by Rachel Hauck
Despite his speech about letting go of the past, he tripped backward to the time of Princess Louisa. For one glorious season, he’d been a somebody. Or so it seemed. Worthy. The fashion world raved over him. Lords and ladies called upon him.
Then without warning or reason, it all ended. The letters and inquiries stopped. His calling card meant nothing. So he climbed the Hand of God again because it was after his first ascent that Emmanuel came with the opportunity of a lifetime.
But the old man never appeared again.
Now it was too late. While Taffron had his sight and his teeth and a full head of hair, arthritis and tremors gripped his fingers, preventing a steady grip on his scissors and needle. If Emmanuel somehow appeared today, Taffron would have to turn him aside.
In the distance, a horn bellowed, signaling a ferry leaving the dock, headed toward England. From inside, Eileen called him to the table.
He’d just picked his cup up from its saucer when the shop doorbell chimed. Taffron glanced toward the passageway leading from the seaside cottage kitchen into his workshop and storefront.
“Are you expecting someone?” He regarded his wife. Had she planned some sort of birthday tomfoolery?
“I bet it’s Mrs. Gunter. She inquired of your birthday last week, hinting she had something for you.” Eileen motioned for him to sit. “I hope it’s not cake. I’m making your favorite.”
“Chocolate caramel? You do love me, don’t you?” Taffron snapped his napkin over his lap and took up his utensils. A chocolate caramel cake. Well then, he’d welcome eighty-two with open arms. No one bested his Eileen in baking.
But first, he’d take his wife out to dinner, celebrate like a man who’d lived a good long while. Drink a pint or two and then come home for cake.
He’d just cracked open his three-minute egg when Eileen reappeared, her eyes wide, her face pale.
Taffron was on his feet. “What is it?”
“He’s here,” she whispered. “In the workshop.” She pointed toward the doorway, her words rushed and breathless. “My goodness, he doesn’t look a day older. How can that be?”
“Who’s here?”
“Him. Emmanuel.”
“What?” Taffron toppled his chair as he moved around the table. “Surely not. He was an old man forty years ago.”
“He’s the same old man. Exact same. And in our shop.”
Taffron took a wobbly step then steadied himself on the adjacent chair. “What do you think he wants?”
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps another glorious assignment.” Eileen glanced toward the exit then at her husband. “He is as kind as ever too.”
“What assignment? There are no princesses to be married. Why me? I’m nothing more than a common tailor.”
“Perhaps there’s a duchess or a marchioness marrying? Didn’t I read in the paper that the prime minister’s daughter was engaged?”
“I can’t,” Taffron whispered more to himself than Eileen, rubbing his crooked sewing fingers with this thumb. “The last time I looked at fashions, the Titanic had just sailed.”
“Go.” Eileen urged him forward. “What if he just wants to wish you a happy birthday?”
“How would he know it’s my birthday?”
“Everyone in the hamlet knows it’s your birthday. Now go.”
With a tug at his tie, Taffron slicked back his hair and headed into the shop.
“Good morning, sir.” Good. He sounded casual. Confident. “How can I help you?”
Emmanuel stood in the center of the shop, filling it with his large frame and seeming to bring a light all his own.
He wore a long, woolen anorak and a broadbrim hat over sleek, white hair. But it was his eyes that arrested Taffron. The way they moved, searched, and saw, as if straight into his soul.
“It’s been a long time,” Emmanuel said.
“Indeed. Forty years.” Taffron raised the lights, unsure if he should treat the man like a lord or a bloke he’d met down at the pub. He was both sorts. One and the same. “Please, have a seat.”
But he remained standing, so Taffron did as well. “I’ve a final task for you,” he said.
“For me?” Taffron schooled his features, tossing the statement off with a quick laugh. “Surely not a royal gown or a fancy frock. I am old, sir. Out of touch. My fingers are bent. My hands shake.”
“I’m confident you are equipped for the task. But you do not have to accept.” Emmanuel reached back for the door. “I assure you it is a worthy endeavor.”
“What am I creating?”
“Another gown.”
“Another gown? For whom?”
“Another young woman who needs to know she’s a princess.”
“A princess. Emmanuel, you’re old so you may not know but Princess Louisa’s daughter is already married. And Princess Lore is too young. There are no more princesses to be married. Not in Lauchtenland anyway.”
“Taffron, this particular lass needs to feel like a princess. To believe who she is on the inside whether she bears a title or not. Do you accept?”
“Won’t you tell me who?”
Emmanuel glanced out the window and for a moment, Taffron thought he heard him mumbling. Then he reached for the nearest chair.
“Actually, there are two young women, Taffron. One born a princess and one who will become a princess. But you must keep this between us. Only we can know.”
“Tell me more, m’lord.” Taffron sank into the squeaky rocker by the window. The light was perfect no matter what time of day for doing delicate work. “What will you have me to do?”
“With the royal wedding ball two months away, we have to ask, where is Prince Gus?”
–Tweet from @newsleader
“Prince Gus made his great escape. Will he have the courage to return? Tweet your thoughts. We’ll read them tomorrow on the show.” #maddyandhyliveshow #princegus
–Brighton Kingdom’s Madeline and Hyacinth Live!
“He may be a prince but I think he’s the king of the broken hearts.”
–Stone Brubaker, the Morning Show
On Prince Augustus
Chapter One
Daffy
February, Present Day
Floridana Beach, FL
This was the life. A girl on holiday with her mates. Surely something memorable was bound to happen.
Standing on the water’s edge, Daffy washed her weary soul with the low rumble of the waves, raised her face to the sun, and pretended she was more than an ordinary girl.
Time away was so needed. After graduating with her master’s degree, she jumped straight into work, striving to prove herself with barely a moment to breathe.
Two years in she needed a break. Then while online Christmas shopping she stumbled across the sweet blue cottage on the American coast and booked a week in February without even checking her diary. Then she coaxed her little sister along with her best friend, Leslie Ann, to join in the fun.
The three had arrived on the central Florida private beach around midnight and slept until the sun filled their rented beachfront cottage with glorious light. The sights, sounds, and sun filled her with expectation. This week was going to be amazing. She just knew it.
“I think I’ll emmigrate to America,” she said.
“Surely not.” Little sister Ella splashed through the winter-chilled waves. While the sun was warm, the breeze still nipped with a southern chill. “Why would you?”
“Why not? I always said I wanted to live abroad.”
“You never.” Ella paused beside Daffy as she tied her rich dark hair into a floppy topknot.
“You wanted to marry the prince and rule Lauchtenland. Besides, you joined the Royal Trust to work for Mum. She’d be put out if you left.”
“Dream killer.” Nevertheless, Ella was right. Well, partially right. Daffy couldn’t leave the Royal Trust after Mum went out on a limb to secure her position. Not very far out on the limb, but far enough. “But I do love my job.”
With h
er master’s degree in restorative arts, she wanted nothing more than to knock around historic artifacts, furniture, clothing, paintings, photographs and literature. The House of Blue had acquired such things for the last, oh, five hundred years. Longer, if the Hadsby Castle fire in 1595 hadn’t destroyed nearly everything the royal family owned.
But the chair had been saved. The King Titus. Constructed by Lauchtenland’s first king after the Norman conquest. It had been the royal throne for almost a century before King Louis II replaced it in 1881.
“What are we talking about?” Leslie Ann Parker, stunning, talented—and the latest sensation of Lauchtenland’s national Morning Show, reporting on all things royal—arrived at the waves.
“Daffy wants to immigrate to America,” Ella said.
“Surely not.” Leslie Ann dismissed the idea with a flick of her hand.
“That’s what I said.” Ella slapped Leslie Ann a high five then bent to inspect a rather large conch shell.
“Thanks, you two. Your vote of confidence in me is touching.”
Why couldn’t she move to America? She was educated and confident—well, most of the time. Surely American museums and historic societies needed curators. Lately corporations had been hiring curators to acquire fine art. Others to build a museum of the company’s history. Daffy would love such an opportunity.
“When did you ever want to live in America?” Leslie Ann repeated Ella’s question. “I’ve known you since A-levels and never once did you express a desire to live abroad. Darling, don’t you remember the time it took a month of talking to get you off on a London weekend?”
“Maybe I said it more to myself than out loud. Look, we’re standing on a Florida beach, aren’t we? This whole holiday was my idea. And the weekend to London was during final exams. Of course I didn’t want to go.” Daffy kicked at a small foaming wave as if to make her point.
“She also never said out loud that she wants to marry a prince. But she does.” Ella was simply on a wild, fantastical roll this morning.
“Wanted to marry a prince,” Daffy said. “Past tense. Present tense makes me sound like a silly little girl.” Which was the purpose of sisters, no? “And if I never said it out loud, how do you know?”
“Fine. Not wants but wanted.” Ella ran the shell up to their beach chairs and returned with more on the prince topic. “I suppose I can tell you now. When I was little, I used to sneak into your room and read your diary.”
“You read my diary?” Daffy laughed, then sobered. “Please say you’re joking.”
“Yeah, the one titled My Life with the Prince by Daffodil Caron. I thought it was fiction at first. You went on and on about this beautiful, sweet girl who married a prince. It couldn’t have been you.” Daffy splashed her laughing sister. “But in the end, you started writing your names. Daffy and Gus. You wanted to marry Prince Gus.”
“And you never did?” Daffy said. Both sisters grew up in the halls of the palace. For a while anyway. Before the great departure.
“Marry Prince Gus?” Leslie Ann moved away from a seagull that touched down a little too close. “Where is this tome? I want to read it.”
“Don’t tell me you never had visions of marrying one of the Blue princes?” Daffy faced her friend. “Half the girls in my class wanted to be my friend so I’d invite them to the palace after school.” Where she went every afternoon while Mum worked. She’d been the queen’s private secretary before taking on the direction of the Royal Trust.
“You’d get a jolly laugh, I tell you.” Ella pressed her hands to her cheeks and batted her eyelashes. “‘I just love him so much. He’s sooooo cute.’”
“Now I have to read it,” Leslie Ann said. “What a great feature idea. An exposé on all the girls who grew up with Prince John or Prince Gus as their dream date. I’d use your diary as a starting point.”
“I’ve never been so glad in my life the diary is gone.” Daffy turned away from the flocking seagulls who sought for something she didn’t possess. “I was ten when I started the diary, and Gus was my friend. Not some cute chap I admired from afar.”
Was being the operative word. She’d not spoken to him in eighteen years, except in passing. A “Your Royal Highness” here, a “Prince Gus” there. She saw him when she helped serve at state dinners. Then once or twice a year after university when Mum had transitioned from the queen’s personal secretary to the head of the Royal Trust.
“You mean My Life with the Prince doesn’t exist?” Leslie Ann again.
“Not anymore.” Daffy said. Thank God. There was more in that book than a dreamy-eyed ten-year-old’s fairytale. “Now what should we do with our day? Our first day at the beach?”
“I’d always wondered about the missing pages, Daff.” Ella refused to let the topic alone. “Torn out. Then toward the middle, you stopped writing. You didn’t finish your love story.”
“Because there was no ending. It was all make-believe.” And the torn-out pages? Hidden between the endpaper and the leather cover. “How do you remember so much? You were only eight.”
“I’m brilliant. I remember everything.”
True. There was no denying her little sister’s savvy intelligence. A graduate of the prestigious Byhurst College with honors in engineering, she was now a software developer with an international tech company based in Lauchtenland’s capital, Port Fressa.
“Ella.” Leslie Ann shivered as the sun went behind a cloud. Her barely there bikini provided no warmth. “Obviously Daffy doesn’t want the book. So if you ever find it, give it to me.”
“Lucky for me Mum threw it away in one of her big clean outs.” Daffy headed for their beach chairs, hoping the sun would burn off the chill by lunch time. “Why would you want to do a story on it, Leslie Ann? Besides embarrass ten-year-old me? No one cares about Daffy Caron.”
“I would never embarrass you, Daff. But think of how every girl wants to be a princess at one point in her life. You actually had access to the palace. To the House of Blue. Or…” Leslie paused and stared off, thinking. “I could do a piece on Prince Gus’s love life. We could write his happily ever after ending. If your diary came true, what would his life look like today? Maybe married with a baby in his arms? The poor chap was left at the altar. A year later, goes through a second broken engagement. All while the world watches.”
“Leave it be, Les.” Reclining in a wooden Adirondack, Daffy draped a towel over her legs and dug her feet into the cool sand. “You’ll only remind him of his pain. Besides, you’re the one who started rumors something must be wrong with him for losing two amazing women.”
“It was a valid question.” Leslie Ann chose a chair and sat, legs outstretched toward the emerging sunlight. “I’m a journalist. I’m paid to think deep.” Both Ella and Daffy laughed. For real. Not the fake kind. “Besides, we don’t even know where the man is so how could I remind him of his pain? No one’s seen His Royal Highness in over a year. He’s pulled a Prince Harry and run away from the royal family.”
“Run away from the press is more like it.” Daffy couldn’t resist defending the man. So what they weren’t chummy anymore, he was still her friend. “The media showed no mercy when Coral Winthrop never showed up for their wedding. And you sacrificed him on your altar of headlines and money when Lady Robbi broke off their engagement.”
“Can you blame us? It was downright scandalous.” Leslie Ann dug in her rucksack for her phone. “I think I’ll text my boss about this. And, Ella, I’m serious. If you find Daff’s diary, hand it over.”
“She won’t, but even if she does, you’ll be gravely disappointed, Les.” Daffy closed her eyes and sank into the peaceful sunlight and the repeating drum of the crashing waves. When the wind wasn’t blowing, the sunlight was glorious, almost hot. “Besides writing how cute he was, I only dared dream of holding his hand.”
Well, maybe there was the one teeny-tiny kissing scene. All very G-rated. Something like, “The prince scooped her up in his arms and kissed her on the cheek.”
What did she know of kissing at ten? And she was done discussing her journal.
After she was banned from the palace—another story no one else needed to know—she wrote her final entry and tossed the book under her mattress. Then in a drawer. Then in a box in the back of her closet.
She’d forgotten about it as best she could—with time, lots and lots of time—and went happily, successfully, through secondary school, A-levels, and university. Somewhere in the midst of all those days, months, and years, maybe during Mum’s great decluttering of ’09, the box with the diary became rubbish.
A few years ago, she’d decided to look for it and that’s when Mum broke the news. “We figured if you wanted it, you’d have taken it with you.”
More than a decade later, Daffy was grateful. Because there was more in that diary than a silly prince romance.
There was a secret. She and Mum were the only ones who knew. And there was no one more loyal to the queen than Morwena Caron. Based on her reaction to Daffy’s inquiry, Mum had also done a splendid job of forgetting the diary’s contents.
Losing a few mementos along with the little book was the price she gladly paid.
Her thoughts intertwined with bits and pieces of Ella and Les’s conversation. What was Ella saying? Something about the Space Center.
“If I get this close and don’t go, my colleagues will never let me live it down.”
“Sounds good.” Daffy mumbled, drifting toward a warm, beachy rest.
My Life with the Prince.
Gus. With his tangle of dark hair, almond-shaped blue eyes, world-renowned smile. She could see him. Breathe him in. The Pudgy Prince grew into Prince Charming. And—
“Did I tell you?” Leslie Ann’s voice interrupted. “I’ll be presenting outside Clouver Abbey the day of Prince John’s wedding?”
“Only the entire plane ride over.” Ella.
“If I see Prince Gus at his brother’s wedding, I’m going to pounce.”
Daffy sat up and squinted through the sunlight at Leslie Ann. “You will not. Leave him alone. He’s been through enough.”
