15. Adrien
ADRIEN
“ S he made a good impression at the reception last night,” Adrien’s mother said.
They were sitting in the garden together, Adrien having been summoned to speak with his mother about arrangements for the wedding.
“I thought so, too. She’s fitting in well. Despite what some people are saying…”
Adrien had heard rumors — the unpleasant talk of people with nothing better to do.
It hadn’t taken long for the facts about Claire’s background to emerge.
In some quarters, it seemed she wasn’t seen as the “right type of woman.” Her background had been investigated, old acquaintances had been discovered, and the facts of her previous career unearthed.
The crown prince of Flandenne was to marry a cook.
The fact that Claire had drive, ambition, and determination — not to mention considerable talent — appeared to matter less than her humble background.
“Yes, well, that can’t be helped. You knew it wasn’t going to be easy. But you love her, don’t you?” Adrien’s mother said. “The two of you seem quite at ease with one another.”
Adrien had been thinking the same. He did feel at ease with Claire.
She grounded him. Her presence was a reminder that other people lived very different lives from his own, and that what he himself took for granted was hardly so for the majority.
But more than that, he was growing to like her.
He already liked her. She had a charm and ease about her he found endearing, and the sweet gesture with the steamed sponge pudding had only made him realize just how much his feelings for her were growing.
“I want it to work, Mother. I don’t want to be the playboy prince any longer. I’m tired of all that.”
The queen nodded. She looked relieved.
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Adrien. Your father and I have been worried about you. You didn’t seem happy the last time you were here. There was a restlessness about you. Let’s hope this is the beginning of something new,” she replied.
“Another, another… one, two, three. Drink, drink, drink,” Adrien shouted, raising his tankard as his friend Friedrich glugged from the tankard of beer — half of which was spilling down the front of his shirt.
With a gasp, and the look of someone who’s about to be sick, he raised the tankard above his head, tilting it over to prove he’d finished it. A cheer erupted around the tavern, and Adrien slapped him on the back with a triumphant cry.
“He did it, he did it!” another of the group cried out, and calls went up for another round of drinks.
The atmosphere was raucous. Adrien was enjoying himself.
It was the bachelor party of a close friend of his — Friedrich Althusser, whom Adrien had known since childhood, a dark-haired and usually serious young scholar from the university.
He was to marry the daughter of a wealthy businessman, and he and his closest friends were spending the evening in a beer hall.
Adrien had been glad to come and toast his friend’s happiness, and the evening was now passing in a blur.
“You’re next,” Friedrich shouted, pushing the empty tankard into Adrien’s hands.
For a moment, Adrien was struck by the thought of whether this was a good idea or not. But the exuberant cheers of his friends urged him on, and holding out the tankard for a waiter to fill, he steadied himself against the nearest table.
“For the honor of Flandenne,” he cried out, tipping the tankard back into his open mouth, as the beer spilled down his throat.
A cheer went up when he’d finished, holding the empty tankard over his head with a triumphant cry. Phones were held aloft, even as Adrien backed away.
“None of that,” he said half-laughingly, though even in his current state he knew how such pictures could be construed.
“Who’s next?” Friedrich called out, and the tankard was passed to someone else.
But as Adrien sobered up, he couldn’t help but wonder what that photo might be worth…
“How many times do we have to tell you, Adrien?” the king exclaimed, glaring at Adrien, as he held up the front page of La Almaviva — the most popular daily newspaper in Flandenne.
Adrien winced. The front page showed a picture from last night’s party at the beer hall.
Adrien himself was the subject, pictured with the upturned tankard on his head and the caption “Still Partying.” The article went on to ask where Claire was in the midst of this drunken revelry, and speculate as to whether Adrien’s playboy lifestyle had really come to an end.
“I know, but… what harm can it do? I’m only doing what every other man does with his friends,” Adrien complained.
“But you’re not every other man. You’re engaged to be married. You’re supposed to be settling down, not compromising yourself like this, Adrien. Really… it’s just… won’t you ever learn?” the king demanded.
Adrien mumbled an apology. He felt like a schoolboy again. His father was always like this, though he knew what the retort would be if he said so — “then don’t behave like it, then.”
“And think of Claire. What must she think of you?” his mother asked.
Adrien hadn’t yet seen Claire to ascertain what she thought of it — if anything.
Knowing there was no point in arguing, Adrien excused himself, making the vague suggestion that he’d go to find her and apologize.
As he was leaving the royal apartments, he met her on the corridor, blushing at the thought of what she must be thinking.
“Sore head?” she asked, smiling at him as he approached.
“I… yes, well, something like that,” he replied.
She looked at him sympathetically.
“Why don’t I make you something for the hangover?” she said.
There wasn’t a trace of anger in her voice. In fact, it seemed to Adrien as though she found the whole episode somewhat amusing.
“That would be good, thank you. You’ve seen the pictures, then?” he ventured, as she led the way down to the palace kitchens.
“I’ve decided not to bother looking at the newspapers — though it was the first thing that came up on my feed this morning. You with a beer tankard on your head. You looked ridiculous.”
Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “I felt it, too. And I was sick in the night. I don’t know how much I drank.”
He’d been prepared to grovel. To beg for her forgiveness and to promise never to do anything so stupid again. But it seemed he’d underestimated her, and for that, he was both grateful and relieved.
“I’m going to make you French toast,” she said, as they entered the kitchen, where the bemused-looking brigade watched the two of them head towards one of the stoves.
“That’ll help,” Adrien replied, watching as Claire set to work.
She had a mindful and methodical way about her.
Everything was laid out prior to cooking, and it wasn’t long before Adrien was presented with three slices of thickly cut brioche, cooked golden brown in the egg, and dusted with cinnamon and icing sugar.
It was the perfect cure for his creeping hangover.
“But did you have fun last night?” Claire asked.
They’d taken their brunch outside and were sitting on the terrace above the palace gardens.
Adrien’s head hurt, but not enough to prevent him from appreciating the company and the setting.
Claire had a way of making him forget his troubles, just as he’d done on board the Aurora.
In her company, it felt as though nothing else really mattered.
She didn’t judge or condemn. She merely took things at face value, and for that, Adrien was grateful.
“I did… but I didn’t, if that makes sense,” he replied, digging his knife and fork into a slice of French toast. “I love my friends. But I know I can’t go on like this. My father’s right. They can do things I can’t. The whole point of us pretending…”
At these words, he paused. The pretense was working.
The newspapers, his family, his friends — everyone — believed the two of them were to be married because they were in love.
How they’d extract themselves from the arrangement was another matter.
Adrien was trying not to think about it, but the more he tried not to think about it, the more he found himself thinking about his growing feelings for Claire.
Feelings that had nothing to do with pretense.
They’d crept on him unexpectedly. He hadn’t sought them. Sex was one thing, but feelings…
“I’m sure there’s room for both. Can’t the crown prince have fun as well as be serious?” Claire asked.
Some might’ve called her na?ve for those words, but Adrien saw them more as a permission.
She wasn’t going to hold him back or dictate his behavior as other women might’ve done.
Again, he was reminded of how different she was, even as he reminded himself it wasn’t an excuse to take advantage.
She’d forgiven him — or not even seen there was something to forgive.
It was a far cry from the sort of woman who’d pout her lips and tell him she’d embarrassed him
“Don’t let my parents hear you say that.”
“But what’s the point if you can’t live a little? I hope I won’t have to live like that. There are things I want to do. I was thinking of inviting some people from home to Flandenne — friends from when I was a kid. Are we going to be photographed having cocktails or dancing in a club?”
Adrien sighed. Unfortunately, the answer was yes. What was normal for most people — encouraged, even — wasn’t the same for him, or, now, for her.
“You might be. And they might write things about you because of it. You’ll be damned if you do and damned if you don’t. But at least we can be damned together, though I think there’d be even more written if you were the one with beer tankard on your head. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
He meant it, even as he kept reminding himself it wasn’t real.
And yet, with every passing moment, it was becoming more so.
Feelings either existed or they didn’t, and Adrien was beginning to realize his most definitely did.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back at him, as he reached across the table to take her hand in his.
It felt natural, but it caused the expression on her face to change — a questioning look, unsure, perhaps, how to respond.
She didn’t immediately take his hand in hers, and he wondered if perhaps he’d overstepped the mark.
“I suppose it’s just something you get used to.”
Was that a hint of regret in her voice?
“If you’re not happy…” he began, but Claire shook her head.
“It’s not that. But I just… I suppose I have to be absolutely sure about it,” she replied.
Adrien wondered if she meant the restaurant and this new life in Flandenne, or her feelings towards him.
Was there something more between them? He was feeling it for himself — beginning to want it.
But it had to be Claire’s decision. She was the one giving up everything for him.
Adrien now began to realize just what a momentous decision it was.
This wasn’t a game. It meant something. And it was Claire who was giving up far more than he was.
Dancing with her friends in a club, drinking cocktails, enjoying herself — why shouldn’t she do so, and why should she be pursued by photographers in doing so?
“And are you?” he asked.
“I hope so,” she replied.