Taking it in, I stop and gawk at the ornamental gold, the elaborate woodwork, the hall of oil paintings, the three-story ceiling encrusted with a myriad of chandeliers.
“You must be Ms. Belleseau,” a young woman says as she approaches me. She gathers a small amount of fabric from her uniformed dress and does a small curtsy. “I’m Araminta, your royal aide. It’s my pleasure to serve you.”
She smiles, though her lips quaver as if I make her nervous. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a tight chignon and the spray of freckles across her nose make her seem younger than she likely is. If I had to guess, she couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-one.
“Please call me Emelie,” I say. I don’t know what to do with my hands and it's not like I can curtsy back to her, so I grip the strap of my purse tighter, smile, and nod.
I glance at Julian who’s standing a few feet away, surrounded by people. It’s the strangest thing, watching him be somebody.
Growing up, sure I knew he was a prince, but in North Carolina, he was never treated like one. There was never anyone following him around, taking orders from him and ensuring his every need was satisfied. In fact, I recall his mother making him help with dishes most nights, and at breakfast his father would always ask him if he made his bed that morning.
Looks like he has people who do that for him now.
“While the prince settles in, would you like a brief tour?” Araminta asks. There’s a hint of contained excitement in her tone and I have to admit I’m curious to see the rest of the place. If the foyer is this magnificent, I can’t imagine how stately the rest of the place must be.
I steal another look at Julian for a moment before turning back to Araminta. “That would be great. Thank you.”
“Wonderful. If you’ll just follow me ...” Araminta folds her hands in front of her as she leads me down the hall, past oil painting after oil painting, sculpture after sculpture. Her shoes make no sound, but the soles of my sneakers squeak against the polished marble floors. We both pretend not to notice. “I’m sure you’re exhausted from traveling, so I’ll show you the main living quarters first. We can tour the rest of Knightborne after you’ve had some time to sleep. And believe me, you’ll want to be well-rested. It’s quite the jaunt.”
“Do you give a lot of tours here?” I ask.
“No. I’m afraid Knightborne is not open to the public. Prince Julian prefers privacy at all times,” she says. “Though four times a year, the King and Queen allow public tours of Grandmire Castle. There’s a lottery system and a wait list. Some people have been waiting for years. You’re very fortunate to get to peek behind the royal curtain, so to speak.”
Araminta glances back at me and offers a polite smile before pointing to a doorway on the right.
“Here we have our sitting room,” she says. “The prince does his casual entertaining and less official discourse here.” We keep striding forward. “Next is the formal dining room. This is where the prince takes all of his meals. He sits at the head of the table. You will likely sit to his right, but I need to confirm that. I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Good. God forbid I accidentally sit on his left.
Continuing on, she stops outside another doorway, and when I peer in, I spot an entire uniformed kitchen staff hustling and bustling around an industrial-sized kitchen outfitted in floor-to-ceiling stainless steel. The smell of fresh bread and cinnamon fills my lungs and my stomach begins to rumble. Other than the champagne on the flight and an old cranberry almond Kind bar that I dug out from the bottom of my purse, I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday.
“This is our prep kitchen. All of the palace’s meals are prepared here by a staff of seven,” Araminta explains. “We have a second, private kitchen that the prince uses. It’s the next door down.” She leads me Julian’s kitchen, which looks like something straight out of an architectural magazine with its painted green cabinets, brick walls, matte black light fixtures, and cognac leather bar stools. It’s sexy and masculine while still looking like it was dreamed up in another era. “I’m going to show you to your room next. We have several stairways throughout the palace that will bring you to the second level, but this stairway off the kitchen is the most direct route from here. It’s also the private stairway mostly used by the prince and his personal aide.”
I follow her through an arched doorway in the back of Julian’s personal kitchen, and a second later we’re climbing a narrow stairway that winds and turns until it stops at the top of a small landing. Leading me down a dark hallway peppered in glowing candlelight sconces, she stops outside the third door on the right.
Fishing a key from a pocket in the front of her dress, she unlocks the room and steps inside.
“This is where you’ll be,” she says, “for the time being.”
I wonder what she means by that, but I don’t ask. I’m not sure what Julian has told them about our arrangement, so I’m better off staying quiet until I know for sure.
I step inside and take a hard look at my surroundings, but I’m distracted by the behemoth four-poster canopy bed so massive it requires a stepstool to climb in. Centered along one wall, it’s buried in mountains of silk pillows and layers satin-soft blankets—truly a bed fit for royalty.
Araminta makes her way around the room, clicking on lamps and illuminating the dark space with a hint of soft light. All of the curtains are drawn, and while the sun is just coming up outside, it still feels like midnight in here. The dark wood furnishings and rich magenta wall paper don’t help, but I have to admit they do bring a bit of warmth and coziness to an otherwise elephantine bedroom.
“Your private lavatory is this way,” Araminta makes her way across the room to another door, and I follow her, silently taking note of how tall these doors are. They must be nine or ten feet, at least? And the ceiling goes several feet beyond them.
She flicks on the light, and I almost choke on my spit.
I was expecting a standard bathroom, but after seeing what the bed alone looks like, I should have known better.
Wrapped in floor-to-ceiling marble and accented with an enormous clawfoot tub, this “lavatory” is the stuff that bathroom dreams are made of. A polished nickel chandelier dances in the light overhead and a sizable bouquet of fresh red roses rests in a cut crystal vase on the counter by the makeup vanity.
This is quite the step up from the standard five-by-eight foot bathroom back in my townhome with its Formica countertops, laminate floors, and acrylic shower-tub combo.
“You have a closet and a dressing room this way,” Araminta says, heading to another set of doors. “Oh! I almost forgot to show you the steam shower.”
What sixteenth century palace wouldn’t be complete without a modern steam shower?
When we’re finished touring the en suite, she leads me back out to the main room to show me how to operate the fireplace, only mid-lesson Araminta lifts on her toes and peers past me, waving at someone in the doorway.
“Yes, bring them in, please. Right there is fine. Thank you,” she says.
A gentleman deposits my suitcases next to the door before giving me a nod and showing himself out.
“If you have no other questions, I shall leave you to it,” Araminta says, hands clasped in front of her. “If there’s anything you need at all, there’s a phone by your bedside. Please dial star seven and you’ll be able to reach me any time, day or night.”
Fighting a yawn, I thank Araminta for showing me around, and I walk her to the door. Turning back, I take a look at my three suitcases, trying to remember which one holds my pajamas.
I’m rifling through the second one a moment later when a light rap at the door sends my heart lurching into my throat, and when I turn around, I find Julian standing in the doorway.
“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 and 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 in 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 pri
vate 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.”
The Complete P.S. Series Page 60