by Lexi Whitlow
I look at my watch. It’s twenty ‘til. “Come here,” I say, begging her to me with an outstretched hand.
She comes, taking my hand in hers, and I pull her rather roughly into my lap, making her laugh.
I place my palm flat on her warm belly, under her shirt. “How are our princes?” I ask, leaning over her belly to address them directly. “Cozy in there? Good. This is your da saying hello. Grow strong, little princes.”
“They may be princesses,” Norah reminds me. We’ve decided to remain in the dark on that detail, instructing her doctor and nurses not to tell us. We want a surprise when they’re born.
“They’re first born, heirs to the throne. Regardless of sex, they will be princes, even if they’re also princesses. Before Elizabeth I was a queen, she called herself a prince.”
“They’ll be royal brats if you have anything to do with it,” Norah laughs. “I’m thinking of sending them home with my mother for the first ten years, just so they grow up knowing the world doesn’t revolve around them.”
“Not likely,” I reply, feeling the underlying truth in her joke. She did grow up knowing that, which I guess is what’s made her so adaptable, and so strong. I still think it’s sad her mother and father would rather spend their time before her wedding being gawking tourists rather than being with her.
Norah’s belly is growing; she’s starting to show. She’s also glowing. Her complexion, which was always peaches and cream perfect, is now radiant. A month ago, I was smitten with her beauty and her character. Now I’m just stunned, stupefied by my good fortune in finding her.
Norah slips her hand over mine. “We really should go.”
“Alright,” I concede, “let’s go see what the circus brings in.”
Downstairs in the main lobby, all the essential characters assemble, waiting for the arrival of Lloyd the Deposed. (That’s what the press calls him. I have a few more colorful titles of my own.) Mother is anxious, wringing her hands in anticipation of his arrival while checking her watch every half-minute. The valets and butlers wait patiently, expecting the worst and grimly prepared for it. Earl Hereford and his lovely, rather vivacious wife Sinead, are hanging by a thread. He looks like he just swallowed a pineapple whole, and she’s bouncing on her toes like a schoolyard rope skipper.
The only one here who isn’t a tense ball of nerves is Norah. She’s cool as a cucumber. I’m guessing that’s because she hasn’t met Prince Preposterous. She has no idea what we’re all up against.
At two minutes ‘til three, the call we’ve been waiting for comes, announcing that the motorcade delivering my brother to Brynterion is three minutes out. We head outside, taking our places in line according to station. We wait for the convoy of three black Range Rovers to make its way here, delivering my older brother back into the fold of his family.
Right on time, the vehicles appear on the long drive, then circle in close, stopping yards away from our assembly gathered at the front door. The first one out of the cars is Lloyd’s head of security, his equivalent to Duncan. The man has been with Lloyd since he was fourteen years old.
He opens the rear passenger door of the middle vehicle and out pops Lloyd, spinning like a happy dog, looking all around. “Mummy—Mummy—Mummy!” Lloyd cries, seeing our mother. He crashes into her headlong, nearly knocking her down.
“Oh, my sweet darling,” she croons, hugging him, trying to catch her balance—and his. “Be gentle with your mum, honey. I’m so glad you’re back home.”
He’s like a giant toddler, ripped on cocaine. “Owen!” he shouts. “Baby Owen! Baby Owen. King! King! King! Bru-ha! Ha!” He’s giggling like a lunatic as he wraps me in a bear hug, spinning me around in circles.
He’s got two inches and twenty pounds on me. If he tries to take me to the ground, I’m done. We were both taught to fight by the same ex-IRA soldier. Lloyd knows every move I know, and probably more I don’t.
“Pretty. Pretty. Pretty,” Lloyd whispers, spying Norah beside me. “Pretty new princess. Smart. Smart. Smart!” He stops short of throwing himself at her, and instead stuns me by bowing, then offering his hand, smiling gently at her. He approaches like a charmed child fascinated by a newborn kitten.
Norah shakes Lloyd’s hand. “Thank you, Prince Lloyd,” she says, a beaming smile stretched from one lovely ear to the next. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m glad you’re here.”
At least someone is.
Mother takes charge, hustling Lloyd to her apartment in the north wing, far away from mine in the front of the house. She promised to keep him contained and out of trouble. By the looks of him, that’s going to be a tall order.
“I thought you said he had a tattoo on his forehead,” Norah asks as we make our way back to sanity and our rooms upstairs.
“He did,” I say. “It was removed at the hospital. It required a specialist with lasers to take it off, and a plastic surgeon to deal with the latent scar.”
I saw a remnant of the thing in a few small freckles on his skin which could easily pass for mild blemishes from a sunburn. Well worth the money spent.
“I have a crazy uncle back home in Charleston,” Norah observes, giggling. “He graduated sixth grade before the school had enough of him. He’s way worse than Lloyd, and we managed to live with him.”
What hasn’t this girl dealt with? Maybe we can send Lloyd back to Charleston with her parents when they return.
One day before the wedding and things are tense. Norah’s gained five more pounds and the dress doesn’t fit. She’s with the seamstress now, having the waistline let out. My mother is driving the florists insane with her last-minute changes. The caterers have lost the coolers containing the oyster stew. Wedding guests keep showing up at the castle unannounced, hoping to pay their respects in advance. And my brother is bouncing off the 15th-century stone walls of this place like a rocket-propelled ping-pong ball on acid.
The rehearsal dinner is tonight, and so far, Norah’s parents haven’t returned from their tour of the north country. I’m sure they’ve been enthralled by stone circles and Neolithic mounds, but the clock is ticking, and Norah is starting to worry if they’re going to show at all.
“It’s okay,” Norah says, trying to make light of their absence, “if they don’t show, Duncan can give me away.”
“Conflict of interest,” I say, straightening my tie in the mirror. “Duncan’s my best man. He can’t pull double-duty. I’m not paying double-time.”
“Tightwad,” she grumbles, slipping into her satin heels for the dinner. “I guess the honor falls to Earl Whatchamajigger. Sinead will be happy with that.”
“Duke Whatchamajigger after Friday,” I remind her. “I’m elevating him after the coronation. Pretty good turn for a guy who just happened to have the decency to bring you along to a party on a whim.”
“His whim, not mine,” Norah states. “I didn’t even want to go.” She stands back, inspecting herself in the mirror. “I look so fat. I’m going to be the fattest bride in history.”
She gorgeous. She’s barely showing, and only if you’re looking for it. She’s radiant.
I come up behind her, slipping my arms around, dropping my hands to her belly, sinking my face into her golden tresses. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride in history. And you’re my bride. I love you, Duchess. I don’t know how I managed to snag you. I don’t know how I managed to entice you to be mine, but I’m so glad I did.”
Norah leans back into me, heaving a heavy sigh. “You do this Prince Charming thing amazingly well, Owen. You’re hard to dislike, as much as I try sometimes. The truth is, there’s not another prince in all the world I’d rather go through this nonsense with than you.”
If that’s as close as I ever get to an “I love you,” I’ll be satisfied.
By the time the guests begin arriving for the dinner, I’ve managed to down four glasses of whiskey and am feeling very little anxiety. Dinner is just about to be served when the last two arrive: Norah’s parents. Th
e look like they dressed in the car on the way here, but at least they made it.
Mother and Lloyd occupy their seats at the head table, and I’m astonished that Lloyd behaves himself throughout the whole evening.
When it comes time for toasts, Lloyd stands and raises his glass. I anticipate an incoherent ramble, but he shocks me. “To my little brother, who was always a little saner, and to his shockingly beautiful, shockingly intelligent bride, Norah.”
I don’t know what to make of this brief intermission of sanity. Before I can process it, I find him babbling to some duke he’s got cornered about the sacred scrolls of Toth and how baboons will soon rule the world again.
Norah and I are put through our paces after the meal is cleared, with everyone in the wedding party practicing their parts along with us. I catch Duncan making eyes at Chantal, one of Norah’s bridesmaids. Chantal, a thin French model, makes eyes right back at him. After the practice, when the band strikes up and the dance floor opens, those two are inseparable the rest of the evening. Meanwhile, Sinead and her Earl rip up the place. Those two have taken ballroom dancing lessons—or have a secret tango fetish. They’re the stars of the evening.
By two in the morning, I’m done. I slip my hand around Norah’s expanding waistline and beg her to take me to bed.
We slip under the covers, both of us knowing that tomorrow is the day the next phase of our strange life together starts in earnest.
“Go to sleep, baby,” Norah whispers, smoothing the sheets over my semi-conscious, badly inebriated body. “I love you. We love you. We’ve all got a big day tomorrow, Prince Perfect. Get some sleep.”
21
Norah
I tried to eat breakfast but couldn’t keep it down. Until this morning, I’ve done a good job of rolling with the punches, taking things as they come. But this morning it hit me: I’m marrying a man I’ve only known a few months, who is going to be king of this whole country. I’m leaving behind anything resembling a normal life, my career, my family, and friends. I’m entering a strange new world that puts my life under intense public scrutiny, and I’m bringing two innocent children into that world. They’ll be raised in a fishbowl under the glare of spotlights. Nothing about their lives will ever be remotely “normal.”
These are the choices I’ve made. My parents are thrilled. My friends are beside themselves (except Eric, though I no longer count him as a friend). I know in time I’ll make new friends. My future mother-in-law is an incredible role model for how to behave in this life, and how to raise a family in it. All that, and I really have come to love and admire Owen. I think he’s being honest with how he feels toward me.
Despite it all, the prospects of this new life are intimidating and scary. Right now, this instant, I’m a little sick to my stomach and shaking like a leaf.
Chantal fluffs my skirts, making the folds and pleats fall just right. Sinead is in charge of the train, which is fifteen feet long when fully extended behind me. Looking into the mirror, at my hair all done up in an intricate braid with lace, tiny pearls, and fragrant flowers, I hardly look like myself—I look like the princess in a Cinderella storybook.
“Beautiful,” Chantal observes, smiling proudly. She did my hair and my make-up herself. She’s also helping Stephen Aubauchan, my old boss from Paris, with the wedding photographs before and after the ceremony. She’s my maid of honor and, along with Sinead, one of the very few close friends I have.
“You really are breathtaking,” Sinead says, stepping up behind me. “Now if you’ll only quit trembling, you’ll be perfect.
I can’t quit shaking. I’ve been shivering like a Chihuahua all morning, and not from the cold. I’ve got ringing in my ears that won’t quit, and cotton mouth. It’s all the anxiety that’s built up to this day.
My mother and father appear, and Mother starts crying. My father looks proud and buoyant, like he just won the lottery.
“It’s time,” my father says. He’s dapper in a gray-tailed tux jacket and white tie. I’ve seen him in a tux, but not one this fancy or perfectly cut. All the men in the wedding party will be decked out like this. All except Owen; he’s wearing his Navy Dress Blues. I can’t wait to see him all done up like a real king with a sword on his hip and a golden sash.
Chantal hands me my bouquet with a sweet smile. “Break a leg,” she says, eyes flashing with humor.
I wish I could laugh. I’m so spun up with nerves I can hardly think straight.
It’s a long walk from my dressing rooms to the main hall where the wedding is taking place, and every step finds my knees weak and my pulse pounding in my ears.
“You look beautiful,” my father whispers as we approach the giant hall, filled with a “small” crowd of guests, numbering “only” five hundred or so. Only a few of them are from my guest list.
I hear the strains of music begin, cellos and violins playing the opening bars of “The Wedding March.”
“Take a deep breath,” Daddy says. “You’ll do fine.”
It’s all such a blur. Owen standing tall and proud in his uniform, with gold piping and medals pinned to his chest, wearing a heartened smile when he sees me, holding out a hand to take mine as I step up beside him. Duncan stands by him, towering and almost as handsome, dressed in his tux and tails, with the rings in his coat pocket at the ready when they’re needed.
Owen and I chose not to get creative with the vows. We repeat them as given, and after a mercifully short speech on the power of marriage and family to build great nations, we exchange rings, and are pronounced husband and wife. Owen lifts my veil, locks eyes with me, then tilts in and kisses me with genuine depth and affection. His kisses always melt me; this one is no different. I fall into his embrace, forgetting the crowd or the priest or even my family. I just melt into him for a moment, before feeling slightly light-headed from holding my breath throughout the whole service.
It’s the first week in August in Anglesey, so it’s warm as we pose outside in the flowering gardens for photographs. Stephen is a great photographer and I know I’m going to appreciate his work, but he’s tedious and a perfectionist and I’m tired by the time we finally call it a wrap.
Owen takes my hand in his, smiling down on me. “You look like you could use a cold drink and a large piece of wedding cake.”
I nod enthusiastically. “And a few gallons of water,” I add.
We move on to join the reception in the banquet hall, already well underway with plenty of food, music, and dancing.
Duncan peels off instantly, dutifully retrieving a glass of scotch for Owen (as well as himself). Princess Dalia intercepts us before we can make it all the way inside. She’s wearing an odd expression, approaching apprehensively. “Owen, Norah, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
Her duke. He’s tall and dashing in a black tux and tails, a genuine gray fox with piercing green eyes and an air of confidence in his posture.
The man bows before us as Princess Dalia says, “This is His Grace, Arthur Campbell, Duke of Cambria. Your Grace, may I present my son, Crowned Prince Owen of Cymrea, and acting king of Anglesey.”
Owen shakes the man’s hand, then introduces me.
“It was a lovely wedding,” the duke says, smiling shyly. “And there was never a lovelier bride.”
I’m inclined to like him, and I believe Owen is, too. He’s generally not forward with new people, but he takes the Duke of Cambria by the elbow, disappearing with him into the crowd, leaving me with his smiling mother.
“Excellent,” she says. “Now that that’s out of the way, we have work to do.”
We do?
Princess Dalia apprehends me, pulling me into a long line of nobles and other important members of Anglesey society who are queued up to meet me, congratulate me, and—oddly, I think—spend a few minutes telling me what gift they’ve brought for our wedding.
The long line of people waiting for a handshake and introduction goes on for what seems like hours. I can’t leave until everyone is greeted. M
eanwhile my belly growls, my feet hurt, my head aches, and I’m thirsty. I catch an occasional glimpse of Owen laughing with people he obviously knows well, drinking, snacking on plate after plate of hors d’oeuvres. How I envy him.
Before I’m done smiling and shaking hands with the last of the island’s nobility, my wrist is cramped and I’m wobbly from hunger rather than nerves.
Finally getting away, I move toward the buffet table, but am thwarted by a disturbance in the middle of my path. It’s Lloyd. He’s taken to a tabletop, a glass of champagne in hand, chanting at the top of his lungs the myriad glories of “Exalted Toth.” The crowd around him packs in tight, gawking up at him, taking photographs, laughing, egging him on. I’m caught up in the chaos, pressed tight, unable to move through the crowd or escape the way I came.
I’m ensnared in a finely-attired mosh pit. The crowd carries me where they want me to go, and I have no choice but to flow with the tide. I’m shoved closer and closer to the center, into an ever-tighter press of drunken, exuberant admirers of Lloyd the Deposed’s performance.
“Norah!” I hear Owen’s voice behind me, but I can’t turn to see him.
“Help!” I cry out. “Owen!”
A moment later the seas part behind me and I’m dropped backwards into Owen’s steady arms.
“Good Lord,” he exclaims. “I thought they were going to crush you.” He carries me safely away, setting me on my feet far from the melee. “Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “A little flattened, but fine.”
“Good. Okay. I’m going to go shut down the entertainment.”
A second later he’s gone, hurtling himself into the mosh pit, shoving people aside with ease, making his way toward his spectacle of a brother. Another moment later, he drags Lloyd by his lapels off the table, disperses the crowd, and hands Lloyd off to his security detail with harshly worded instructions to “keep him under control or lock him in his quarters.”
