The Prince's Bride

by Sophie Weston

  He said it to himself again. It hadn’t mattered. For the first time in years, it hadn’t been a straitjacket. And that was because of Hope. She’d made his life bearable. No, more than that. She’d given him a glimpse of a way of being himself, at peace, not endlessly feeling as if he was limping along trying to please other people and not very good at it.

  He thought: I need her. I thought she needed me. That night when she had stood beside him on the midnight bridge, slowly coming out of her dark place, holding his hand. That closeness, deeper than words.

  Surely he hadn’t been wrong about that?

  They’d both known it. He was sure. They’d acknowledged it that night in every way there was.

  No matter what she said, she had known.

  That was when he decided. He had to follow her. If she sent him away after he’d talked to her properly, so be it. But first he had to try.

  Chapter Nine

  The next problem for Hope was somewhere to live. She looked at a few websites and was making a shortlist, when she got an unexpected text.

  Foreign junketings over then?

  Ally!

  Her heart lifted. Ally Parker was her very best friend. They’d gone to primary school together and Ally had been Hope’s mentor and protector in those grim early months at the local school, after Gerald Kennard was arrested. They’d shared homework and make-up and illicit outings to pop concerts and talked boys and saving the planet endlessly. But Ally had always been focused on her writing, whereas Hope was only ever focused on foreign travel.

  She texted back. London. Where U?

  Ally, it seemed, was in London too and knew the perfect wine bar for them to meet and catch up. Hope went.

  Ally was sitting at one end of the bar, cradling a half-empty glass with a lot of ice in it and listening raptly to a woman playing jazz piano. She waved when she saw Hope, picked up the bottle of wine and two glasses in front of her and headed to a table in the corner. They hugged and sat down, grinning like loons.

  “It feels like skiving off,” said Hope. “I keep thinking we ought to keep our hoods up in case Mr Carter sees us.”

  Ally poured wine and pushed one glass towards her. “It’s great being a grown-up. And so good to see you. Bit of a surprise, though. I thought you were staying indefinitely in wherever it was.”

  “San Michele. No.”

  “Exhausted the possibilities? Or were you run out of town?”

  “Somewhere between the two.”

  Ally cocked her head, just as she always used to at school when she detected a story. She must be a very good journalist, thought Hope suddenly and wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before.

  “Sounds exciting. Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. Tell me about Celebrity magazine and your brilliant career.”

  Ally pulled a face. “Not so brilliant at the moment. There’s a new editor. We aren’t simpatico.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “That’s life. You’ve had your share of working for dweebs, too. What happened in San Michele then? Another employer’s friend with wandering hands?”

  “No. Forget about it. It’s boring. What’s wrong with the editor?”

  “Oh, he wants me to change the whole thrust of my interviews. Dig up dirt on the people I write about.”

  Hope grimaced. She’d been on the receiving end of dirt digging and knew how hurtful it could be. “Nasty. What are you going to do?”

  Ally shrugged. “Live with him for the moment and carry on doing what I’ve always done. He may improve once he gets over the urge to plaster his pawprint all over the magazine.”

  “And if not?”

  “It won’t be easy, but there are other jobs. I’ve got a decent name now.”

  “I’ll bet you have,” said Hope, pleased and just a little bit envious.

  Ally was quick as a whip. “What is it?”

  “Oh nothing. Just someone saying to me today that I have no qualifications and no skills. You’ve got both, by the bucketful.”

  Ally snorted. “And you’ve got so many I can’t count. And I’m not getting into the mutual self-denigration game. Have some more wine. Who was this rude person?”

  “Caroline Grace. We’ve always called her Aunt Cindy. And she’s given me a job for the summer, so less of the ‘rude person’. If you please.”

  “Caroline Grace the wedding planner?”

  “Yes.” Hope was surprised. “Do you know her?”

  “Heard of her,” said Ally thoughtfully. “She’s very well thought of. Classy and discreet rather than the big splash wedding, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s good to hear. I was beginning to wonder what I’d got myself into.” And she told Ally the story of the sub-aqua wedding, and they laughed so much they finished the bottle.

  Later – over fish and chips in a greasy spoon because Hope had said she hadn’t had proper British fish and chips for three years – Ally said, “Found somewhere to live yet? Or are you staying with Aunt Cindy?”

  Hope shook her head. “She likes her privacy and so do I. I’ve got a couple of rooms in shared flats to look at tomorrow evening.”

  “Well, if that’s what you’re looking for, I might have an idea. Old colleague of mine has just had an emergency posting to Rome. He doesn’t want to leave his flat empty. He rang me up and pretty much begged me to move in and caretake. I really haven’t got time to move all my stuff. But you’d be ideal. Want to meet him?”

  Hope did.

  So Ally made the call and he invited them over at once.

  The flat was small and untidy, but then the guy was packing. He was leaving on Eurostar the next morning. He pretty much fell on Hope’s neck with relief at Ally’s suggestion, gave her the key, showed her the house folder with all the machine details in it, including the burglar alarm, and invited her to move in as soon as she wanted. Then pretty much shooed them out.

  On the pavement, as Hope took note of the street and the bus stops, Ally said, “He must be really something.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Mr It’s-too-boring-to-talk-about.”

  Hope stopped dead as if she’d walked into a wall. She swallowed. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you didn’t even notice Neil, even though he had his shirt half off and is the hottest thing in landlords you’ll ever come across.”

  “Oh,” said Hope in a small voice. There was no point in denying it. Ally knew her – and human nature – too well.

  “So he was hot?”

  “Very,” said Hope. She suddenly shivered with longing. It shocked her. Longing was not good. She was supposed to have got over longing.

  Ally saw it. Her teasing tone changed. “It was serious, then?”

  Hope nodded. “Yes.” It was all she had the voice for.

  “Ah.” Ally took her by the arm. “Let’s walk. It’s cold. Do you need to talk about this?”

  Hope swallowed and shook her head.

  But back at Ally’s and nursing a mug of hot chocolate frothed to bubble-bath proportions, she said, “I was a real idiot, Ally. I saw this man, he called me a dryad and I – just sort of fell in love, I suppose.” Though I didn’t realize it until it was over.

  “Dryad? Cool.”

  Hope’s laugh broke in the middle.

  Ally sighed in sympathy. “Did you fall hard?”

  “Total immersion.” Hope tried to smile and didn’t make a very good job of it.

  “So what went wrong?”

  “He lied.”

  She waited for Ally to pile in with shock, sympathy and censure. But her friend disappointed her.

  Instead she said slowly, “I know how you feel about that, Hope. And I understand. I really do. But it’s not so black and white for most of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a spectrum.”

  Hope’s lip curled. “Of lies?”

  Ally flung up a hand before Hope could say what she thought of that. �
��No, I’m not channelling your dad. I’m just saying. There’s the white lie where you don’t tell your favourite aunt that her cooking is terrible. And then there’s the big one, the lie in pursuit of power or profit.”

  Hope winced.

  Ally nodded soberly. She didn’t say, “like your dad’s lies.” She didn’t need to.

  Hope’s chin lifted. “That’s different.”

  “My point exactly. Be more precise. What did this chap actually lie about? A wife and three children back home in Birmingham?”

  “Of course not.” Hope was outraged. “I’m not a complete fool.”

  “So you googled him?”

  Hope flushed. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  “Because bad things were said about you, so you don’t trust social media, the press or gossip. Yes, I know.” Ally was kind but she was sticking to her guns. “So how did you know there wasn’t a wife and children?”

  “I’m not that bad a judge of character.”

  “You were never a bad judge of character. Just a tiny bit over-suspicious maybe. Completely understandable. Which, you have to admit, makes it really interesting that you weren’t suspicious of Mr It’s-too-boring-to-talk-about.”

  Hope gasped. “I can’t believe you just said that. What happened to sisterly solidarity?”

  “Still here. Just got the blinkers off.”

  “He lied to me.”

  “But not about a hidden family he wasn’t telling you about.”

  Hope gave a snort. “That’s where you’re wrong.” She gave Ally a crisp outline of Jonas’s deception.

  But even that didn’t seem to convince her friend.

  “People suppress stuff for different reasons, Hope. You have to see the whole picture.”

  In a goaded voice, Hope said, “He didn’t want me to know he was really a prince.”

  Ally nodded. “Not nice,” she allowed. “But maybe he wanted a holiday from being a prince and you were his best chance. You need to talk to him about that.”

  Hope made a sizzling noise. “No I don’t. I need to forget him and get reacquainted with myself.”

  Ally put an arm round her shoulders and squeezed gently. “I reckon you know yourself pretty well. I’d be surprised if you fell hard for someone who didn’t tell the truth about important stuff. You’ve got the best con man antennae I’ve ever seen.”

  Hope shook her head. “You know your trouble? You’re just a hopeless romantic.”

  Ally pretended to be affronted. “Me? Hardboiled journalist to my fingertips.”

  They both laughed, sisterly solidarity restored.

  But as Hope was leaving Ally hugged her and said, “Last word on the subject, I promise. You want to know what I think? I think you have unfinished business with the Serene Highness.”

  And pushed her out of the door before she could argue.

  Hope had treated herself to a cab, since it was so late, and now she sat in the dark behind the silent driver, thinking.

  Well, mainly remembering Jonas. His easy familiarity with the forest. His strength. His tenderness that night on the bridge. She hugged her coat around her, remembering the feel of his jacket, still warm from his body. His passion. Their shared laughter. Until that awful night at the ball, she would have said that she never known anyone as deeply as she knew Jonas. But their intimacy had all been an illusion.

  Or had it?

  Could Ally have a point?

  By the time Jonas drove the hire car into Combe St Philip, he’d got used to driving on the wrong side of the road again. He hadn’t got used to eccentric British signposting, though. It was a relief to find Hasebury Hall had a decent-sized sign, with Landscape Gardening in the bottom right-hand corner and Corporate Plants in the left. This was definitely the place.

  He drove in past impressive monumental gateposts and up a drive that curved round to the front of the house. He rang the bell. There was no answer. The house looked deserted.

  On impulse, Jonas got back into the car and drove round the house. A shingled path led to a couple of substantial glasshouses. There was definitely movement there.

  He parked and got out. A tall man came hurrying towards him, stripping off workmanlike gardener’s gloves as he came.

  “Hello there. Sorry, I don’t hear the bell out here. Max Kennard. Did we have an appointment?”

  Jonas braced himself. “No. We – that is, I know your sister Hope, Sir Max.”

  There was a long, nerve-killing silence. Max Kennard didn’t offer to shake hands. He didn’t offer anything. He just stood there, his cordiality draining away like water out of a leaky bucket, and stared, narrow-eyed.

  Then he said abruptly, “You’d better come in.”

  He led the way into the house. Jonas noted that it was shabby and could do with a lick of paint, but the panelling in the study gleamed with the patina of years of loving care. Sir Max flung himself into a chair behind the big desk and waved at Jonas to sit down. He didn’t offer him a drink.

  “So,” he said at last. “Are you the forester?”

  Jonas jumped. “I suppose I am,” he said slowly. “She’s told you about me?”

  “Not since she’s been home. Hasn’t said a word. She mentioned you in a couple of emails before.”

  Jonas nodded. “I see.”

  “She liked you. Then.” It sounded like a death knell to Jonas.

  He swallowed. “I know.”

  Max swung round and looked out of the window. Clouds were racing across the sky. “Storm coming,” he said irrelevantly. “What do you want?”

  “I need to see Hope.”

  “She isn’t here.”

  “I need to see her,” Jonas said again, suddenly desperate.

  “If you think I’m going to tell you where she is, you can forget it.”

  Jonas could hardly blame him. “I hurt her. I didn’t think. It was stupid. I knew how she felt about, well, about lies. She told me about your father. How she loved him but she couldn’t trust him and it tore her apart. I knew that. And I thought ... The stuff I didn’t tell her ... None of it mattered, not compared with us.” He struck his fist into the palm of his hand. “How could I have done that?” he said, almost to himself. “Why didn’t I see?”

  He looked up. And saw that Max’s expression had changed. Oh, he still looked as if he would throw Jonas out of the window at the slightest provocation. But there was something else there, too. A sort of questioning.

  As if to confirm it, Max said, “She told you about our father?”

  “Yes.”

  “All about our father?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jonas, too exhausted to pretend.

  “Did she tell you she visited him in that place?”

  Jonas nodded.

  “Well that’s a first,” said Max unexpectedly.

  “What?”

  “Normally she just gives ’em the press cuttings and leaves ’em to get on with it. Her men,” he added, in case he hadn’t been clear. “No explanation, no excuse, that’s my Hopey.”

  Jonas sat bolt upright. No, she’s MY Hope. His reaction was instant, possessive and probably childish. It didn’t make any difference. She’s mine.

  God, where had that come from? Was he a caveman now?

  Max still looked grumpy but there was a glimmer of sympathy there too. He said, “I’m not going to tell you where she is. You’ll have to phone her.”

  “She’s blocked my calls.”

  Max sat back. “Then I can’t help you.”

  Jonas drove slowly out between the stone columns. He almost headed straight back to the motorway and London. But then he thought: I’ve been driving since the plane landed. I’d better have something to eat.

  He bought a sandwich and wandered round the village.

  There was an ancient church backing onto the Hasebury Hall estate. He went inside. It had that faint English ecclesiastical smell that he remembered from Cambridge – a mixture of
brass polish, freshly laundered surplices, flowers and candlewax. “Maybe a dash of frankincense,” said Jonas aloud, propping himself up against a pitted stone wall.

  There was what looked like a very old stained-glass window. A typed notice underneath read “Ralph Kennard, merchant”. There was more about the church and the Kennards in a page from a magazine pinned to the church noticeboard. The byline was Ally Parker. Ally. The best friend she had gone to school with. The one who was always going to be a writer. The one who had seen her through the bad times.

  Maybe she had found sanctuary with Ally Parker.

  Well, if Ms Parker was still a journalist, she would be traceable, thought Jonas. And might be persuaded to help. He binned the last of his sandwich and set out for London.

  Chapter Ten

  By the end of May, Hope felt she was starting to know what she was doing as a wedding planner. She had met dressmakers, caterers, and venue managers and learned how they worked.

  She had also met three brides, five mothers-in-law, two overexcited flower girls and one best man. (“Needs watching,” said Natalya. “Nice chap, complete fruit loop. You’d better take charge of the rings. Get them off him as soon as you can.”) She’d hired a stretch limo for a father’s partying guests to travel from London to the country church and a horse-drawn open carriage for a Regency bride’s two-mile journey from her home.

  “You’re doing great,” Natalya told her. “Now go and see if you can find a Harry Potter type venue in or near London that’s feasible for a hundred and fifty guests. So no mainline station platforms need apply.”

  “Harry Potter?”

  “Think Gothic. Basically we’re after Leadenhall Market without the smell of cheese.”

  “But I don’t know London,” said Hope, harassed. “I’ve never lived here before. Just stayed over with friends.”

  “Just as well. You’ll approach it with an open mind. Maybe ask those friends of yours if they have any ideas. Go explore.” And, as Hope set off, she called after her, “No need to come into the office again until Friday. But be here first thing for the Somerset wedding. I suspect we may need to corral that vicar. He had a nasty sermonizing look in his eye and the father-in-law is a militant atheist.”