We begin in the Great Hall, and I see a face in the crowd that I hoped I’d never see again.
Paulette.
It’s just a split second, and then she disappears.
I blink, wondering if I imagined it. It must be my brain playing tricks on me. All those memories I’ve been pushing away are coming to the surface.
Paulette would never have been admitted to the castle. Of course it wasn’t her. It’s impossible. I’m seeing things.
Shaking my head, I turn back to my brother.
King Charlie makes a speech and spreads his arms wide to the crowd in the room. Applause erupts. I clap my hands and try to smile. My gaze drifts over to the spot where I saw my ex’s face.
I put a protective arm over Flora’s shoulders.
I was imagining it. I had to be.
I follow Charlie, Damon, and their wives, Elle and Dahlia, out through the main double doors. We enter the royal cars, convertibles, so that we can wave to the crowds that line the streets to see us.
Perfect for the weather and the occasion.
Very much imperfect for me.
It’s too open. To public. Too exposed.
Flora slips her hand into mine and gives me an encouraging squeeze. Shouldn’t it be me, comforting her? I’m her father. I’m the adult. She’s just a six-year-old girl.
As usual, she surprises me. She lifts me up and helps me when I need it, giving me more strength than a child should.
It feels difficult to take a full breath. When the cars pull out of the castle gates and I see the crowds for the first time, I feel like I’m going to pass out.
As we drive down the streets, Flora waves to the crowds and flashes them her most dazzling smile. People point and take pictures, and I hear the swell of excitement at the sight of my daughter.
The whole city is jubilant. There’s a frantic sort of energy in the air that lives an electric taste on my tongue. My heart beats erratically, and my mouth is a little too dry to be comfortable.
I’m exposed, naked, on display.
Flora is, too. I can see the people pointing at her—at the mysterious princess who’s been kept out of the public eye. At the young girl whose birth was surrounded by so much controversy. At the one person in the world who means anything to me.
Damon leans into me. “You okay?”
I gulp. “I’m fine. I just don’t like crowds.”
“You’ve been too isolated out in Westhill.”
“Maybe.”
The people lining the streets meld into one mass of humanity. I can’t pick out individual faces. All I hear are screams getting louder and louder and louder. Arms wave, mouths stretch open to shout at us, and eyes pierce through me.
In an instant, I’m carried back to six years ago.
Those same faces, those same voices, but not quite the same screams. Today, they’re jubilant. Back then, they were menacing.
My hand flies to my face and my scar feels hot to the touch. It burns my face, slicing it open all over again as the images of that day fill my mind.
Damon puts his hand on my arm, squeezing it gently. I swallow a breath, staring at the back of our driver’s head as I try to regain control over myself. Flora waves to the crowds on the other side of me, and it takes all my self-control not to tell her to stop.
I’m on the edge. I know this feeling—I’ve been here before. The beast inside me is trying to break loose. I’m shaking—trembling in my seat, trying to maintain control over my own body.
Damon’s hand feels heavy on my forearm. My heart beats wildly, and my breath comes in short, staggered gasps. I can’t get enough air. I can’t fill my lungs. There’s a weight pressing on my chest, and a giant hand squeezing my head.
Then, I do the one thing I shouldn’t do. I look up at the crowd…
…and I see her.
Paulette.
Looking as attractive and venomous as she did six years ago. Dressed in a skin-tight dress, showing off her perfect, intoxicating body. Her pink lips curl into a cruel smile and her eyes drill into mine.
The moment our eyes meet, the barricade holding the crowds back breaks. They rush at our car. At me. At Flora.
People scream and jump forward, running toward our vehicle as panic mounts inside me…
…and I lose the battle with the beast.
My scar throbs, my heart races.
And I roar.
Jumping over Flora, I rip the car door open. I lunge toward the crowd. Cheers turn to shouts as people shrink away from me. I fly toward them, roaring and swinging my arms wildly from side to side. My fist clips someone’s jaw, and I roar once more. I shrink further and further inside myself, letting the wildness take over. I taste blood in my mouth, feeding off the adrenaline that courses through my veins.
Screams buoy me further as I rush the crowd. My vision is fuzzy. People rush away from me, back behind the barricade as photos flash in my eyes.
I feel like a caged animal. My family screams behind me, and the crowd shrieks in front of me. Reaching the edge of the crowd, I lean over an untoppled section of the barricade and climb up on top of it, searching the crowd for the woman who ruined my life.
I’ll rip the head from her shoulders. I’ll slash her face, just as she slashed mine. I’ll do anything to make sure she doesn’t hurt my daughter. I’ll kill, kill, kill.
But she’s gone.
Maybe she was never there to begin with.
My chest heaves as I grip the barricade, hundreds of terrified eyes staring up at me as cameras continue to flash. Smartphones stay pointed at me as I stare into them, seeing nothing.
An arm pulls me off the barricade. I’m dragged back to a different car, thrashing and screaming until the door slams and I’m driven away.
5
Jo
My nose is inches from the television screen. My breath catches as I watch Prince Gabriel leaping toward the crowd. He looks feral. Even on the television screen, I can see the whites of his eyes. Sweat is beading on his temple, and his cheeks are bright red.
His daughter cries in the car behind him and my own lip trembles. My heart breaks for her as the news cycle shreds Prince Gabriel to pieces. His outburst overshadows the entire ceremony, and Flora’s crying face stays frozen on the screen as reporters dissect every moment of the Prince’s breakdown.
Is this what my parents meant when they said he was troubled?
I put my hand to my chest as my eyebrows draw together. Tears sting my eyes as I watch Prince Gabriel’s reaction to the crowd get replayed on an endless loop.
The network plays it from a multitude of different angles, in slow motion, at regular speed, over and over and over again. Grainy, shaky smartphone footage in interspersed with official television recordings. He’s dragged back to a car, kicking and screaming, and the entire ceremony descends into frantic of damage control.
They interview the man Prince Gabriel punched, who calls the Prince an animal. A tear rolls down my cheek. His outburst was unprovoked, but the way he’s being treated in the media is downright savage.
Leaning back in my seat, I let out a deep breath and wipe my tear away. As reporters replay the Prince’s attack yet again, disgust wells up inside me and I flick the television off. I toss the remote away and sigh, rubbing my palms over my eyes.
“They’re animals, aren’t they?” A voice says behind me.
I turn to find Mrs. Grey’s head poking through the door. I’m in the Gardener’s Cottage, my new home. It’s at the back of the Westhill Palace grounds, tucked away in a copse of trees.
Mrs. Grey, the no-nonsense woman who runs the castle, steps through the door. She shakes her head. Her salt-and-pepper hair is tied back in a low bun, and she wipes her hands on her apron. “The press, I mean. Jumping on poor Prince Gabriel like that when they should be focusing on the King. And poor Miss Flora! This has ruined her first public appearance.”
“What happened? It looked like he just snapped.”
Mrs. Grey tuts.
She pulls a rag out of her pocket and starts dusting some shelves. My parents left most of their belongings here, which is a good sign that they think they’ll be coming back. My father is an avid reader, like me, and he has shelves and shelves of books in the cottage. He still has all my books from when I was a kid, too.
Mrs. Grey dusts the books without looking at me. “Prince Gabriel is a complicated man,” she says, not really answering my question. She puts her hands on her hips and turns toward me. “Anyway. I came here to make sure you had everything you needed.”
I nod. “I’m all set.”
“The rest of the staff and I prepared a bit of a welcome lunch for you today. We figured you’d be tired yesterday, but we’d like to officially welcome you to the castle.”
“Really?” My eyebrows jump up. “Wow, I… Thank you.”
Mrs. Grey smiles at me, and my heart swells. Since my arrival yesterday, I’ve met half a dozen people who’ve made me feel more welcome than I’ve ever felt before. Maybe it’s because I’ve been living in New York City for so long, and I’m used to strangers being rude to me. Maybe I’m just happy to be back in Farcliff.
Whatever it is, there’s a sense of community in Westhill that warms my heart. It makes me feel like coming here was the right decision—for myself as well as my parents.
Mrs. Grey motions to the door, and I follow her back to the main castle. She points out the various areas of the grounds to me as we make the ten-minute walk back.
“This is the servant’s entrance,” she says. “So you’ll be coming in and out of here every day. We serve lunch from noon until one. If your shoes are dirty, clean them here. I don’t want you tracking dirt all over the kitchens. Your father was a nightmare for that.”
I grin, imagining my father going toe-to-toe with Mrs. Grey. I think he’d rather face the cancer than get on the wrong side of her.
The hallways in the servants’ quarters of the castle are a bit too narrow for the two of us to walk side-by-side, so I fall in behind her. She points out a couple of bathrooms, a linen closet, and finally the kitchens. I can hear the sounds of pots and pans clanging, intermingling voices, and lots of laughter.
We turn the corner and the smell of something delicious fills my nostrils. I inhale the scent and sigh in contentment.
“Is that a roast?”
“With all the trimmings,” Mrs. Grey smiles. “George is a fabulous cook—fit for a king.” She winks.
George bows to me. He’s wearing a white chef’s jacket and a matching cap. “At your service, Madame.”
His hair is jet black, poking out under his cap in thick curls. He has a slight French accent.
“You already know Harry,” Mrs. Grey continues. I nod to the young man. Harry Brooks is broad and strong, with sun-kissed skin bronzed from hours working in the gardens with my father. I met him yesterday, when I first checked out the rose garden. He winks at me, and I blush.
“This is Samantha,” Mrs. Grey continues. “The head of housekeeping.”
“Sam,” the young woman corrects. She has curly red hair and ruddy cheeks, and I like her instantly. “You’re Jolie?”
“Jo,” I say, and we both smile at each other.
I’m introduced to a dozen more staff, including Bertrand, Prince Gabriel’s personal butler. He’s tall and bald, with a hooked nose. He doesn’t say anything to me, but gives me a low bow and studies me with his sharp, dark eyes.
I take a seat next to Sam and accept a plate from George.
“Welcome to Westhill,” he says in a deep, friendly voice. “We loved your parents. They always spoke highly of you.”
It only takes a few moments for me to feel at home here. I’ve lived alone for so many years, struggling to make ends meet—this is almost too much for me to take in.
The staff laugh and joke with each other throughout the meal. Most of them have worked and lived in this castle their entire lives. It feels like a big family. By the end of the meal, both my heart and my stomach are full. My cheeks hurt from laughing, and I have no doubt that I’ve made the right decision in coming here.
Harry takes my empty plate and nods to the door. “I can show you around the grounds, if you like. You can let me know if you need any help with anything in the rose garden.”
Something in the way Harry’s eyes sparkle makes me uncomfortable, but I just smile in response and agree. When we walk toward the door, his hand drifts to my lower back, and I pull away, clearing my throat.
His touch feels too insistent, and I don’t like it.
Still, I’ve just been welcomed into this tight-knit group with open arms, and Harry is one of them. He has jet-black hair and objectively, he’s very handsome. I don’t want to be rude on my second day here. It’s just that every time Harry smiles at me, an uncomfortable feeling crawls up my spine.
Harry leads me outside and to a golf cart. We take off. I grab on to the handle above me as Harry points out various areas.
“We’ll go to the creek first. It’s the wildest area of the castle grounds. It’s actually a protected wildlife reserve, so we don’t do much work there. The Rangers monitor it.” He nods to a little brick building on the edge of the reserve. We drive along the perimeter of the forested area, and Harry glances at me.
“You’re pretty,” he says. “Better than I expected you to be.”
“Um, thanks?” I frown. Was that supposed to be a compliment?
“Yeah, although if you keep eating as much as you did today, you’ll probably put on a few pounds” He glances at me, dragging his eyes up and down my body. I shift in my seat uncomfortably, not answering. How long is this tour going to last? Not long, I hope.
Harry drives over to the hedge maze at the western end of the grounds. “You want to go inside?”
I glance at the tall hedges and clear my throat. The last place I want to be is stuck in a maze with Harry’s wandering eyes—or any other parts of his that may be prone to wandering.
I shake my head. “Maybe some other time. I was hoping to get some work done in the rose garden today.”
“Straight to work, hey?”
“That’s why I’m here,” I smile awkwardly, and Harry turns the golf cart back toward the castle.
“You know, Prince Gabriel really loves the rose garden. I hope you’ll be able to keep it up to his standards.” Harry glances at me, giving me what I’m guessing is his best roguish smile.
I nod. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re a bit uptight, aren’t you?”
When I don’t answer, Harry continues: “Yeah, the Prince was pretty tough on your father. You think you can handle it?”
“What do you mean? Tough on my father how?”
Does this have anything to do with Prince Gabriel’s outburst at the parade? What kind of person is Prince Gabriel, really?
“Oh, you know, His Highness is just very particular about how the roses should be kept.”
“Well, I learned from the best, so I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it. Thanks for the tour.” I jump out of the golf cart before it even comes to a full stop. Harry reaches his hand toward me, and then reconsiders. He grins at me, and with a wink, he drives away.
I watch him leave, trying to ignore the prickly feeling at the back of my neck. Yesterday, Harry Brooks told me he’s the youngest head gardener ever to be in charge of Westhill. I think he resents that my father was in charge of the rose garden.
Whether or not he’s a threat to me, tough—I’m not sure.
I’m inclined to think he’s mostly harmless, and maybe just used to having girls crawl all over him. Harry is muscular, and quite handsome—but I just broke up with another up-himself, arrogant prick. I have no intention of falling into bed with another one.
The last thing I want to do is have any kind of romantic relationship that would jeopardize my position at Westhill.
I shake my head and turn back to the Westhill Rose Garden.
It’s enclosed in a low, wrought iron
fence, similar to the one that encloses the palace grounds. I push the gate open. It’s a miniature version of the front gates I walked through yesterday.
The roses are just beginning to bud, and I take my time walking among them. I grew up surrounded by these flowers, since my father has always been a rose gardener. When he got the position at Westhill Palace, he looked happier than I’ve ever seen him—and now, it’s my turn to make him proud.
I run my fingers over one of the tiny rose buds, letting my heart settle after a hectic few days. I spin around in a slow circle, taking stock of the small patch of land that will become my own little kingdom over the next few months.
Inhaling the fresh air, my mind starts sparking with ideas. I take out my precious leather-bound notebook to make notes of all the things that need to be done for the roses before slipping it back into my pocket.
My mind flits back to the story I started writing on the bus. Walking to the shed, I can’t stop smiling. I grab a bag of mulch and start spreading it out wherever it’s needed, all the while thinking of my story.
Surrounded by my parents’ hard work—and wanting to make them proud—I feel more inspired than I have in years. Finally, I have a stable base from which to live my life. I have a house, and food, and a garden to tend.
Most importantly, I have ideas.
In this rose garden, I think I’ve found my muse. If I can keep my distance from the Prince, I might just be able to make a home here.
6
Gabriel
I drive back to Westhill in the dead of night. Flora sleeps in the back seat, and I check on her in the mirror often. I don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. I know I lost control. I know I ruined the ceremony. I know that Charlie isn’t happy with me.
But how could I help it?
Paulette was there. I saw her. She probably orchestrated the whole thing—the barricade falling over and the crowd surging forward.
I saw the way she looked at Flora, like a lion salivating at the sight of an antelope. That woman is evil, and I don’t want her anywhere near my daughter.
Knocked Up by Prince Gallant Page 4
