His to Princess

by Theodora Taylor

  But then she stops, switching back to French when she sees the look on her son’s face. “Mais, qu’est-ce qui se passe, mon chéri? What is happening? You are not happy?”

  Aldrich forces a tight smile. “Of course I am pleased, Mother. As you said, our family line is saved.”

  However, his mother’s Maria von Trapp moment is over. She lowers her arms to ask, “Where exactly is this young woman of yours? I tried to call on her, but couldn’t get past your guard. And surely she wants to meet with me, the queen and future grandmother of her children.”

  Aldrich sighs, and rises from the chair.

  “Mother, if you must know, Talia is not exactly a willing guest in our home.”

  His mother shakes her head. “I do not understand. Why would she not want to be here with us during this joyous time?”

  His mother is eccentric, and silly at times. But she’s never failed to be on his side. So Aldrich tells her everything that’s passed with the half-Vickee girl currently imprisoned in their palace home. How they met. Became friends…and then more. Finishing with, “I feel she is the only person outside this room who has ever met the real me. But she cannot abide the prince who lied to her. And if she had her way, she’d be halfway to New York by now. Talia has decided she hates me for not being the person—the homeless, crazy person, mind you—she thought I was. And she’s being completely irrational about returning to the States. So…I—I’ve locked her in the blue suite and put guards at the door.”

  He clears his throat, painfully aware his actions sound a lot less sensible when spoken aloud, even if he had no other choice in the matter.

  And as it in agreement, his mother gasps, patently appalled. “Aldrich Gerulf Pierre! This is not how we treat guests in our home!” she scolds.

  “I don’t like it either, Maman, but if I free her, she’ll run for the airport and take your grandchildren with her! She wants us to have one of those terrible American custody arrangements. Can you imagine? A custody arrangement with royalty! It is unheard of. And both her parents are lawyers…so I have no doubt the court battle would be long and tedious. I cannot allow that to happen. The press would have a field day, and our country would be taken less seriously than it already is!”

  Yasmin shakes her head. Her unconventionally long hair swishing over her shoulders. “I understand, my son. But you also cannot keep a woman here against her will forever,” she points out. “She is an American citizen and I don’t need to tell you what kind of problems would arise if her government found out about this. Not to mention, it’s just wrong.”

  He grimaces, “Oui, I know.”

  “Do you? Because it would take a single phone call to the American embassy to create an embarrassing international situation for us. Then we would truly be a mockery. And we do not need bad press right before your coronation.”

  “Oui, Maman. Do not vex yourself. No one outside our most trusted staff, and the pilot Bernard paid off handsomely, knows she’s here. Her grandfather doesn’t have a phone, and she’s not currently in contact with her parents. So we have some time before anyone starts looking for her.”

  On that gloomy assessment of the state of his relationship with Talia, Aldrich goes over to the always-stocked wet bar beneath a portrait of his father. He grabs a crystal decanter of whiskey and pours himself a glass. “Maman?”

  “No thank you, dear,” she answers. “But do go ahead. You’ve had quite a day.”

  The smoky liquid eases down his throat, but does nothing to relieve his mood.

  Twins. With a woman who now despises him, and wants nothing to do with him.

  He drops into the padded leather chair behind his desk and let’s his eyes close, cradling a second glass in his lap. He hears the whisper of his mother’s silk dress, smells her soft perfume.

  “Let me tell you une petite histoire, mon chéri,” she says. “A story from my past. When I was a girl in Diamant, I felt very…how should I describe it? Not lonely, but alone.”

  Aldrich opens his eyes, and finds his mother now perched like a nightingale on one side of his desk.

  “I had my brother Hervé, of course. But he was several years older than I and never wanted to play. My family wouldn’t allow me to make friends outside the castle, and all of my schooling was done by a series of private tutors—mostly German women without much in the way of humor. I was terribly sad.”

  “We had a large staff of servants, and they were the only people I saw every day. Some were children, starting in the kitchens or stables as young as twelve or thirteen. They did menial work to learn the profession, hoping to move up in the ranks and eventually become a valet or footman. But one day, a new boy joined our staff, and upon our first introduction, he made a point of asking if I’d seen a rather popular movie. He was considered foolish by the other staff because he didn’t know his place. But it was precisely because of his ignorance that he nearly won my heart. He did something no one had ever done before.”

  She pauses, a small smile forming on her lips.

  “And what was that, Maman?” he asks, curious despite himself.

  “He talked to me.” Yasmin shrugs her shoulders. “He would come to my quarters and clean out the fireplace, or collect my dirty tea cups, and we would talk. We had long conversations about the world, he told me about the kitchens, and I told him what I was learning. He wanted to know what I thought, how I felt about things, and he was brave enough to disagree with me. That is what was so special about him. He treated me like a person, not like the porcelain princess everyone else thought me to be.”

  She pushes off the desk and walks toward the door, stopping behind an armchair.

  “Maybe your American girl would like the same from you. After all, it’s your friendship that bonded you before the ugly truths came out. You said she met and liked the real you. Perhaps you can help her to see that man again?”

  “Perhaps,” he answers, his mind casting about for ways to take his mother’s advice.

  Yasmin nods as if it’s a thing already sorted. “I do not like this mess you have created, my son,” she says shooting him a severe look. “But do as you see fit, and I trust you’ll find your way out of this unpleasant situation.”

  “Oui, Maman,” Aldrich agrees, even as his shoulders slump. He doesn’t have nearly as much trust in himself.

  But Yasmin has moved on and is already back to her new favorite subject. “Twins!!! Can you imagine? In a few years they’ll be running in the gardens!” she says, rushing over to the windows as if the children are already there. “Your father’s invalidation of your marriage contract from beyond the grave has been foiled. Take that, you damn genetic flaw!”

  Aldrich’s jaw sets as he hears the blame in his mother’s voice. It is no secret that she never truly cared for his father. Aldrich has very few childhood memories of the three of them together. He was almost always alone with one or the other, and it was usually Maman.

  “But now, we have a second chance,” Yasmin continues breathlessly. She stares out the window as if greeting a new day. “Twins! And just in the nick of time.”

  Gentle knocking pulls Talia from a dreamless sleep. She rubs her face against the cool, sateen pillow and squints one eye open.

  Oh, right. Her royal prison.

  To be fair, it’s the best looking prison she’s ever seen. Not that she’s seen any outside of television shows and movies. But still…

  The gentle knocking starts again.

  Talia sits up, pulls her t-shirt over her belly, and covers herself with the blankets.

  “Yes?” she asks.

  “Madame, hello.” A small Vickee woman in a maid’s uniform enters. “My name is Nelly. Please excuse me for waking you, but we’ve much to accomplish this morning, and very little time.”

  “Accomplish?”

  “Well, we’ve got to get you dressed, haven’t we?”

  The young woman bustles around the room, picking up the clothes Talia tossed on the floor before falling asleep the n
ight before. Talia notices her dinner dishes have disappeared from the low table by the fireplace, and her suitcase is now open and empty on top of a luggage rack.

  “Did you come in here while I was sleeping?”

  “Oh no, not me, Madame. That would be Antaly, your night maid. I come on at seven.” Nelly shakes out the drapes, tying back the thicker layers with velvet ropes. “Please, we must wash you before the others arrive.”

  “The others?” Talia asks, allowing herself to be guided out of bed. Her t-shirt barely reaches the top of her panties and keeps riding up her belly. She tugs it down as best she can.

  “I’ve drawn you a bath. Don’t worry, it’s not too hot. I’m sure it will be to you and your babies’ liking.”

  Nelly gives her a polite smile before turning away, and Talia wonders just how much the other woman knows about her pregnancy, including who the father is.

  The night before, Talia saw what she thought was the bathroom, a closet containing an elegant toilet and sink. Now Nelly opens a panel in the wall, revealing a cathedral-like space with an enormous, claw-footed bathtub, and a view of the sea. Stained glass trims the bay windows, and floral-scented candles decorate the minimal surfaces. In one corner sits an old-fashioned diver’s suit, the kind with a huge copper helmet and a hose that would have run to the surface. In the other corner is a massive tiled shower fitted with a long panel adorned with a series of buttons. She assumes they must control the output of the shower head. The floor is warm beneath her feet, even though it appears to consist of large marble tiles. She wonders if it’s heated. Either way, it’s all a bit of a shock after making do for the last several months with the outside corner spigot at Papy’s.

  No, she is definitely not on Terre d’Or anymore.

  “I will take your things,” Nelly says, holding out a hand but looking away to give Talia some privacy. “When you’re ready, please use my shoulder to steady yourself as you step in.”

  Talia slowly removes her clothes, then balls her underpants inside the t-shirt before handing them off to the other woman. She steps carefully onto a small footstool that has the same lion claw feet as those on the tub. And then grips Nelly’s shoulder as she lowers herself into the water.

  The water’s not too hot, not too cold. Just perfect.

  “Do you have a fragrance preference?” Nelly asks. “I usually recommend the vanilla, a special blend made from our locally farmed products. But we also have jasmine, and hyacinth.”

  “Uh, vanilla will be fine,” Talia says. “But seriously, I can do it. Really…”

  “Bubbles?” Nelly asks, pouring a bottle of what looks like scented oil into the water. “Um, sure…”

  Jets come on in the tub, and the warm water churns, softening Talia’s tension and surrounding her with the luscious, creamy scent of vanilla. In no time, a thick layer of foam has frothed up on the surface of the water, tickling her chin and ears, and making her feel a little less naked around Nelly.

  Eventually, Talia manages to relax, closing her eyes as she rests her head against the gently slanted edge of the tub.

  If things had gone her way, she’d be at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam right about now, rubbing the kinks out of her neck, and probably debating whether or not to have a decaf.

  Through an open window in the palatial bathroom, Talia hears a waxbill chirp and remembers it’s summer here. Summer in December. And therefore it’s winter in Europe. And back home. She tries to imagine getting off the plane in New York, wearing the one hoodie she brought with her to the tropics, and sinks lower into the warm water.

  “Miss? Are you ready for Sebastian?”

  Talia sits up. “Who?”

  “He’s the head beautician. He’s here to give you a shampoo.”

  “I can do my own—” Talia starts, but Nelly’s already walking away. Talia barely has time to make sure the bubbles are still covering her up, when a rather fashionably dressed older Vickee man with a professional air comes in.

  “Ah, lovely,” he says, sitting on a stool behind Talia, gently pulling the elastic from her hair.

  She hadn’t even bothered with her sleep cap last night because she’d been so drained, and she knows her curls are a knotted mess.

  “Sorry about my hair,” she says, knowing how much her hairstylist in New York hates it when she shows up at an appointment without detangling.

  “Just relax, lovely. Sebastian is here. Look at this hair! Such nice strong strands. Oui, good Vickee hair. But I will not lie, it needs some love.” He belts out an infectious laugh that makes her smile.

  Talia closes her eyes, self-consciousness forgotten, as the man’s nimble fingers massage her roots, slowly wetting her hair and pulling out all the tangles and fairy knots. She smells the rich coconut and shea butter shampoo, and feels the lather lapping at her ears as he washes her hair and gently massages her head. The soothing, repetitive movements lull her into a deep, relaxed state. All too soon, he asks her to lean forward so he can rinse. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him lift a large pitcher of water—thankfully warm—and feels pampered as he pours it carefully over her head. Sebastian finger combs something into her scalp, probably leave-in conditioner. It smells heavenly, as if vanilla and butter had a sugar baby.

  All the while he chats with her, as if getting your hair done in a bathtub by a professional stylist first thing in the morning is an everyday occurrence. Regardless, she finds his conversation relaxing. She’s also done worrying about being nude around him by the time Sebastian starts on his fourth story about his young Polynesian boyfriend: “He runs de streets wild while I working!” He also refuses to marry Sebastian even though gay marriage is legal in Victoire and “I keep tellin’ he I love him so big.”

  And by the time the older man starts working on her face, gently washing her pores, and applying a scrub and a deep clay mask, the only real worries she has about Sebastian concern his ne’er do well boyfriend.

  “Maya Angelou says if someone tells you who they are, you should believe them. The first time,” she advises as he nourishes her skin with a toner and light moisturizer.

  Sebastian agrees to think about Maya’s sage advice, but does it in with a non-committal “Euh” that lets her know his cruel but hot boyfriend won’t be getting dumped any time soon. At least she gets to feel like she has at least one friend in her palace prison as he packs up his things and leaves.

  But then things get bizarre again when Nelly reappears, seconds after Sebastian’s departure, carrying a small tray with a golden razor on it. She sets the tray on the small shelf next to the tub, then reaches into the bathwater and draws up one of Talia’s legs by the ankle.

  “Uh…hold on, what are you doing?” Talia asks, trying to sit up, only to lean back again when Nelly spreads a fine scrub over her skin and works it into her leg muscles.

  Oh, God! That feels good, Talia thinks, losing herself in the fantastic leg massage…at least until the other woman reaches for the razor.

  “You’re going to shave my legs?” Talia asks. She seriously cannot believe this is happening right now. And to her, of all people.

  “Unless you prefer to…” Nelly begins, her tone sincere.

  “Yes, I’ll do it myself!” Talia quickly grabs the razor from the other woman, only to get tripped up when she attempts to reach forward towards her legs.

  Twins man… Her baby bump—baby mountain?—is pretty huge, even though she’s only three months along. And apparently the bump doesn’t really care if she is unable to shave her own legs, or do much of anything involving areas below her waistline.

  With a placid look she must have learned at royal “don’t laugh, no matter what you see” school, Nelly watches her strain to reach her legs. Until Talia finally gives up, holding the razor out to the other woman, and sinking back with a weary, “Okay, fine, go for it, Nelly. Thank you.”

  Nelly gently removes the razor from Talia’s grasp and proceeds to make quick work of over three months of unchecked growth. When sh
e’s done, she produces a plush white robe seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Here you go, miss. They’re ready for you,” she says, holding it up for Talia.

  “Who’s ready for me?” she asks, wondering what could possibly follow such a thorough pampering job.

  Talia finds out soon enough. As she follows Nelly back into the main bedroom, she discovers more people and things. A woman wearing the same type of uniform as Nelly, a rack of clothing, a chef in a tall white hat, a breakfast trolley, and finally, a woman in a business suit.

  “May I present Madame Jeffries,” Nelly says, and the group smiles at her warmly.

  “Please, call me Talia,” she rushes to say, before blurting out, “And please tell me you haven’t been standing here waiting for me this whole time!” She’s truly distressed at the thought. After all, Business Suit Lady is wearing heels!

  “First, you must eat Madame,” the chef says, neatly sidestepping her comment. He has a heavy French accent, and Talia suspects he might really be from France. “I am Loïc, the palace chef de cuisine. Monsieur Bernard asked me to personally deliver your breakfast this morning. I’ve prepared a variety of options for you. Please let Nelly know if you have any dislikes, preferences, or allergies. This will allow me to better accommodate you next time.”

  Talia extends a hand for him to shake. “Thank you, Loïc,” she says.

  “Euhhh…” The large man hesitates, then clasps her hand in an old fashioned way, as if he were going to kiss it.

  “It is my privilege to serve you,” he replies. “Now I must return to the kitchens. Bon appetit, Madame.”

  “Bye.” Talia turns to Nelly, who is holding out a chair.

  “Please, Madame.”

  She sits, and Nelly moves in front of her to remove the silver tops of three different plates. One reveals a selection of sliced tropical fruits with a bowl of yogurt in the middle and, when Talia smells the fresh scent of cinnamon, she recognizes a small cup of freshly baked, still-warm granola. Another plate contains fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and home fries with a dollop of ketchup, and a little bottle of local hot sauce.