Both girls are somehow dressed, though I think Freja’s dress is inside out.
“What are you girls doing?” I say, bleary-eyed, and then repeat my “Hvad er det?” for good measure.
“Hvad er det,” Clara corrects me, and her version sounds exactly the same as what I just said. “We’re going to Tivoli today, don’t you remember?”
I can barely remember yesterday as it is. Each day is getting busier and busier the more I fall into the groove of things. My schedule is pretty packed and even though I go over it often, the whole foreign language thing means that half the stuff isn’t sinking into my brain.
Blinking at them, I nod. “Sure. Tivoli.”
“And the autumn fair,” Freja says quietly. “I want to see the animals.”
“Okay,” I say. “But you know I have to get my coffee in me first before we do any of these things.”
“You and your coffee,” Clara says. “Sometimes I think maybe you’re named after the Goddess of the coffee bean.”
“You might be right about that,” I tell her. “Give me thirty minutes and we’ll be on our way.”
This pleases the girls enough so that they go skipping off to their room. I call after them, “And Freja, your dress is on backwards!”
“I know!” she yells back.
Kids.
I get dressed quickly. With it being the start of October, the weather has changed dramatically compared to France. While the days are still warm and somewhat dry, it’s the light that I’m missing the most. While I’m sure I’ll be able to handle the cold, especially as they say Copenhagen doesn’t get as frigid as people think, I don’t know how I’ll be when it’s pitch dark at 3 p.m. My sunny Aussie roots will shrivel.
But because mornings are cold and I don’t know what to expect with Tivoli or the fair, I slip on thick leggings, socks, boots, and of course my uniform of a grey mini-skirt and navy blouse. This one has ¾ length sleeves and a Peter Pan collar, which I think is pretty whimsical.
Honestly, I didn’t think I would but I actually like having a uniform. It makes getting ready in the morning super easy when you only have a few varieties to choose from, plus I think it drives Aksel nuts that I wear these skirts. I know that when he asked me to get a uniform he was probably thinking something more classy and modest but hey, I think I look pretty good myself.
Not that I’ve seen him all that often. He’s kept his word to the girls and has been showing up for dinner on most nights. He doesn’t even say anything when Karla brings out two different dishes for the main course, although I can feel the resentment roll off of him like incoming waves. But other than that, he’s stayed clear of me.
Which I don’t mind, per se.
I mean, I do wish we had a different kind of relationship. Not like the relationship I had with my last “father of the house” since that went awry with inappropriate touching and come-ons. I think one of the reasons I even like Aksel is because he’s the opposite of that, like it disgusts him to even be in the same vicinity as me. He’s forever taking a step away from me like I have the bloody plague and yet it’s kind of nice to not be leered at.
But I wouldn’t mind it if I felt like I could approach him and talk to him about the girls and have a real heart-to-heart without all these stiff formalities in the way. Get to know the real him.
If there’s even a real him. At times he’s so larger than life, even when he’s right in my face. At others, he almost fools me into thinking he’s not a king of a prosperous country at all. That he’s just a normal single father, trying to take care of his daughters in a big, empty, lonely house.
That’s something that I don’t think they realize. How lonely the place is. Even with the staff living here as well, the halls seem to echo with memories. I may have not known Helena when she was alive but I feel her around us. Nothing vengeful or mournful, just ever-present in everyone’s minds. That loss of her, the lack of a mother figure, makes everything emptier.
So I’ve been doing what I can to fill that void. Aksel’s words still ring through my head from time to time, when he told me that I’m not the girl’s mother and they aren’t my friends and that I’m not part of the family. I mean, I know all that. I only just started working here, only just begun to scratch beneath the gilded façade of this family. I know my place very well—or, at least, I’m trying to.
But my place doesn’t have to be stagnant. I don’t have to fit into the slot that was carved out for me by the nanny before me. I don’t want to just be a Band-Aid to this family—I want to help them heal. Maybe that’s naïve of me, and maybe I should be a little more grounded with my goals, but that doesn’t change the feeling of why I’m here.
Before I got this job, I’d been feeling stuck in my own life. I’d done so much running and escaping, gone through so much tragedy and horror, that I just wanted something simple and stable. It worked, too. I was a nanny because it gave me the safety and structure I didn’t have back in Australia. But you can only run, only pretend, for so long.
Now that I have this job, however, I feel like I’m in it for the long haul. Sure, it might just be a year. It could be less, depending on how long Aksel can stand me. It could be more. But while I’m here, I don’t want to just be a nanny. I want to help them all get better, anyway that I can. I want to actually be useful for once.
“Well, you can start by getting these girls to whatever Tivoli is,” I say to myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth. I’ve stopped thinking that talking to myself is odd a long time ago.
After I braid my crazy hair back, knowing it’s going to frizz out on me later, I put on a touch of mascara and blush and then head down to the kitchen. Karla has the weekends off—lucky duck—and so Bjørn, the secondary cook, is in charge of breakfast, and he already knows how much coffee I require.
I quickly grab a scone and tuck it into my leather messenger bag for later (it joins my notebook, a wad of euros, some Danish kroner, a million hair ties, a compact, nude lipstick, gum, these salty licorice candies I’m currently addicted to, Band-Aids, antibiotic cream, gummy children’s vitamins and a tube of this strange mustard paste that Clara insists on putting on everything), then sit down at the table with a giant mug (in European standards) of coffee and wait for the girls.
Naturally, I barely finish mine before they’re running over to me excitedly, Clara with her backpack on like she’s going to school, yelling “Tivoli!” and a bunch of other Danish words, and I know they’re going to be a handful today.
It turns out Tivoli is Tivoli Gardens, a famous amusement park and the second oldest in the world, located in Copenhagen. And, oh my god, it’s like Disneyland. By the time Henrik drops us off at the front entrance, I’m just as giddy and excited as the girls.
“Are you going to be okay, Miss Aurora?” Henrik asks warmly as we clamor out of the car.
I stick my head back in through the open door. “I should be. Right?”
He nods. “I can come in with you if you want. There shouldn’t be any problems, but if there is, I can always look intimidating.” He makes a faux angry face and pretends to flex a muscle.
“What problems?” I ask, feeling nervous now. “Oh my god. Like kidnapping? I didn’t get that far in the handbook yet!”
He gives me a wan smile. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one, you won’t be all alone in the park.”
I look around the busy parking lot. That’s true but…
“Meaning,” he goes on, “there will be people, royal staff, watching you. Bodyguards.”
I look around again, brows raised. “Oh. Where are they?”
“They’ll be around,” he says. “When it comes to the girls, King Aksel wants them to feel as normal as possible. That means keeping the guards and attendants at a distance. But don’t worry, they’ll always be watching.”
I’m not worrying at all but it is kind of unnerving. “So what problems did you mean, then?”
>
“Paparazzi,” he says. “You know, taking pictures. Aksel wants that at a minimum. But if it’s too much of a problem, you can always alert the staff and they can kick them out and escort you as well.”
Oh. That. I haven’t had to deal with the paparazzi yet. I mean, I’ve taken the girls for walks along the water and the parks a few times now (trailed by bodyguards, I’m now realizing) and maybe there’s been a person or two taking pictures of us with a big camera, but they were always so far away that it never bothered me.
Then again, I don’t read the Danish tabloids so I have no idea if we’re even featured in them or not. I can’t imagine why. There’s nothing exciting about two little girls and their nanny, princesses or not.
Now, if Aksel were here, well then I could see that being a different story. In fact, that’s one reason why I don’t pick up the tabloids if he’s being featured. I may not understand Danish, but I don’t think what they’re saying is always nice. It must be so hard to not only be a king at such a young (relatively) age but to lose your beloved queen as well. Aksel seems to be fodder for them and is never held in the same regard as Helena was.
Still, I assure Henrik that I’ll be fine and I grab the girls both by the hand and lead them into the park.
“So what are your favorite rides?” I ask them as we approach the ticket booth.
“Dragebådene,” says Freja.
“Minen!” shouts Clara.
“Ballongyngen.”
“Den Flyvende Kuffert!”
I don’t understand what any of those are but I’m sure I’ll find out soon.
We pay for our tickets—the girl working the booth immediately recognizing the princesses—and we step inside the chaos of the park. Actually, it’s not that bad. Maybe because it’s getting late in the season but it’s definitely not as crazy crowded as Disneyland Paris.
The girls immediately start dragging me in different directions, past loop-de-loop coasters and Japanese pagodas and Arabian palaces and giant pirate ships. My stomach growls at the sights and smells of all the tasty treats but I manage to eat my scone to keep it in check.
First we go on the “Ballongyngen” which is just a fancy word for ferris wheel. Usually I hate ferris wheels because they’re claustrophobic and boring, but this is in an open hot air balloon, and it doesn’t go very high. After that we work our way to the Karavanen, a little roller coaster that’s a surprising amount of fun. The girls sit together in the compartment in front of me, and the attendant, recognizing who I am, I guess, lets me sit by myself behind them.
But this is the beginning of a problem I didn’t see coming.
Going to an amusement park with an odd number is difficult when most rides only let two sit together. We go to the “Dragebådene” which are self-piloted dragon boats, and I can’t drive one around while leaving the other child on shore and they both can’t do it themselves. The same goes for some of the bigger rides and roller coasters. The only rides the two of them can go on by themselves are the kiddie ones and that’s starting to piss Clara off more and more by the minute.
“But I’m not a little baby,” she cries out to me, stamping her foot as we watch people get on her favorite rollercoaster. “When we were here last, we were able to go on all the rides!”
Freja says something to her in Danish in a low voice, her lower lip pouting.
“What was that?” I ask, leaning in.
“She said it was because Papa and Mama were here with us!” Clara practically yells, her face growing red. “Now she’s gone and he won’t come and we have nothing!”
Oh my god. Is she about to have a public meltdown?
I put my hands on Clara’s shoulders. “Listen, we’re still having a good time. We still went on the flying trunk ride and the mine ride that you like and the Viking carousel and—”
“No!” she cries out, ripping away from me and running to the front of the line, starting to yell at the ride operator. “Jeg er prinsessen, jeg skal med på turen!”
Everyone in line is both wide-eyed and submissive, immediately stepping back and out of the way to let her go in front.
I grab Clara’s arm as gently as I can and try to pull her away. “You see the sign, you can’t go by yourself, and I can’t leave Freja behind.” I’m pleading with her now not to make a scene but I know it’s too late. She’s making one. Everyone can hear what she’s saying and, worse, I see cameras and phones out, snapping her picture, probably even recording it.
“Do you mind?” I turn around and yell at the crowd. “This little girl might be a princess but she’s still a little girl who lost her mother. If you post any of that, we will sue you!”
“Yeah, sue you,” Freja interjects, pointing her finger at them.
Finally, Clara gives in and lets me drag her away. I manage to get her around the corner from the crowd and then drop to my knees to look at her, my hands on her shoulders keeping her in place. “Clara, please, you know you can’t act like this.”
“I can do whatever I want,” she sniffs, wiping the lone tear that’s falling from her eye. “I’m a princess and I’m going to be a queen someday.”
I can’t really argue with that one.
“Then you must learn how queens behave themselves. You’re a queen-in-training, Clara.”
“And a goddess,” Freja speaks up.
I give Freja a grateful smile. “Yes, and a goddess.” I pull Clara in for a light hug. I’m a hugger but I understand people who aren’t and with Clara she’s either into it or making a fuss.
Clara pulls back and nods, looking away. She seems ashamed and suddenly aware of the scene she caused. “I just miss Mama,” she admits.
“Oh sweetheart, I know you do. Everyone does. Everyone loved her.”
“But she was only our mother, no one else’s. And now she’s gone. And we can’t even come here like we used to.”
My heart is waterlogged. I sigh and brush her hair over her shoulder. “I wish I had magic to bring your mother back and have everything the way it was. I wish life worked that way.”
“When I’m queen, I’m going to find that magic. I’ll be able to turn back time.”
“Well, let me know when you do, because I’ve got a few mistakes in my past I wouldn’t mind redoing.”
That got her attention, distracting her from her own sadness. “Really? Like what?”
I smile. “That’s a conversation for another time. For now though, all we have is the present so we better make the most of it. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” Freja says, coming over and leaning against her sister in support.
“Can we go to the autumn fair now?” Clara asks quietly, staring at her shoes.
“Yes, of course,” I tell them. “Let’s go.” I take both their hands and all three of us raise our chins, heads held high, and walk out of the park.
* * *
The autumn fair is further outside of the city, which is a nice little drive through lanes lined with red and golden-leafed trees and misty fields of wheat. I roll down the window and take in a deep breath, slowly feeling my head start to clear. I’d spent most of the ride totally foggy-headed and drained after Clara’s breakdown in Tivoli.
I don’t blame her—at all. This is the first time I’ve seen Clara give any sign of trauma, that something is wrong. Normally quiet Freja is the sensitive one, wearing her heart on her sleeve and Clara is just so happy-go-lucky through life. In fact, she reminds me a lot of me. For her to get emotional like this, it’s healthy and long overdue.
But I fear what might get printed in the tabloids or put online. The stuff they might say about her. I don’t give a rat’s ass what they’ll say about me because I’m pretty sure me yelling at people isn’t going to paint me in the best “Mary Poppins” light and they’ll probably post unflattering pictures of me in my skirt, call me a hussy or something, and then say I was totally incompetent. But I want to protect Clara and Freja from as much of this as I can.
Thank
fully the fair isn’t nearly as busy as Tivoli, and as far as I can tell, there aren’t any paparazzi around. It’s mostly apple orchards, pens of prized farm animals, and endless stalls selling harvest vegetables and crafts and food, set on a sprawling, picturesque farm.
Freja is insistent on carrying Clara’s big backpack this time around and I don’t want another fuss on my hands so I let her, even though it dwarfs her tiny frame. We visit the farm animals which the girls are all taken with, especially the sheep and tiny pigs, and then I grab a bag of apples and some root vegetables for Karla since the Danes are so crazy for them and incorporate them into every dish (along with rugbrød, which is a tasty dark rye bread that I can never pronounce right).
We’re settled down at a picnic table and eating late lunch of open-faced sandwiches (no meat, naturally) when a couple walks past and sits down at the table across from us. They both seem to be about my age, late twenties, and unlike some of the other folk here, they don’t pay us any attention at all. In fact, they’re so completely smitten with each other, I’m not even sure they realize where they are.
Freja is watching them with a scrunched-up nose that gets more and more exaggerated as the couple continues with their smooching and pet names, while Clara eyes them curiously.
Then Clara looks at me, lips pursed in thought.
“What?” I ask her. “Do you want that mustard paste of yours?”
“Yes,” she says, holding out her hand.
“Yes, please,” I tell her, rummaging through my bag and handing it to her.
“Yes, please and thank you,” she says, taking the paste and squirting some onto her bread and then kindly does the same on Freja’s. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
The lettuce nearly falls out of my mouth. “What?”
“You don’t have a boyfriend,” she repeats. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be an insult but it sure feels like one.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re always with us.”
That’s true. “I could have a boyfriend.” That I’d meet during my hour or two of free time in the evenings. Lord knows I’ve actually not had a Sunday off yet. I’m supposed to but as Amelie had hinted at, something always comes up.
A Nordic King Page 9
