Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Letter to Readers
Acknowledgments
Winning the Queen's Heart Excerpt
Finding Mr. Write Excerpt
Author Bio
HAND-ME-DOWN PRINCESS
Carol Moncado
Copyright © 2015 Carol Moncado
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13:
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — for example, electronic, photocopy, recording, for personal or commercial purposes — without written permission of the author(s). The only exception is for brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews.
This is a work of fiction set in a fictionalized southwest Missouri and a redrawn, fictionalized Europe. Any resemblance to real events or to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Any reference to historical figures, places, or events, whether fictional or actual, is a fictional representation.
Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Cover photos: Copyright: vladacanon/canstock.com
Author photo: Captivating by Keli, 2010
First edition, CANDID Publications, 2015
Chapter 1
Nothing like being a hand-me-down Princess.
The words mocked Jessabelle over and over as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.
Hand-me-down.
Passed over.
Rejected.
Unwanted.
In less than an hour she would become Princess Jessabelle of Mevendia, wife of Prince Malachi, second in line for the throne. Not because he wanted to marry her, but because Crown Prince William had rejected her.
Twice.
Prince Malachi only upheld his family’s end of the marriage contract because her father had saved King Antonio’s life when they were teens.
Under no circumstances would Prince Malachi ever have chosen plain, mousy Jessabelle on his own. It was probably just as well the Crown Prince refused to marry her. She wouldn’t have wanted to be queen. Every little girl dreamed of being a princess, right? Most girls wouldn’t be sitting in a bedroom in a house provided for her family by the groom wondering if she could climb out the window. Would anyone notice? Guards had been posted on the grounds to protect the future princess, but she doubted anyone cared enough to sneak in and try to get pictures of her or kidnap her. No one even knew who she was. Would any of them care if she snuck out? Would anyone even realize it was her if it weren’t for the wedding gown?
When the engagement had been announced two weeks earlier, she’d been too busy throwing up to stand next to her new fiancée at the press gathering. They’d told those assembled she’d taken ill suddenly, and the press had to find their own pictures of her. They hadn’t found any in which she was the primary focus. Instead, blurry, background photos were the best they had.
She’d streamed the press gathering on her tablet later and wondered how anyone could believe Prince Malachi had any desire to marry her. His comments were limited to the bare facts, making people believe much more than they should have, but he never actually lied.
The twinkle of the massive diamond on her ring finger caught her eye as she stopped a teardrop from escaping with the tip of one manicured figure. Her fiancée was supposed to have given her the ring himself right before the press gathering, but since she’d been sick, her father had left it on her dresser with a note to put it on and not ever take it off. A glance at the clock told her she had less than five minutes to wait before her father would come to whisk her away.
Jessabelle pulled on the glove-like sleeve things she didn’t really understand. A loop went around her middle finger and the satin extended to her elbow. Not gloves. Not sleeves. What was the point? She didn’t understand but when the royal family sent you wedding clothes, you wore what they told you to.
With a deep, fortifying breath, she stared at her reflection, willing it to improve. The normally limp hair hung past her shoulders no matter what the hairdresser from the palace tried to do with it. She’d managed to get a bit of a wave but the woman had given up trying for anything more. She decided to pull the top half back. The veil would cover it and her face so no one would see her until the walk back up the aisle.
Even her groom would have a hard time seeing her.
Two minutes earlier than she expected, the knock came at the door.
Another deep breath. “Come in.”
Her father, leaning heavily on his cane, entered. She could see the tears in his eyes and wouldn’t do anything to let him believe she was anything other than ecstatic about the wedding. She’d never been demonstrative, but she couldn’t let him know about the pit of dread in her belly. Not just about the wedding itself, but becoming a princess and living with someone she didn’t know and the wedding night and the honeymoon and becoming not just the prince’s bride but his wife.
With her father’s health failing, she wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Not after he’d been both mother and father to her for so many years. In some ways, she’d hoped this day wouldn’t come before he took his last breath. That he’d believe to his dying day that she would be taken care of by the royal family, but once he left her, she’d be able to put the family off for a time of grieving and then disappear. Perhaps to the United States.
He came to a stop in front of her. “Oh, sweet, Jessabelle. You look as lovely as your mother did on the day we married.” Tears trickled down his cheeks.
His eyesight was obviously going.
“Thank you, Papa.” Best to tell him what he wanted to hear.
“Come, darling. Your carriage awaits.”
Right. A real carriage with horses and everything waited outside to take her to the largest cathedral in Mevendia. At least she wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of a wedding on the huge balcony in the palace courtyard like the unlucky lady who married the Crown Prince would.
The carriage waited inside massive stone walls separating the small courtyard from the street. A footman, decked out like footmen of old, held the door as Jessabelle helped her father in then followed him. As the door swung shut, the driver clicked, and the four white horses started forward. The large gates opened as though by magic to allow them through.
Shouts and flashes greeted them. She paid attention to none of it, choosing to stare at her hands where they rested amid the satin and tulle of her dress and veil. The diamond mocked her with its silent testament to what time and intense pressure could create. She wouldn’t be so lucky. Time and intense pres
sure wouldn’t turn her into a diamond but rather into a crumpled mass of coal. Unwanted and useless for anything except destruction.
The roar of the crowd followed them through the streets. Several members of the royal mounted guard rode in front and behind the carriage. She should wave, soak in the memories, but all she could do was stare at the ring.
Jessabelle had never even spoken to her groom, but in thirty minutes, she’d be his wife.
* * *
Prince Malachi Jedidiah Richard Louis of Mevendia stood in the anteroom near the front of the cathedral. Twenty-one-years-old, second in line for the throne - a throne he didn’t want - and about to marry a woman he’d never met, never even seen.
All because of the stupid, ancient laws no one ever got around to changing.
Why would they when they always seemed to work out so well? The mocking tone he’d used with his father reverberated through his head.
He looked to see his mother fussing over Yvette’s dress and hair one last time. His father and older brother, Crown Prince William, talked quietly about something serious. He had no idea what. They rarely included him in the serious conversations. After all, he’d never be king. Oh, someday he’d probably be the Regulator Maire of Erres, something of a cross between a mayor and governor of Mevendia’s capital city but, that day wouldn’t come until William wore the crown.
The bishop, complete with flowing white and gold robes and funny hat, entered the room. First, he said something to the queen then to Malachi’s brother and father. The king turned to Malachi, looking him up and down.
He’d be found lacking somewhere. He always was.
Sure enough, the king approached, tugged on Malachi’s red vest under his black jacket, and walked around making a few more tweaks to Malachi’s appearance. The intricate gold crown had already been placed on his head by someone else. He didn’t remember who. The entire time he’d had help getting ready, he’d stayed in his stupor. Malachi didn’t want this anymore than...well, to be fair, he had no idea if his bride wanted this marriage to happen or not. Most girls in Mevendia would give their eye teeth to have his father insisting that one of his sons marry her.
By the time the king finished brushing off Malachi’s shoulders and straightening his sword, the room had emptied, leaving just the two of them. His father came around to stand in front of him, clasping him on the shoulders.
“I know this isn’t how you thought this day would come about, Mal, but I did what I thought was best.”
Malachi simply nodded, knowing his objections to the ancient laws requiring arranged marriages for members of the monarch’s family had been raised repeatedly. And shot down. Repeatedly. Out of the three sister countries that made up The Royal Commonwealth of Belles Montagnes, all descended from the same family line, Mevendia was the first to allow the firstborn to take the throne regardless of gender. It was also the only one that still required marriage contracts and assorted other antiquated ideals regarding the family’s relationships.
And then he was alone. His brother would be standing on the stage waiting for him to emerge when the trumpets sounded the next time. His sister would lead the processional, acting as maid of honor for a woman she also had never met.
What a farce.
A farce that would lead to either a long, happy life or, more likely, long, lonely years stretching into eternity.
The blast of the trumpets signaled time for his entrance. The doors in front of him opened. He took careful, measured steps in time to the beat of the music so he wouldn’t arrive at his destination too early. A sigh escaped him when he saw his soon-to-be father-in-law appear seconds before all three of them reached their assigned spots.
The music reached its crescendo and stopped with a crashing of cymbals somewhere unseen.
The bishop took a step forward, the extraordinarily large Bible in his hands. “Hear ye! Hear ye! His Royal Highness Prince Malachi Jedidiah Richard Louis of Mevendia takes a wife! Let any who object speak now!”
There would be no objections, but he could hear the skirt of his bride rustling on the other side of her father. Was she hoping for an objection? Or praying there wouldn’t be one?
After several heartbeats, the bishop continued, bellowing to be heard despite the microphone clipped to his lapel. “As there are no objections, His Royal Highness shall pledge his honor to Jessabelle Keller! Jessabelle Keller will pledge her loyalty, fidelity, and obedience to His Royal Highness!”
Something about the differences in what the two of them would be expected to pledge to each other struck Malachi, but he had no time to turn it over in his head.
“Who gives Jessabelle Keller to the prince?”
The gentleman next to Malachi took a deep breath and spoke, though without the volume of the bishop. “On behalf of her late mother and the adoring nation, as her father, I do.” He turned to give his daughter a hug and Malachi saw part of her for the first time. Her hands clasped her father’s shoulders, the excessively large diamond ring twinkling at him under the lights.
“I will be fine, Papa,” he heard her whisper.
And then her hand had been placed in his.
Malachi’s fingers curled around hers without being told. Together, they took three steps forward until they reached the base of the stairs. He started to go on, but she didn’t move.
With skill borne of years of practice, he kept a furrow from appearing on his brow. Her other hand, the one holding a bouquet of white calla lilies, seemed to be trying to grasp her skirt, and he understood the problem. He switched her right hand from his left into his right and rested his left hand on her lower back for support.
“One step at a time, slowly,” he whispered. “You’ll make it.”
His fingers might not. They could fall off from lack of circulation given how tightly she grasped them, but after another moment they stood at the top of the stairs.
The bishop glared at their hands until Malachi switched back. What difference did it make which hand he held? Who knew? He did know every moment of the royal wedding was steeped in traditions, some dating back to the brothers who split the kingdom into three separate nations not long after the time of Charlemagne.
The bishop had begun speaking again. There was no “dearly beloved” or speech about the sanctity of marriage, or how the marriage of a man and woman showed a picture of Christ’s love for His bride, the church. Malachi had been to enough “regular” weddings to know things were different.
In mere seconds, Miss Keller was reciting her vows, pledging herself to him before he would be required to do the same. There was no chance of a royal pledging himself to someone only to have the bride not reciprocate. Apparently, it had happened somewhere in their history.
“I pledge my loyalty to His Royal Highness, Prince Malachi, and to the crown of Mevendia,” she repeated, though Malachi had to strain to hear. A microphone hidden somewhere picked up the sound for the rest of those gathered. “I pledge my fidelity, all of who I am, to His Royal Highness alone. I swear to my Maker, I will obey Prince Malachi in all matters in which he gives instructions. I endow upon the prince all my worldly possessions.” Like his family needed the worldly possessions of anyone else. “I give all I have to the prince. My purity. My honor. Even my life. Upon punishment of death should I break my word, I willingly make this vow. Until the time of my death, I belong to none but the prince.”
The bishop turned to Malachi. Instead of looking his bride in the eyes and pledging to love, honor, and cherish as most men did, Malachi stared at the tassel on the bishop’s forehead.
“I, His Royal Highness Prince Malachi Jedidiah Richard Louis of Mevendia...” Why was his name so long and pretentious? “...do swear before God and these witnesses that I have chosen as my bride Miss Jessabelle Keller.” Or she’d been chosen for him. But whatever. “Until the time of her death or betrayal, I pledge to her the covering of my name and my country.” How much more unromantic could these vows be? And chauvinistic? He couldn’t believe
his mother had gone along with this all those years ago. “Upon my honor as a member of the Van Rensselaer family, rulers of Mevendia, I will protect her with all that I am.”
Malachi’s mind whirred at the speed of sound. Why hadn’t he looked at the vows more carefully? Not that he wanted to marry this woman, but the one-sidedness struck him. He would have to reassure her in private that he had no intention of being anything but loyal. His vows were worded as they were because the princes and kings of old had often taken several wives or concubines and wouldn’t dream of pledging their fidelity to one woman.
Once William became king, Malachi would convince him to change the law.
On auto-pilot, he slipped the wedding band given him by the bishop onto her finger, repeating something inane about a symbol of his protection. She slid a band onto his finger, once again promising her fidelity unto death.
And then it was time.
The bishop led them to a kneeling bench further back on the stage. Malachi’s bride knelt as he stood at her side. The bishop bellowed a few more things about how lucky she was her stars had aligned or some such nonsense.
“As her husband, Prince Malachi shall remove the covering of her father.”
Right. Take off her veil. He’d been told it would be simple, but his hands fumbled with the clasp attaching the veil to her head. Wasn’t it just supposed to slide out? But when he removed the clip, her hair fell forward, leaving the veil in place. Then it began to slip and realized his error. Removing the comb attached to the veil from her hair was simple.
The bishop moved to the side allowing Malachi to stand before his bride. A circle of intricate silver leaves embedded with jewels rested on a pillow being held by the bishop. He took it and held it high, praying he could remember his line. It had sounded corny before and nearly humiliating for this woman now. “I, Prince Malachi of Mevendia,” Hopefully it was still valid if he didn’t use the whole moniker. “With this crown declare this woman is no longer Miss Jessabelle Keller, but Her Royal Highness, Jessabelle, Princess of Mevendia and my wife.” He set the delicate crown on her head and prayed it would stay in place, at least long enough for them to disappear into another anteroom for the signing of the documents. At least one member of the staff would be there to help secure it, or so he’d been told.
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