fussy infant and a squirming toddler’s hand.

  But if she stayed here and had her baby, that was exactly what it would be like—minus the toddler. She would be a single urban mother, riding the subway. Living in an apartment, and shopping for groceries, and cooking, and cleaning, and doing all of the things regular people did here in New York.

  A regular person?

  A single mother?

  A New Yorker?

  She couldn’t be any of those things.

  A wave of homesickness washed over Emmaline. Suddenly she yearned for her old life. For the palace and her parents; for Tabitha and her sisters; for a view of the glistening Mediterranean, and freshly pressed designer clothes that weren’t snug in the waistband, and healthy meals prepared by the royal chef, served on delicate bone china with citrus garnishes.

  The train stopped.

  The doors opened.

  People got out, including the surly businessman.

  People got on, including a group of young boys, one of whom was holding a radio that blasted a throbbing beat.

  Granger leaned toward Emmaline and raised his voice to be heard above the hip-hop music. “How are you doing? Okay?”

  She nodded.

  She wasn’t okay, but there was nothing he—or she—could do about that.

  “Just a few more stops,” Granger said. “Can you make it?”

  She exhaled heavily. “I have to make it, don’t I? I haven’t any choice.”

  He offered a grim smile.

  She bent her head again and focused on her trembling hands clutching the ginger root in her lap.

  “At least join us downstairs for dinner, Remi,” Queen Cecile urged, seated in her favorite chair, which had once belonged to Marie Antoinette. “The prime minister will be here. He’s expecting to see you.”

  “No, thank you, Mother.” Prince Remi turned away from the drawing room window, with its view of the breathtaking Buironese hillside dotted with late summer blooms. “I’ve no appetite.”

  “You mustn’t let this destroy you,” the queen said, narrowing her eyes at her son. “You must keep up your strength so that when the princess turns up, you’ll be able to—”

  “What if she doesn’t turn up, Mother?”

  “I don’t appreciate being interrupted.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” Remi sighed and crossed to the sofa, but thought twice about sitting. He knew from experience that the antique upholstery was stiff and uncomfortable, and that if he leaned back, his head would bump the curved wooden trim along the top.

  “If the princess has been abducted,” the queen went on, “your father will see that the ransom is paid.”

  “I’m certain King Jasper will pay the ransom,” Remi said wearily. He didn’t believe Emmaline had been abducted any more than he had on their wedding day, but going along with that theory was far simpler than discussing the alternative.

  “He can’t possibly pay a ransom without our help,” Queen Cecile pointed out. “Now of all times, we must present a united front, Remi, lest anyone think that the future of Buiron—and of course, Verdunia—are threatened.”

  Remi sighed. How well he knew that the economic futures of both countries depended on the merger—rather, marriage—between him and Princess Emmaline.

  Apparently she didn’t give a damn about either of their kingdoms—much less about Remi’s feelings, or his reputation.

  Sooner or later, she was bound to turn up alive and well. Then the entire world would regard Remi as the most spectacularly jilted groom in history.

  If only he could find Emmaline before somebody else—namely, the media—did. Then he could convince her to . . .

  To what?

  To help him concoct a believable kidnapping scenario, with Remi as her noble rescuer?

  To relocate to some remote location—say, a nearly deserted tropical island—where the natives had never seen a photograph of the world’s most photographed woman?

  To create a new identity, complete with plastic surgery?

  As Remi brooded, a butler discreetly entered the room and cleared his throat.

  “I have the palace in Chimera on the telephone, Your Highness,” he informed Remi.

  Remi’s heart skipped a beat. “Who from the palace is calling?”

  “It’s His Majesty himself, Your Highness. Will you take the call?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps there’s been word of the princess,” Queen Cecile said hopefully.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I shall wait here. Please give the king my warmest regards.”

  “Of course, Mother.” Remi headed to the adjoining study, where he could take the call in private.

  He closed the heavy mahogany doors behind him and settled himself behind the seventeenth-century desk. The ancient chair creaked beneath his weight.

  Remi looked at the phone.

  He cleared his throat nervously, reached for the receiver, then hesitated.

  It was awfully hot in here. Musty, too.

  He turned to the window beside the desk and cranked one of the leaded casement windows open slightly. A hint of fresh air wafted into the room, along with the sound of a crowd somewhere below.

  Remi leaned toward the window, which faced the palace gates, and glanced at the ever-swelling throng of media, curious bystanders, and security personnel. Seeing food vendors’ carts and several tents on a knoll in the distance, he had the sinking feeling that nobody had any intention of leaving until the princess had turned up safely—or quite the opposite.

  Reluctantly, Remi picked up the receiver and greeted King Jasper.

  “How are you?” the king asked.

  “The last two days have been exceedingly difficult,” Remi said with unaccustomed candor. “I’m sure you understand—and that you’ve had a difficult time of it yourself, Your Majesty. I’m terribly worried about dear Emmaline.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Has there been a ransom note?”

  “There has been a note,” the king responded, somewhat cryptically.

  Remi’s stomach turned over. Had he been wrong, then? Had Emmaline been abducted after all? His spirits soared. If she had been abducted, his honor would be saved. They could go on with the wedding as soon as she had been safely released from her captors.

  “Whatever the ransom is, Your Majesty,” he said fervently, “I am prepared to—”

  “There is no ransom.”

  “No ransom? But . . . ?”

  “The note was from my daughter, addressed to me.”

  Remi digested this bit of news, then asked slowly, “What did it say?”

  “I’m afraid Emmaline has gone into hiding,” King Jasper said. “I’ve no idea why, or where she is. She simply stated that she is safe, and that her mother and I are not to worry.”

  “But . . .” Remi frowned. “Did the note say anything about . . . did it say when she would be back?”

  “I doubt that she has any intention of coming back,” the king said grimly. “Not unless somebody finds her and brings her home.”

  “Has Interpol—”

  “Since there has been no crime, Interpol has no reason to get involved.”

  “Then who—”

  The king cleared his throat loudly, and with unmistakable meaning.

  Remi pondered this. “Shall I . . . shall I search for her, then?”

  “The royal detectives are searching. The press, of course, is searching. In fact, the entire world seems to be eager to pick up Emmaline’s trail.” There was a chill in King Jasper’s voice as he added, “My daughter was desperate enough to flee rather than become your wife. Have you any idea why?”

  “Not the slightest,” Remi said truthfully, staring
unseeingly out the window. “I have never treated Emmaline with anything other than the utmost respect. As far as I know, she was as willing to begin our life together as I was. Am,” he corrected hastily.

  “In that case, I would suggest that you find her and convince her to come home to you.”

  It was more an order than a suggestion.

  And Remi fought back the urge to contradict what he had just said; to simply tell Emmaline’s father that he and the princess had never been more than halfhearted about their proposed marriage in the first place.

  But for one thing, he suspected that the news wouldn’t be news.

  For another, he suspected—no, he knew—that it wouldn’t make any difference to a man whose life had been steeped in royal duty since birth.

  Not that Prince Remi’s hadn’t. As heir apparent to the throne of Buiron, he had always known—and done—what was expected of him, for the good of the people and the preservation of the royal line.

  Did he really have any choice but to continue to do so?

  Biting back his reluctance, he asked King Jasper, “Have you any idea where I should begin the search?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then what can I—”

  “Surely you can think of a way to reach out to Emmaline without coming face-to-face with her,” the king said pointedly.

  “But . . .” Remi gazed thoughtfully at the media circus below.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he promised Emmaline’s father.

  “Well? What do you think?” Granger asked, several steps behind Emmaline as she crossed the threshold of the fifth-floor walk-up.

  Somehow, he had managed to wrestle the dogs on their leashes, the luggage, and the umbrella out of the subway, down several blocks, and up all these stairs. He had noticed that Emmaline didn’t volunteer to help.

  Well, he couldn’t expect her to carry luggage in her condition. At least she could have taken the umbrella—but she didn’t offer and he didn’t ask.

  After all, she was royalty. Royalty didn’t schlepp.

  Still panting from the exertion of all those stairs, she turned her head, apparently looking around. It was impossible to see her expression behind those sunglasses, but her mouth appeared to be puckering rapidly into a tight little slash.

  Granger tried to follow her gaze and see the place through her eyes.

  Not that he had to go that far. Seeing it through his own eyes, in the grim light of this gray, rainy morning, was more than enough.

  It was a dump.

  How on earth had he convinced himself that he could live here?

  For one thing, pets were allowed.

  For another, the single room had somehow seemed almost cozy last night. Of course, he’d toured it in the glow of the building super’s flashlight, since the place was vacant and there were no overhead fixtures.

  Well, the first thing he would do—after getting Emmaline settled—was go out and buy a lamp.

  Granger looked around for a place to set their bags and settled for the dust-ridden floor.

  He would have to buy some furniture, too . . .

  He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow.

  And an electric fan . . .

  His stomach rumbled hungrily as he crossed the short distance to open the window.

  And groceries . . .

  The window wouldn’t budge.

  And a crowbar . . .

  As he turned back toward Emmaline, something brushed his face. A cobweb.

  And cleaning supplies, he decided. They would need lots of cleaning supplies.

  Hearing the plop, plop, plopping of water dripping, he walked toward the corner that served as a kitchenette. The dogs followed him, tags jangling.

  Hmm. No matter how tightly he turned the lever, he couldn’t stop the leak. He would have to tell the super.

  He gazed at the stove. He wasn’t sure what one would use to get all that charred grease off what might once have been white enamel, but perhaps Emmaline would know how to—

  No. What was he thinking? She wouldn’t have any idea, he realized, seeing her nose wrinkle delicately as he opened the fridge and the smell of ancient sour milk wafted out. Emmaline had probably never cleaned anything in her life.

  They made a fine pair. The pampered princess and the penniless playboy. How on earth were they going to survive here?

  He closed the fridge, stirring the nest of dust bunnies on its top.

  Though the window was closed, street noises wafted in to mingle with the steadily dripping faucet. Sirens raced down the adjacent avenue. Horns honked. A jackhammer reverberated. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm bleated incessantly.

  “Where . . .” Emmaline began, then sneezed.

  “God bless you.”

  “Thank you.” She coughed, her hand covering her mouth as she asked, “Where is the rest?”

  “The rest . . . ?”

  “The rest of the studio. Achoo!”

  “God bless you. This is the studio.”

  “This is it?” She looked horrified. “One room?”

  “That’s what a studio is. One room. God bless you,” he said as she sneezed again.

  “Will you stop blessing me?” she snapped. “I’ve never felt less blessed in my entire life. We simply can’t stay here . . . achoo!”

  “Gesundheit,” he couldn’t resist saying amiably.

  She glared.

  “We have to stay here,” Granger informed her mildly. “There’s nowhere else for us to go. My grandfather—”

  “Yes, I know. Your grandfather has thrown you out of your penthouse. But surely you can do better than . . .”

  She trailed off, shaking her head as she looked around again.

  He looked, too, taking in the grungy linoleum, the battered walls, the scarred porcelain sink, and the laminate countertop that bore rust-colored ring-shaped stains and what appeared to be a cigarette burn mark. There was a litter of what looked like some sort of tiny black pellets, too. Must be coffee grounds, he decided.

  Granger turned back to Emmaline. “The truth is, I can’t do any better than this . . . yet,” he said optimistically. “Until I get a reasonable salary—or figure out if there’s a loophole in my trust fund—this is the best place I can afford.”

  “What about your salary from your old position?”

  “I quit . . . remember? No more salary.”

  “I’m aware of that, but what about the pay you’ve received until now?”

  “I spent it,” he said with a shrug.

  “Don’t you have investments?”

  “Of course I have investments. Not liquid—and all tied to Lockwood Enterprises—and retirement. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m nowhere near retirement age.”

  “Surely you have credit?”

  “Grandfather has seen to it that I don’t,” he said wearily. “Look, Princess, all I have is whatever cash I was able to find in my apartment yesterday.”

  After searching his wallet, various coat pockets, and the cookie jar where he tossed spare cash to use as tips for delivery people, he had come up with only four thousand and some-odd dollars. It was enough for the deposit and first month’s rent on this place, and would buy them the barest necessities. Perhaps the furniture would have to wait.

  But not the crowbar, he decided, jutting his lower lip to blow a gust of breath in the direction of his sweaty forehead. It was stifling in here, and the place reeked. Claustrophobia was setting in. If he could just open a window . . .

  “Why can’t you access your trust fund?” Emmaline asked.

  “Because it doesn’t become mine until my thirtieth birthday.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “A year from next spring. March.”

  “March?” There was something about the way she said it . . .

  Oh.

  Yes.

  March.

  The baby was due in March.

  For a brief moment, he allowed himself to fantasize that the baby wo
uld be born on his birthday.

  He saw himself, a few years down the road, with a little boy on his knee and a candlelit cake in front of them. They were both wearing hats, he and his son . . . pointy party hats with the elastic chin straps that always snapped off the first time you put them on your head.

  Granger knew about such hats from personal experience, as he had attended a few birthday parties in his childhood. But he had never had one of his own—Grandfather didn’t believe in celebrating being another year older. Age, in his opinion, was the enemy. The best thing you could do was ignore it and hope that it wouldn’t sneak up on you.

  If Granger’s son was born on his birthday, he would throw a big party every year, with pointy hats and cake and presents and maybe even a clown.

  In fact, he decided, he would throw an elaborate yearly celebration no matter what day his son was born.

  He would do it even if his son was a daughter . . .

  A daughter.

  A little girl who had pink cheeks and pink bonnets and little pink-cheeked dolls who wore pink bonnets, too.

  A little girl who looked just like her mommy, with dark hair and green eyes that sparkled when she was happy and . . .

  And turned murky as seawater in a nor’easter when she was angry.

  Granger realized that Emmaline had removed the sunglasses at last, and her stormy eyes were fastened on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you feeling sick again?”

  “Again? I never stopped feeling sick.”

  “Look, I’m sorry you don’t feel good,” he said, bristling at her accusatory tone. “But that’s not exactly my fault.”

  “It isn’t?” she shot back.

  “No! I mean, I didn’t set out to get you pregnant, Emmaline. And if anyone’s to blame, it’s . . . it’s both of us,” he amended hastily, having seen her tempestuous expression grow even more fierce. “Look, Emmaline, we’re both responsible adults. We both should have known better. We should never have let anything happen between us that night . . . or yesterday, for that matter.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. But there’s no going back, is there?”

  “No. There’s no going back.”

  And God only knows what lies ahead, he thought bleakly.

  Several hours and countless tears later, Emmaline sat cross-legged on the grungy linoleum floor, thinking that she had never been more miserable in her life.