Some Enchanted Evening (5 page)

BEAUMONTAGNE

Eleven years before

Dowager Queen Claudia tapped her cane along the gleaming white marble floor in the throne room in the royal palace in Beaumontagne, and like a sleek, old, domineering greyhound, she barked at her granddaughters, "Chin up! Shoulders back!"

Fifteen-year-old Crown Prince Rainger of Richarte stood at attention on the dais, observing as she inspected the three princesses.

He knew his turn would come.

Resentfully, he considered the old lady. She commanded the grand chamber with her presence. Gaunt and mean, she had a whip for a tongue and blue eyes that could see a man's sins before he'd committed them. Rainger knew, because she was also his godmother, and she exploited that honor and took him to task whenever she thought fit.

She paced back and forth before the princesses who stood stair-stepped on the dais above her. The sunshine shone through the tall windows, brightening the long, elegant, gilded room, and complimenting the three sisters. The girls were dressed alike in white gowns with pink satin bows around their waists and pink bows in their hair. Supposedly they were pretty — for princesses.

Rainger's father, King Platon, said so.

Their father, King Raimund, beamed with pride when he saw them. Everyone in both courts whispered at their suitability and their comeliness. Rainger supposed it was true, but he had been coming to Beaumontagne once a year ever since he could remember, and to him the girls were sometimes fun to play with, but usually an annoyance, for they would tease him without any deference for his age or exalted position.

"Today, we're welcoming the ambassador from France. This is an official court function, and all eyes will be fixed on you, the royal princesses of Beaumontagne." Queen Claudia wore her white hair in a chignon, with never a strand out of place and a tiara glittering with diamonds and sapphires. Her cerulean velvet gown perfectly matched her eyes.

Rainger thought she had to be at least one hundred years old, maybe one hundred and fifty, but her skin, while wrinkled, was untouched by blotches or broken veins. Some people whispered she was a witch, and Rainger didn't discount the notion. She certainly sported a long, skinny nose, and everyone knew she brewed secret potions in the palace kitchen. She demanded perfection — from herself, and from everyone around her. She got it too.

He himself had inspected his court dress before leaving his room, making sure his white linens gleamed and his dark suit fit his shoulders flawlessly. He had taken a moment too, to admire his muscled form. Countess duBelle said he was a fine figure of a man. He had to admit the countess was right.

Queen Claudia stopped before her youngest granddaughter. "Amy, let me see your nails."

Reluctantly, Amy extended her hands.

Queen Claudia inspected the princess's outstretched palms, then examined the fingernails. "Better," she said. "Clean, but a princess does not bite her nails. Remember, your hands and every part of your person are representative of the royal entity of Beaumontagne. Everything you do and say is subject to examination and must be above reproach."

Six-year-old Amy was an imp with hair as black as Rainger's and an honesty Queen Claudia had not yet been able to crush. "But, Grandmamma, I like to bite my nails. I don't want to be a princess if I have to stop."

As Amy's candid response echoed through around the marble columns, Rainger grinned.

Clarice put her hand over her eyes.

Earnestly, Sorcha said, "Grandmamma, Amy doesn't mean what she said. She's only six."

Sorcha was twelve, with red hair the color of new minted copper and a kind and gentle disposition. In Rainger's opinion, Queen Claudia had ground down her spirit with constant lectures about royal duty, and that was too bad, because she and Rainger were betrothed. He imagined he would be bored within a year of marriage.

Queen Claudia fixed her eldest granddaughter with a freezing look. "I know Amy's age, and such sentiments are unacceptable at any time." She considered Amy until the little girl squirmed. "This honor which you would so freely discard is one given to only a privileged few, and a real princess should be willing to lay down her life for her country and her family. Balanced against such demands, giving up a disgusting habit is easy."

Amy dug her toe into the rich pile of the red carpet leading up to the throne. She muttered, "Then I guess I'm not a real princess."

Clarice released a smothered giggle.

Queen Claudia turned on eleven-year-old Clarice, a blonde with masses of curls springing around her face. Her nostrils flared as she declared, "You will not encourage her in her insolence!"

"No, Grandmamma." But Clarice's eyes still twinkled, and she dug her elbow into Sorcha's side.

Sorcha pinched her back.

Queen Claudia smacked her cane on the floor.

The princesses jumped and straightened.

Since the death of the girls' mother four years before, Queen Claudia had commanded every aspect of their lives, and she was so stern, so humorless, Rainger was convinced she had never been young.

"Amy, I will deliver to your bedchamber an ointment that you'll smear on your fingernails every morning and every night," Queen Claudia said. "That will cure you of your habit, and teach you to mind your manners too."

In a sing-song voice Amy said, "Yes, Grandmamma."

Transferring her attention to Clarice, Queen Claudia said, "Since you believe this is a subject for amusement, you will help me prepare the ointment"

Clarice's face fell. "Yes, Grandmamma."

"Throughout our history every princess of Beaumontagne has been taught the royal beauty secrets. Sorcha knows. It is time that you, Clarice, also —" Queen Claudia leaned toward Clarice and took a deep breath. In tones rife with horror, the dowager asked, "Do I detect the scent of horse?"

Clarice cringed backward. "The French ambassador brought Papa the most beautiful Arabian I've ever seen, and I petted his neck. But only once!"

"Once was evidently enough." Queen Claudia proclaimed, "A princess does not pet horses for pleasure."

Rainger was moved to protest "Godmother, Clarice loves horses, and she has a way with them which even the hostler admires"

Queen Claudia lifted her cane and poked him in the ribs. "Young Rainger, you're not too old to copy the Book of Kings."

During his annual visits to Beaumontagne, Queen Claudia had often ordered Rainger to write out the Book of Kings from the Bible as punishment for his misbehaviors. Even now, if Queen Claudia told him to do it, he wouldn't have the nerve to refuse.

Yet Sorcha sent him a grateful glance, and he knew she appreciated his effort on her sister's behalf.

In the year since Rainger had last seen her, Sorcha had grown tall, but her feet and hands were still too big, and she moved clumsily, leading Rainger's father to predict she would get taller yet. Clarice had grown a little too, and her figure had filled out. Amy was still a rambunctious child, rebelling at every opportunity at her role as princess.

All the courtiers told Rainger he was lucky that he got to marry one of these princesses. But he resented having his bride picked out for him. He was mature. He could choose his own bride. He would rather marry Countess duBelle. The only thing stopping him was her age, which was almost twenty-five . . . well, and her husband, who was very much alive. Rainger ignored the niggles of his conscience as he sneaked into her bed, for he loved the beautiful, vivacious, wicked lady.

In that voice that froze the marrow in his bones, Queen Claudia told Clarice, "I can only hope you haven't ruined the reception with your selfishness. As soon as it's over I'll provide you with my special soap and you're to wash to your elbows. Do you understand? To your elbows!"

"Yes, Grandmamma," Clarice said weakly.

"And no more horses." As if sensing another objection from Rainger, she turned on him. "So, Crown Prince Rainger, what will you do at this reception?"

Resentful that she demanded an accounting of his behavior, he bowed, and answered, "Yawn."

In crushing tones she answered, "Being royal means you know how to yawn with your mouth closed."

"Of course." But her quick reply shook him. He should have remembered. She had a truism for every occasion.

Queen Claudia peered at her oldest granddaughter. "Is that a spot on your forehead?"

Sorcha touched the swelling. "Just a little one."

"No butter for you. No candy. And you will use my complexion wash to cleanse your face twice a day" — Queen Claudia tilted Sorcha's chin up and examined her critically — "and my color emulsion to cover the mark. A princess must always produce the face of perfection. Remember, not everyone wishes you well."

A door opened behind them on the dais, and a short, stout gentleman stepped in, dressed in a uniform covered with medals and ribbons. King Raimund had a splendid mustache and bushy sideburns, and his blue eyes resembled his mother's, except that they twinkled merrily at the sight of his children. He looked tired, as if the recent troubles in his kingdom had worn him down, but he opened his arms. "Come, my dears, and give your poppa a kiss"

With cries of joy and a total lack of dignity, the princesses broke ranks and ran toward him. They embraced him all at once, babbling in girlish tones about their delight at seeing him.

Rainger was surprised to see the slightest smile tilt Queen Claudia's thin lips. She looked almost. . . fond, and not at all disapproving of the loving display.

Then she clapped her hands, once, sharply.

The children broke away from their father and hurriedly lined up again.

"Mother." King Raimund bowed to Queen Claudia, then came to her and touched his cheek to hers.

Rainger bowed to him. "King Raimund."

"Prince Rainger." With due solemnity, he bowed back.

Rainger suspected his show of dignity amused the king, for at one time, Rainger would have run to him, also. But Rainger was too old for such childishness. He was, after all, a Crown Prince.

Striding to the ancient, dark, carved throne, King Raimund asked, "Is all prepared for the reception?"

"Of course." Queen Claudia looked at the small watch which hung from a gold pin on her bosom. "The footmen will admit the courtiers in five minutes"

King Raimund made a sound, not quite a groan. Seating himself, he donned a simple, gold crown.

"Now." Queen Claudia paced before the girls, and Rainger, once again. "How will you greet the French ambassador?"

With calm assurance Amy announced, "I'll tell him to go back where he came from."

Rainger, Sorcha, and Clarice gasped.

Queen Claudia fumbled for the chain around her neck, and lifted her lorgnette to view her youngest granddaughter in dismay. "
What
did you say?"

Amy repeated, "I said I will tell him to go away."

"Why would you make such a statement to the man who is the ambassador from France?" Queen Claudia questioned in dire tones.

With impeccable logic Amy said, "Because you said he's not the real ambassador, he's only the ambassador for the upstart French government, and until they return their rightful king to power, we don't like them."

Sorcha and Clarice exchanged startled glances, then dissolved into giggles.

King Raimund laughed. "She has you there, Mother."

Amy had no idea why everyone was so amused, but she grinned cockily, showing the gap where she had lost a tooth.

Sorcha rushed to defend her sister. "Amy is right, Grandmamma. You always say, 'Tell me who you associate with and I'll tell you who you are.'"

In a soft voice Clarice added, "That's true. Should we, the royal princesses of Beaumontagne, associate with a French upstart?"

It was at times like this when Rainger remembered why he liked the princesses. Not even Queen Claudia, with her rules and her sayings, could squelch their spirits.

Queen Claudia fixed them all — Sorcha, Clarice, Amy, Rainger, and even King Raimund — with a grim eye, and made her final pronouncement. "I hope that someday each of you has a child just like you."

Chapter Five

Why worry? It'll only give ye wrinkles.

— The Old Men of Freya Crags

"Where did she acquire you, my lad?" Robert spoke to Blaize, low and soft, while he looked him over. Definitely a two-year-old colt, an Arabian of good lines, and far too strong and wild for a lady. Yet Clarice handled him with astonishing ease. "And where did your lassie learn to control a beast of such strength?"

Glancing at the closed door of the seamstress's shop, Robert said, "I know what she would say. She would say she learned to ride from an expert horseman. Because she was a
princess
."

Blaize snorted in reply and tossed his head.

"Yes. Exactly. Have you ever heard of princesses who are loose in Britain?
No
. Are the newspapers abuzz about lost royalty?
No
." Robert walked Blaize around the square, still speaking to him in that low, gentle voice he used to tame the wild creatures. "God in heaven, I've heard my share of falsehoods in my time. My men told grandiose tales that changed to fit the circumstances."