His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  I tried to pry it out of him with generous pours of top-notch single malt scotch that I’d bought at a club one night. I watched for moments where he might let his guard down; like the night he returned to a party smelling of pricey floral perfume, a rumpled look to his clothes, a young beauty waving him goodbye, both their faces flushed.

  “If you’re so eager to hook up with randos at society events, why’d you rush the engagement to Lady Cici?” I’d asked.

  “Nice try, Max. Not sharing. By all means keep the free ass coming my way.”

  “I didn’t hire any of these girls.”

  “Don’t care how the latest batch of lovelies found me. I’m doing my best to oblige.”

  “Condoms.”

  “Yes, Nana.”

  Once I was engaged to Vivian, I didn’t want to hunt down scraps of clues as to what drove his odd behavior. I much preferred spending my time fucking my gorgeous fiancée and showing her my world.

  Besides, for the most part, things had returned to normal in Bellèno. New loan docs had been signed at year’s end with Lord Angus Fontaine. Bankers had retreated down their rickety, cloying ladders. Bellèno tourism was still down from previous years, but I’d heard chatter that a royal wedding could pick those Euros back up.

  Leo stood next to me as we took our positions close to the altar. “You’re really getting married.”

  “I am.”

  “Old, boring married man. What’s next. A Barcalounger? Sex once a week? A pot belly?”

  “Thank you, Leo. I know how difficult this day must be for you. Watching me marry the one that got away. By the way, I love the leather recliner delivered to our townhouse with your personalized card taped on the seat.”

  “Technically ‘the one’ did not get away,” he said. “‘The one’ was billed as Lady Catherine Fontaine. Vivian was definitely not Lady Catherine. Vivian’s curvier.”

  “Fair enough.” Why was he was making a thing about this on my wedding day, let alone commenting on my bride’s curves?

  “The real Vivian never really had a chance to get to know me. She was on payroll for you the entire time. If I had met her before you did, things could have turned out differently.”

  “Uh…”

  He fixed his tie. “Did you like my sentiments on the card?”

  “The ball and chain keychain was adorable. And your note so eloquently penned. Practically Shakespeare. ‘Enjoy married life. Your fat ass goes here.’”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and covered a smile.

  I craned my neck and spotted Vivian’s bridesmaids queued at the back of the cathedral like fluffy taxis in line at the airport. Then I spotted the wedding coordinator and a security guard sharing a heated discussion. I glanced at my watch.

  “Shouldn’t the ladies be walking down the aisle about now?” I asked Leo, but he didn’t respond. I swiveled my head and saw him bending his ear to a tuxedo-clad security guard who whispered into it.

  “What’s up?” I leaned in.

  “Nana’s having a moment,” Leo said.

  “Sorry Your Highness,” the guard said.

  “Nana’s having issues entering the cathedral,” Leo said. “Says she wants her favorite grandson to escort her to her pew.”

  “That’s you,” I said.

  “No, that’s you.”

  I sighed. “Could it be you for today?”

  He shrugged. “She’s not budging on this one.”

  “Okay.” I glanced toward the back of the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of Vivian before I did the unthinkable and left the building. “I’ll go get grandmother and escort her to her proper seat. I’ll be back momentarily.”

  “Re-think ‘momentarily.’ She moves at a snail’s pace,” he said. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No. Stay here, look bored, and make this all appear completely normal. A groom stepping out on the bride to be isn’t the most standard of traditions.”

  “Got it. Does this mean if you don’t return that I can marry—”

  “No.”

  I followed the guard down the narrow aisle and out the side door, desperately hoping that Vivian, trooper that she was, would once again roll with the punches. She’d done this so well a year ago during the Crown Affair. This was just one little bump in the royal wedding road. I was locking this down. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 6

  VIVIAN

  “Roger that,” Esmeralda said into her bejeweled watch. “Security said we are to proceed down the aisle. They are still escorting Royal Nana into the church. She had to stop and see a man about a horse.”

  “Why didn’t they just wait until she was done?” I asked. “What’s another ten minutes?”

  “The wedding is already running a half hour late,” Famke said. “RWC runs a tight ship.”

  “RWC?” Bea asked.

  “Royal Wedding Consultants,” Famke said. “Today’s your lucky day Ms. DeRose. You’re the bride and you’re marrying a handsome prince. Kudos to you. It’s your once in a lifetime day.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Correction. In your case it’s a ‘twice in a lifetime’ day,’” she said. Anyhow, it’s still our job at RWC to help you enjoy this blessed event no matter what comes up.”

  “That sounds terrific.” I reminded my itchy hand that it wasn’t polite to slap people I’d only met ten minutes prior. “Has something come up?”

  “Yes. The most exciting, talked about couple in the entertainment industry is about to announce their impending divorce. We just received word. The news crews camped in front of this cathedral received the directive to break up camp as quickly as possible, and send their best entertainment reporters to Monte Carlo, where the lawyer for the wife will be holding a press conference. We get this wedding started now, or we lose the window.”

  “My window to get married?”

  “No. The window to get as much bang for Bellèno’s publicity buck from your blessed event.”

  “What if I don’t care about that window?”

  “Then, you, my dear, are the only one in this country that doesn’t. Bellèno lost a lot of money when you bolted from your other wedding and did not marry Crown Prince Leopold. The Friedricksburgh land deal was delayed, costing the crown excessive amounts of coin.”

  “The land deal was delayed but it went through. Besides, I couldn’t marry Prince Leopold. I wasn’t in love with him. I wasn’t even the real Lady Catherine Fontaine. Technically, it would have been fraud.”

  “Technically it still was fraud.”

  “Seriously? Was it fraud? Joan, you’re a barrister. Tell me.”

  “Just a teensy bit of fraud,” she said. “I’m sure I could have gotten you out of that mess.”

  “This isn’t the time for that conversation,” Mr. Cartwright said, and brushed the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket.

  “When is the time for that conversation?”

  “Later,” Famke said. “We’ve all come to terms with that debacle, at least most of us have. Improvements to Bellèno’s travel campaign were never adequately funded. Tourism did not significantly increase. But by all means, go ahead and delay marching down the aisle. Let’s see how well that goes over with all the citizens who’ve been pinching pennies and going without meat to make sure you and your Ladies were wearing pretty gowns and glittery jewelry for social media and the press to devour on your wedding day.”

  “Oh my God.” My hand flew to my chest. “I thought… I didn’t realize… I feel horrible.”

  Max had told me the House of Bellèno’s money problems were resolved. Except for the occasionally bumpy stock market, the monarchy was back on solid ground. But I’d lay odds there was someone in this room who knew if the House of Bellèno was financially stable. “Esmeralda?”

  “Discuss later,” she said, not meeting my look. She snapped her fingers at Lady Beatrice. “Go. Walk. Now.”

  “But, Vivian hasn’t—”

  “Go,” Esmeralda sai
d.

  Famke eyed me. “Shall we put on our big girl panties, Ms. DeRose, and take one for the team?”

  I bit my lip. “Joanie.”

  Joan held her head high, pulled back her shoulders, and assumed the trademark bridesmaid poses of confidence, style, and grace. She took a deep breath, saluted me, and walked down the aisle. Crowd members swiveled in their seats, smiling and nodding excitedly.

  My mind skipped past all the adventures I’d enjoyed with Max the last year and returned to the Crown Affair. Could we be back here again? Back on rocky ground? “You too, Lola,” I said. “Walk. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  She moved into position, fluffed her skirt and waited until Joan had made it about a third of the way toward the altar. She marched, her lips cemented in a smile. Esmeralda followed, then my ring-bearer, Mateo. My Ladies and the cute little guy made their way down the aisle as Handel played in the background. The only problem was I still did not see Max’s grandmother.

  I pinched Cartwright’s arm. “Where is Royal Nana? I can’t march down the aisle until she’s in her seat. I promised her Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Assured her that she could relive her glorious day.”

  “She’ll be here at any moment, Vivian.”

  “Shouldn’t her son, the King of Bellèno, go and get her?” I asked.

  Famke chuckled under her breath. “The King isn’t allowed to move a hair.”

  “I know there was a detour,” I said. “Who was assigned to help Nana get inside the church?”

  “Everyone’s doing their job, Ms. DeRose,” Famke said. “Relax. This is your special day. Smile for the cameras. You’ll be on the news. Right after the headlines about the split of the A-list King and Queen of Entertainment. We all hope to be the lead story of the day, but sometimes we have to settle for rocking the B.”

  Joan landed safe and sound at the front.

  Leo turned and whispered into Max’s ear.

  Max shook his head, then swiveled, and craned his neck, looking toward the back of the sanctuary.

  He was looking for me. I felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right. Technically I knew he couldn’t see me, and yet at the same time it felt like he’d stared right through me. Goosebumps sprouted on my arms.

  He turned on his heel, followed a beefy, suited up bodyguard, and strode briskly into the side vestibule, disappearing from my sight.

  “Why did Max leave?” I asked Famke.

  “Hang on, hang on,” she said, and muttered into her watch. “Communication requested. Groom has left the altar. Repeat: Bride wants to know why groom has left the altar.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Confirmation received,” Famke said. “Royal Nana wanted Prince Maximillian to escort her into the cathedral. She’s convinced her ‘handlers’ are up to no good. He’s her favorite grandson.”

  “Today,” I said.

  “She’ll only enter if he chaperone’s her inside.”

  I smiled. Royal Nana was working all of us. And I was fine with that. Pachelbel’s Canon in D played.

  “If you walk down the aisle now, Ms. DeRose,” Famke said, “we can still hit our window.”

  “I’m sorry your most recent nuptials haven’t been trouble-free, Vivian,” Cartwright said.

  “Nothing’s trouble free, Cartwright,” I replied. “Sorry about your shoes.”

  He shrugged. “They’re playing your song. I expect Royal Nana will be entering with Max just as we arrive at the front steps.”

  “Should make for a lovely photo op,” Famke said. “I’ll alert the photographer assigned to the altar. If you can get a picture with Royal Nana shedding a tear, that might even be worth a cut-away from Gabecca.”

  “Gabecca?” I asked.

  “Gary Hall and Rebecca George,” she said. “The Hollywood couple whose divorce announcement is stealing yours and Bellèno’s thunder. I’d love for this wedding to be above the cut. Move, Ms. DeRose. Go. I beg you. Smile. Look virginal.”

  “Walk me down the aisle, Cartwright?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  My hand trembled as I started my wedding march. I tried not to stare too hard at the guests and the looky-loos in the cathedral pews. Gabecca or no Gabecca, I already knew this was going to make the news. What royal bride walks down an aisle without her groom standing at the front waiting for her?

  No royal bride.

  Ever.

  That’s who.

  Beads of sweat erupted on my forehead. I glanced at Esmeralda ahead of me, and I wondered if she still had the mini-pads stuffed in her purse. I’d lay odds that Bea still had the scotch and I hoped Joan was packing chocolate. I was feeling woozier by the second and if push came to shove I’d demand that the priest cough up a few communion wafers.

  “You’re doing a great job, Cartwright.” I clung tighter to his arm. “Have you walked women down the aisle before?”

  “Only once.”

  “Well you, sir, are brilliant. My uncle can’t do this. His anxiety. As much as I wish my dad were still alive to perform this fatherly rite of passage, I will totally recommend you to all my friends who need a solid male arm, a man who prides himself on an immaculate appearance, and gets the job done on their very big day.”

  The brilliance of Famke’s matrimonial chess move dawned on me. The videos of this moment—a bride at a wedding walking down an aisle without a groom waiting for her—would trend on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. A royal wedding between an American commoner bride and—no prince, no groom—would grab a gazillion views.

  The eyes of the world would be upon me and suddenly I felt even more anxious. If I was lucky, I hadn’t chewed off all my lipstick, and unlike Senior Prom, I wasn’t mooning the entire room, my dress hiked up into the back of my pantyhose. “How many views do you think this is going to get on YouTube?” I asked.

  “At least five million the first night. You’ll be trending on Facebook and Twitter, right behind Gabecca,” Cartwright said.

  “Damn that gorgeous couple. Couldn’t they have been more thoughtful and ended their fairytale marriage on a different day than the one mine was scheduled to begin?”

  “A wise old woman once told me, Vivian, that we take what we are given and we run with it. Life isn’t for the perfect, or the faint of heart.”

  “Life can be crushed into a million little pieces, but we are allowed, even encouraged, to pick up each shard, perhaps cutting us in the process, as we put all the little pieces back together,” I said. “Then we hold it back up to the light and let love and fate and perseverance and luck shine through it as we figure out what that puzzle is really meant to look like when it is no longer perfect.”

  “Beautiful words,” Cartwright said.

  “My dad told me that a long time ago.”

  “Thank you, Vivian, for allowing me to be his stand-in.”

  We arrived at my destination—the altar—at the end of my second march down a matrimonial aisle. I squeezed Cartwright’ arm and wiped a tear from his face. “You’re welcome.”

  The cameras continued to click and roll even though my groom, Prince Maximillian Rochartè of Bellèno still hadn’t returned with his grandmother. “Stick around, Cartwright. We might be able to make history,” I whispered. “You could escort me back down the aisle in the opposite direction from which we just came.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But tradition requires that first I kiss you on the cheek and take my seat.”

  “Wuss,” I whispered.

  “Sentimental, traditional wuss.” He leaned down, kissed me sweetly, then made his way to the pew.

  I stood at the front of the church and glanced around. My Ladies stood on one side, gorgeous Prince Leopold on the other, but there was still no sign of my beautiful ginger Prince Maximillian. It seemed like the entire wedding crowd was holding its collective breath.

  Leo eyed me and cracked his knuckles. “Vivian. This is crazy. They told you about Royal Nana, right? Max will be right back. A
lthough I’ll gladly stand in for him if he doesn’t show.”

  “Thank you, future brother-in-law.” I emphasized the key word and glanced around again. Uncle Florio was debonair in a gray suit. Roman, my yellow Labrador thumped his tail. Queen Cheree stared back at me, held my gaze, smiled, and mouthed, ‘Breathe.’

  Mateo stared at the floor as his mom, Lola, bent forward and whispered in his ear. My Ladies in Waiting fidgeted. I suspected they’d passed Prince Harry’s Private Reserve between them one last time before their march down the aisle and hadn’t told me. The organist stopped playing. I swear you could have heard a pin drop, except for the faint whirs and clicks of the cameras.

  I felt like a deer caught in the headlights.

  A very well-coiffed deer.

  Beads of sweat collected on my décolletage. I practiced inhaling and exhaling. My blood sugar dropped so quickly I could practically hear it hit the floor. I swayed.

  “Fuck it,” Esmeralda muttered under her breath. She broke rank with the rest of the Ladies and pretended to adjust my veil. “How are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Not great.”

  “I wouldn’t be either,” she said as we both glanced at the side vestibule: still no Prince Maximillian. The wedding guests whiplashed their necks between me standing in the aisle and the little light that emanated from the doorway that led outside.

  Lady Bea was the next to break rank, and fuss with my gown. “What’s going on? Where’s Max?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to throw up,” I said.

  “Vivian’s face resembles mashed peas,” Bea whispered. “What should we do?”

  “Give her a shot of Prince Harry’s,” Esmeralda said.

  “No. I tucked the flask in my panties,” Bea said. “Everyone in the cathedral will see if I pluck it out.”

  “They’ll think your pantyhose got sucked into your lady bits,” Esmeralda said. “No one will blame you for removing a French vedgie. Break out the scotch. Come on. It’s an emergency.”