by B. E. Baker
“Third?” her eyebrows rise. “Are you serious?”
“I learned Dutch first, and then shortly after, German. I don’t count Alemannic, as it’s only a dialect of German. I’m dyslexic, so learning new languages is a misery, but Mom insisted I learn English after I mastered the other two. It took a decade to become fluent enough to manage on my trips to the United States. If I hadn’t done a year of school on an exchange in New York, we probably wouldn’t be talking freely right now. I find that learning to read and write something is worlds harder for me than simply speaking.”
“That’s impressive,” Beth says. “Honestly.”
I shrug. “Charles Schwab is dyslexic. Albert Einstein was too. Your president, John F. Kennedy, dyslexic. And Walt Disney. I could go on.”
“I didn’t mean to say you aren’t capable,” she says. “Sorry if it came across that way.”
“Not at all, but I don’t like telling people.” I have no idea why I told her. “They look at me differently.”
“Are you sure they’re not staring at your nose hairs?” she asks.
My hand flies to my nose and she laughs. That captivating laugh keeps me from being annoyed. “My nose hairs are fine.”
“Your nose hairs aren’t at all visible,” she agrees.
“Anything to distract me from droning on about the family’s rise to prominence?”
“Oh, not at all. I was about to ask you what happened after Napoleon made you a sovereign state.”
“It is quite exciting,” I say. “And good old Johann Joseph was very dutiful. He and his wife had fourteen children.”
Her jaw drops. “Wait, all with the same woman?”
“Viennese women are sturdy,” I say. “Like, seriously impressively fertile.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t even.”
“Can’t even what?”
Her brow furrows. “Excuse me?” She pauses. “Oh, sorry. That’s an odd American expression.”
I smirk.
“You’re messing with me now.”
“Maybe, but I’m finding that it’s quite entertaining.” And I want her to laugh again, even if it’s at herself, which she does quite freely. It’s refreshing, a woman who laughs at herself. “But his oldest son Aloys took over for him.”
“Boring. Oldest son, oldest son, always the oldest son.”
I don’t disagree.
“But then,” she says, “maybe I only think that since I’m the youngest daughter.”
“Well, good old Aloys married another Viennese woman and they had eleven kids.”
She shakes her head. “He couldn’t even match his father. Sad, really.”
“Well, it must have been a very vexing few years for him,” I say, “because his first five children were female, as were the four after the oldest son. Can you imagine? Nine daughters?”
“I hope they had a lot of bathrooms.”
“He must have been a very patient man.”
“My father only had three girls,” Elizabeth says, “and he says he barely survived raising us.”
“I do believe fathers today are expected to do a great deal more in the way of interaction and nurturing than good old Aloys. He probably foisted them off on nannies.”
“Now I have a burning desire for a nanny,” Elizabeth says. “But do I need to have eleven children to justify it? Because I don’t want one that badly.”
“You just need to marry a prince,” I say.
“Know of any eligible ones?”
When I glance her way, her eyebrow is cocked, the side of her mouth turned up, and I realize she’s flirting.
“Actually,” I say. “This is a little awkward, but I’m not a prince.”
Her mouth drops. “But Paisley is a princess, right? Or is that just a media thing, and she’s not really?”
I clear my throat and tighten my hands on the steering wheel. Apparently even Americans care. “Oh, she’s a princess alright, not that she can inherit from Dad either.”
“Aren’t you the oldest boy?”
I flinch, but I doubt she notices. I don’t mention Noel. “I was born during my mother’s first marriage, to Gerard, the Marquis of Béthune. He died when I was barely a year old.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t remember him at all, but from what Mom says, he wasn’t a wonderful person. And her second husband, the Prince of Liechtenstein, has always treated me as his own son.”
Her eyebrows rise. “But that’s not good enough for the sovereign Principality of Liechtenstein.”
I shake my head. “It’s not, and that’s okay. I’ve been helping my dad out for way too long, but I recently told him it was time for me to press play on my life again. It’s time for him to let go.”
“Let go of what?” she asks.
“A few nights ago, Dad unveiled his plan to name me as his successor.”
“Whoa, I thought you said you can’t—”
“I can’t. You’re right about that.” I squeeze the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turn white.
“You look upset, and I don’t want to make it worse, but if your dad—”
“His plan would never work,” I say. “He wanted to adopt me formally, and then petition the House to change the law so that an adopted child could inherit.”
“It sounds like it’s about time,” Elizabeth says, “for the house law to be changed.”
“You’re so American.”
“What does that mean?” I can hear the frown in her voice.
“It means that most things in life can’t be fixed. They just are what they are.”
“Is that an American thing?” she asks. “Or a young thing?”
Great, now she thinks I’m ancient. At thirty-three, I’m probably almost ten years older than her—which means I’m way too old to even be considering the age gap. Even if Holly is nearly ten years younger than James. I focus on the road ahead.
“So, good old Aloys had two sons and nine daughters.”
I chuckle. Right back to the Liechtenstein primer. “His oldest son, Johann the Second, took over after him. He gave the people their first constitution. He took over really young and was the longest reigning monarch in Europe who never employed a regent of any kind.”
“But the real question. . .” Elizabeth meets my eyes. Hers sparkle.
I don’t want to look away, but I have to watch the road. “Yes?”
“How many kids did good old Johann the Second manage to father?”
“Ah, well, he was a bit of a disappointment there, truth be told.”
“Do tell,” she says.
“He didn’t have any children.”
“Was he. . .” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Gay?”
I laugh. “Doubtful, but I guess there’s no way to know for sure. He had one younger brother, though, if you’ll remember.”
She nods, sitting forward in her chair, her head turned toward mine.
“Well, good old Franz was an ambassador, and at the tender age of forty-three, he fell in love with a. . . Jewish widow.”
“Oh no, the horror.” She rolls her eyes.
“And of course, Liechtenstein is Roman Catholic,” I say. “So Johann the second did not approve.”
“He ruined his brother’s romance? Oh man, that’s sad.”
“Not quite,” I say. “See, the widow converted, but that still wasn’t good enough. But after twenty years of loving her against his brother’s wishes, Franz married her in secret.”
“Whoa, how old was he then?”
“Almost sixty-three,” I say. “Which is a little depressing, honestly.”
“How long were they secretly married?” she asks. “And did Johann the second, who I don’t like much anymore, find out?”
“I don’t know whether he discovered it, but he finally died in 1929, when his younger brother was seventy-three, and plucky little Franz finally married the love of his life publicly, the widow. He went on to rule by her side for nine more year
s after that.”
“That’s tragic. I feel like there’s a movie there or something.”
I chuckle. “Maybe if they weren’t so old. Do you want to watch a geriatric love story?”
She sticks out her bottom lip. “What if I do? Love is love.”
It makes me like her even more, but I don’t say that.
“Wait.” She swivels to face me, her eyes wide, her lip still stuck out. It sounds like she’s holding her breath when she says, “Did they have children?”
I shake my head. “Nope. None at all, which means that in spite of his eleven children, poor old Aloys didn’t manage to keep his line going.”
“Geez,” she says, a little bitterly. “All those worthless girls.”
“You’ll like Francis Joseph II,” I say. “He took over when his dad, the next dynast in line, passed on the throne. And he was brilliant—turned around the family fortunes himself. He also gave women the right to vote, and he moved the family to Liechtenstein. He thought if we were ruling the Principality, we ought to be living here, too.”
“Smart guy,” Elizabeth admits, almost reluctantly.
“You don’t know the half of it. We stood to lose everything in the wake of the world wars. The family was balanced on the edge of a knife, but he managed to extricate the bulk of the family’s art from war-torn Germany, and then using the sale proceeds from a few notable pieces, he refilled the coffers, transforming Liechtenstein into a financial powerhouse.”
She smiles. “Did you ever know him?”
“I have a photo or two of my diapered little self sitting on his lap, but I don’t remember them. But his son, Hans-Adam the Second, is my dad’s father, and he was nearly as good a man as Great Grandfather Francis.”
“Sounds like you were blessed,” she says. “And also cheated.”
By the time we reach the palace, I almost don’t notice her frizzy hair, or the streaks down her yellow dress. When Lars shows up to take her bags, I almost stop him and make a joke about needing to retrieve my drugs from them first. I don’t, and when I examine why, it makes me uneasy. I don’t want to share her laugh with anyone else. That’s when I realize that, although Holly probably wasn’t trying to set me up with Elizabeth Graham, I almost wish she was.
5
Beth
If Paisley had told me that her brother looked like Liam Hemsworth, I would not have agreed to the ride. My hair, my running mascara, my ruined dress, my pathetic, forlorn, jet lagged nap in the middle of Frankfurt.
My one hope is that he didn’t notice that I was drooling all over my hand. Please let him not have noticed that. Not that I can do anything about it now. I laugh out loud at myself. As if a semi-prince-legit-marquis who looks like a movie star and speaks three languages fluently would ever date little old dowdy Beth Graham from a suburb of Atlanta. It doesn’t matter whether my hair was done, or my makeup, or whether I looked organized and impressive.
And in any case, I am not organized and impressive.
I’m a beautician who dabbles at playing the piano. I live with my parents. And my birth mom may be famous, but she can’t even be bothered to pay for my hotel and food when the job I flew out for is postponed. I’m not bold enough to demand she cover my costs, seeing as she’s the reason I’m in this mess. If Rob hadn’t made friends with a secret princess, I’d be scouring the streets of Frankfurt looking for the most inviting park bench—until it got bad enough I had to call Mom and Dad and ask for money.
Humiliating.
I look around the room to which Paisley led me. A canopy bed with a rich, embroidered blue bedspread rests on the back wall with one hundred and seventy-four pillows piled on top of it. Okay, I didn’t actually count them, but it’s close to that. A chaise lounge at the foot of the bed with matching embroidery. Tapestries on the wall, honest to goodness tapestries. And the window opens on the town of Vaduz below. This entire room should be photographed for a magazine.
Although, the bathroom doesn’t have a shower—just a clawfoot tub designed for the Jolly Green Giant. It’s at least nine feet long. Who needs a tub that long? I can’t even remember the last time I took a bath, so that will be interesting. But for now, I plonk my makeup bag on the counter in front of the vanity and start over from the ground up.
A moment later, a tap at the door warns me that Paisley is here with the flat iron she promised. I hop up and run over.
“Thank you.” I take the flat iron with greedy hands.
“I swear, they really should have a ‘travel to Europe’ primer or something. It’s like a whole new world over here.”
“This room.” I spin around. “I have no words.”
“Words like, old?” Paisley asks. “Musty? Cluttered?” She smiles. “I can help. I have plenty of words.”
“You’re bonkers,” I say. “I couldn’t possibly love it more. It’s breathtaking, charming, elegant, and it has gravitas. That’s a word, right?”
Paisley laughs. “I’m glad you like it. This is the blue room, very cleverly named.” She looks pointedly at the bedspread, then at the blue vase collection on top of the armoire.
“I need a blue room, now,” I say. “I mean, really. And the canopy bed!”
“It eats up way too much space,” Paisley says, “and it’s so old that it squeaks, even though I made Mom replace the mattress.”
“Who cares if it squeaks?” I ask. “It’s a piece of history.”
“I like history well enough,” Paisley says, “but I prefer a good night’s sleep.”
“I’m sure I’ll sleep fine. Thank you,” I say. “Truly. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m glad you could come,” she says. “None of my real friends have seen any of this. It’s kind of fun to see it through your eyes.”
“Does James like it?” I ask.
She laughs. “He grew up in the Boston version of this, so he’s as jaded as me. He thinks the word ‘antiques’ is just good marketing for old junk.”
My mouth drops.
“We have furniture that is just as high quality now—look at Rob’s stuff—and it’s not creaky and worn out. Give me new, thank you very much, and let great great uncle Heinrich keep his fifteen billion dollar rolltop desk.” She snorts. “I’m not saying there isn’t a place for it. I just don’t appreciate it, clearly. Luckily, the world is a vast and beautiful place with room for all kinds.”
“Speaking of beautiful.” I raise one eyebrow.
Paisley frowns. “Huh?”
“Your brother?” I roll my eyes. “A heads up might have been in order. I was asleep on my arm and drooling when he arrived. No lie.”
Paisley laughs. Then she laughs some more.
“I had mascara smeared all over my cheeks, and look.” I point at my dress. “I looked like I was wearing a horrible Medusa costume.” I pause. “I don’t even know if you celebrate Halloween here.”
She shakes her head. “Not really, no.”
“And you know, it wouldn’t be so bad, except—”
“He’s so utterly and completely, devastatingly handsome?”
I sigh. “It’s not fair, like, at all.”
“It really isn’t. Do you know how obnoxious it is that some people get all the looks?”
Paisley is nearly as cute as her brother. Meanwhile, I’m average in every way. Which I’m mostly fine with, but not when, at my very worst, I’m shoved up against the cover model for Ralph Lauren Polo, Europe. “And he’s so stinking tall.”
“Which you should like,” Paisley says. “What are you? Five ten?”
I guffaw. “As if your brother would ever see me as anything but a charity case.” I toss my hair.
“So flatten it. Or curl it. Or whatever, but do it quick. Mom sent me to tell you that we have dinner in twenty minutes, and that was at least five minutes ago.”
I race across the room to plug the flat iron into the wonky European outlet.
“You can keep that one,” Paisley says. “Mom had three. She said she doesn’t
like that one because the plates are too wide.”
When I wait for it to heat up this time, I touch up my makeup, and wonder of wonders, nothing melts or smokes or anything. Thank goodness. I flatten my hair faster than I ever have, and then I change into my very favorite dress—black with a thick, simple, lace-ringed bodice that looks even more dramatic against my porcelain skin. With my eyes outlined in burnt ember, I look about as good as I can. Which isn’t much, but it’s light-years ahead of my Hagrid/Medusa/Marilyn Manson look.
I take the massive staircase slowly, not eager to add to my earlier humiliation with a tumble downward. I’ve nearly reached the bottom when something catches my eye.
Something I can barely believe.
In a spacious, light drenched western facing room, lit by the lowering sun, is a reddish masterpiece. I know I’m expected at dinner. I know that Paisley’s family is proper and fancy and formal, but I can’t keep my feet from rushing toward it. A Grand Fazioli Brunei. The nicest concert piano in existence, barring random one-offs. I reach out and brush the burl case, inlaid with mother of pearl flowers, and run my hand over the diamond inlay on the lid.
My fingers curl and uncurl, itching to play just one song. Just one.
“Beth?” Paisley calls from the entry.
“I’m coming,” I say. “I’m so sorry—I was sidetracked.”
I tear my hand away and force my feet to move toward her voice. But there must be some way I can obtain permission to play on it. Maybe when the family is out, sometime. Surely they have outings planned, and fancy occasions. Things that will take them away from the palace.
“You okay?” Paisley asks.
“You have a Grand Fazioli Brunei,” I say, my voice breathier than I’d like.
“A what?” Paisley scrunches up her nose.
“Only the most elegant, rich sounding, meticulously engineered, mellow piano—in the world, really. Paolo Fazioli engineered it for the Sultan of Brunei originally, you know.”
Footsteps behind her alert me to more people on their way toward us.
Paisley raises her voice. “Uh, hey, Mom, Cole, did you guys know we have, like, a famous piano?”
