14. Claire
CLAIRE
“ D oes anyone actually write facts, or is it all just lies?” Claire said, tossing aside a magazine, in which — purportedly — a distant relative of hers had given an interview about a troubled upbringing in which Claire had struggled every day to fit in.
The fact she knew of no such relative, nor recognized any of the apparent description of her life to date made no difference. What was written was true.
“ Veritas odit moras ,” the prince replied, glancing up from his phone.
Claire raised her eyebrows. “For those of us who didn’t go to an English public school?”
“Truth hates delay. They don’t know anything about you, so this is the next best thing. You’ll get used to it.”
“And if I don’t want to get used to it, what then?” Claire said. “Are you used to it? I suppose it’s water off a duck’s back to you.”
She’d been in Flandenne for three days now, and was only just beginning to find her way round the palace, let along navigate the tricky rules and protocols of royal life.
To say the palace was a family home would be an exaggeration.
The family lived there together, but their lives were separate, and day to day they hardly saw one another.
Claire had only spoken to the queen once more after their initial interview, and that had been by chance when she’d opened a door and found the prince’s mother sitting at a desk writing letters.
“Are you settling in?” the queen had asked, and Claire had mumbled something about still finding her feet.
The prince looked at her sympathetically. “I’m used to it because I’ve never known anything different. That’s why I enjoyed being on the yacht. There was no sense of expectation there. I could just… do as I pleased,” he said.
Claire nodded. “That’s how I feel now,” she said.
She was surrounded by luxury, she had everything her heart could desire, and yet she was finding palace life boring.
Where was the effort? There was little by way of satisfaction in having everything but doing nothing.
Claire was used to hard work, and, while she knew many women in her situation carved out lives of charitable endeavor, the fact this was all a sham meant it was hardly appropriate to think in such a way about a possible future that wasn’t going to occur.
“We don’t just have to sit here if you don’t want to. We could go to look at a site for the restaurant, or take the car somewhere,” the prince said.
But Claire wanted to do something more spontaneous. She wasn’t used to everything being planned and formal.
“I think I’ll go for a walk round the palace. There are still parts I haven’t seen yet,” she said.
The prince nodded. He’d been lounging in front of the enormous television in his private apartments where Claire had come to sit with him.
It was a real bachelor’s pad, filled with his collection of art displayed next to games consoles and music systems. His bed was enormous, canopied in red and gold, and with the royal coat of arms hung above.
It was a far cry from Claire’s cabin on board the Aurora.
“You don’t want me to come with you?” he asked.
“We don’t need to do everything together, do we?” Claire replied.
In truth, she was becoming somewhat claustrophobic, surrounded constantly by attention, and was beginning to realize just how restrictive the life of a prince could be.
He couldn’t just take a walk or go to the movies.
Everything had to be planned. For a moment, the prince looked disappointed, but nodding, he agreed.
“I’ll see you later.”
Leaving the prince’s apartment, Claire made her way along a carpeted corridor, past priceless antiques and imposing portraits.
But it was below all this she wanted to explore, and trying a few doors, she eventually found her way onto a spiral staircase which wound its way down into the bowels of the palace below.
Voices echoed up the stairs, and Claire smiled to herself, realizing she’d stumbled on an entrance to the palace kitchens.
“I ordered duck eggs, these are hen eggs,” someone was complaining, as Claire reached the bottom of the stairs, where she found herself on a brightly lit service corridor.
“My apologies, Monsieur Faronne. I’ll return later with the correct order,” a second voice replied.
Claire was about to retreat, not wanting to be seen, when a tall man in whites and a starched chef’s hat emerged from a door, followed by a man who was presumably the supplier. At the sight of Claire, the chef paused, looking startled.
“I’m sorry. I think I got lost,” Claire said.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Bellamy. You’re in the kitchen — shall I show you how to get back to the upper rooms?” the chef replied.
The supplier was beating a hasty retreat, but Claire was in no hurry to leave — not now she’d been caught.
“Actually, I’d like to see the kitchens,” she said.
Monsieur Faronne looked surprised, but holding out his hand to her, he smiled.
“This way, mademoiselle,” he said, in his thick French accent, and ushering her through a swing door, Claire found herself in the palace kitchen, where a brigade of chefs was busy preparing lunch.
It was a kitchen the likes of which Claire had never been in before. Everything was immaculate — including the uniforms of the brigade. The kitchen gleamed with silver and brass, even as pots bubbled, and the sound of chopping and the clatter of saucepans filled the air.
“You probably know I’m a chef myself,” Claire said, as Monsieur Faronne led her to his workbench.
“You’re to open your own restaurant in Flandenne, mademoiselle? I wish you luck.”
Claire wondered what he really thought. She was keen to prove herself.
She hadn’t so much as boiled an egg in the last few days and was feeling sorely deprived of her creativity.
Idling her time away was fine on a beach holiday, but Claire had no intention of making it permanent.
She didn’t want the chef to think she was simply playing at things.
“Thank you. But it’s still a while away yet. I could… help you here,” Claire ventured.
The chef looked at her in surprise, but he didn’t immediately dismiss the idea.
“What sort of things do you like to cook, mademoiselle?” he asked.
Claire thought for a moment. Flandenne was known for its rich food — its national dish was a pancake filled with a mixture of potato, cheese and cured meat — while Claire’s own tastes were more Mediterranean. But a sudden idea now occurred to her, causing her to smile.
“Well, recently I cooked the prince’s favorite childhood dish,” she said, wondering if the chef knew what it was.
But Monsieur Faronne looked at her blankly.
“What is it?”
“A steamed sponge pudding,” Claire replied.
It wasn’t long before she’d donned a chef’s jacket and had set to work, showing the head chef how to prepare the dessert that had so captured the prince’s delight.
With the resources of the palace kitchen at her disposal, Claire made the dessert with golden syrup this time, excited at the prospect of the king and queen trying it at dinner that evening.
There was to be a reception that afternoon, and some of the guests were staying for dinner — an unofficial celebration of the prince’s engagement.
The menus had already been decided, but the steamed sponge pudding would be included, too — a homage to the first meeting between Claire and the prince.
“You’re a considerable talent, mademoiselle,” the head chef said, when he tasted the dessert a short while later.
They’d cooked it in the microwave, just as Claire had done on the yacht. It tasted delicious, and even more so with the golden syrup.
“I hope Their Majesties like it,” Claire replied, feeling nervous at the thought of the king and queen eating something she’d prepared for them.
Later that afternoon, the prince came to Claire’s apartment to collect her for the reception. She’d changed into a red dress and put on a tiara loaned her by the queen.
“You look beautiful,” the prince said.
Claire blushed. She’d never worn something so elegant before. It made her feel like Marilyn Monroe.
“You’re just saying that,” she replied, but he shook his head.
“But I’m not. You really do. I… I’m sorry if this is all a little overwhelming for you.”
Claire smiled at him. “I’m managing. And I’ve got you to help me, haven’t I?” she replied.
“It’s just that earlier, I thought I’d upset you. When you went off like that, I…” he began, but Claire interrupted him.
“No… it wasn’t that. I just needed some time alone, that’s all. I’m used to doing as I want, when I want. Everything here happens according to someone else’s rules. I’m still finding my feet. Actually, I’ve got a surprise for you this evening,” she said, smiling at him.
He’d brought her flowers — red roses — and the perfume of the blooms filled the air. It was a sweet gesture — a peace offering for the presumed offense. But Claire hadn’t been offended. She’d just wanted time on her own, and the afternoon she’d spent in the kitchen had been just what she’d needed.
“Oh, yes? Are you going to tell me what it is?” he asked.
Claire laughed. “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I did, would it?”
Having finished getting ready, the time had come for them to go down to the reception. It was being held in the long gallery — a chance for the great and the good of Flandenne to get a glimpse of the prince’s betrothed. Claire was nervous, but determined to make a good impression.
As they entered the room at the equerry’s announcement, heads turned. All eyes were on Claire. She’d never been the center of attention before. It felt strange, even as she smiled and nodded as the two of them passed by the groups of guests.
“You’re doing very well,” the prince whispered, as Claire nodded and smiled, acknowledging those they passed.
“What happens now?” she asked, but that question was answered as an elderly man in evening dress, wearing various decorations, stepped forward, accompanied by a woman in a silver-colored dress and matching tiara.
“Your Highness, how pleased we are to have you back on native soil,” the man said.
“Prime minister, good evening,” the prince said, and Claire was introduced to the Right Honorable Maximilian Von-Kershaw, the prime minister of Flandenne, and his wife, Mrs. Wilhelmina Von-Kershaw.
Claire had never met people like this before. The talk was of the prince’s visit to Monaco and the strengthening of the diplomatic mission. Claire was unsure as to her contribution. Was she simply to smile and nod, or could she venture an opinion?
“Smaller states such as ours have the opportunity for considerable leverage in the financial markets. Look at somewhere like Rwanda. They call it the Switzerland of Africa,” the prime minister was saying.
Claire was bored of nodding and smiling.
“It’s the same in the US — some states have more leverage than others. But together, they form a union. If the smaller European states work cooperatively, there’s no reason why the same can’t be said for them,” she said, deciding to speak her mind, rather than hold back on the obvious.
The prime minister looked at her in surprise.
“An economist as well as a chef, Miss Bellamy,” he replied, raising his eyebrows.
Claire didn’t know if this was meant in a patronizing manner or not, but it was the prince who came to her aid.
“I think that’s absolutely right,” he said. “An inward-looking nation can’t hope to compete on the world stage. In time, I’d like to see a federation of the smaller European states — a union within a union for mutual cooperation.”
Claire glanced at him and smiled. He could so easily have dismissed her opinion, but he hadn’t.
The prime minister nodded. “Yes… there’s certainly merit in such an idea. Our economies benefit when we cooperate.”
But before either Claire or the prince could answer, a bell sounded, and the doors at the far end of the long gallery opened, revealing Monsieur Faronne in his immaculate chef’s whites wheeling a trolley on top of which was a silver domed platter.
The guests fell silent, watching as it was wheeled into the center of the room.
The equerry cleared his throat, and Claire slipped her arm through the prince’s, whispering in his ear.
“This is your surprise. I taught Monsieur Faronne the recipe this afternoon.”
The prince looked at her and smiled, as the equerry announced a special treat for the guests at the reception before those staying for dinner went through to the dining room.
“A steamed sponge pudding with golden syrup, Your Majesty,” he said, as the king stepped forward and the chef removed the silver dome.
Claire was relieved to see a smile spread across the king’s face, and he turned to the prince and Claire, beckoning them to join him.
“Ah, I remember your letters from school about this. Your favorite, wasn’t it?” he said, and the prince nodded.
“That’s right, Father, and I’m pleased to tell you all, that the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach. I give you my bride to be — Miss Claire Bellamy. The author of the feast. And I do hope you’ll all indulge in a taste of nostalgia.”
Glasses were raised in a toast to Claire, who couldn’t help but feel proud at having put a smile on the king’s face, and endeared herself to the other guests too.
Perhaps life at the palace wouldn’t be so bad after all, and with the prince on her side, Claire was beginning to think this whole extraordinary affair might just bring her the happiness that had so far proved elusive.