Chapter 10
Ten
AURELIA
It’s no use trying to get Darcy and Liam back on our previous routine. I only have one more day with them before the weekend, and that will throw it all off again. Plus, with the arrival of Lord Maier’s mother and half-sister for the princess trials, the whole house will be off kilter.
I arrive at the Maier’s home at my usual seven o’clock and head straight for the kitchen, but the aroma of curry wafts into the hallway, and I can hear someone banging about already.
I push open the swinging door and find an older woman in a housecoat with a knot of dark grey hair tied on top of her head standing at the stove.
She has an earbud in one ear and is humming along with whatever music she’s listening to.
“Good morning!” She turns to me and gives a brilliant smile, showing off teeth that are almost too white and too straight. “You must be the famous Miss Aurelia.”
“Mother, you’re shouting,” Lord Maier grumbles from the round table in the corner.
“Ooh. Sorry, dear.” She plucks out the earbud and puts it back in its case. “That Post Malone always gets me going in the morning.”
I fight back a laugh at the revelation that this woman, apparently the Lady Catherine Jameson herself, is cooking her own breakfast while listening to rap music. Lord Maier had never told me his mother is so hip.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Ladyship.” I curtsy, proud of the progress I have made in my short time interacting with Prince Friedrich.
She apparently despises the gesture as much as he does because she gives a dismissive wave of the hand before turning back to the stove.
“I hope you don’t mind; I took the liberty of making breakfast this morning, Nanny Sumner.”
“Not at all, ma’am.” I breathe deep. “It smells delicious.”
“Kedgeree,” she explains. “A curry rice dish from India and bastardized by those Brits. But damn if it doesn’t make for a fine hearty breakfast.”
“Mother,” my employer groans again. “You were married to one of those Brits for twenty-two years.”
Lady Maier explained her husband’s family tree to me once.
I won’t pretend to understand the half of it, but the most important bits are that his mother divorced his father, the Earl of Westfall, when Lord Maier was young, then married the son of the English Duke of Bedford and produced his half-sister, Lady Juliette.
The older woman waves a dismissive hand at her son. “Inconsequential. He more than made up for it in the bedroom.”
Lord Maier chokes on his coffee, and I suppress a snort, wondering if this woman knows my Aunt Sarah—them both being a part of the peerage and all.
They would be two peas. I purse my lips.
Or perhaps a formidable force that shouldn’t be tried.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and enjoy a few sips in peace before it’s time to wake the children.
“Come, Dietrich. Have a spot before you head off,” his mother orders as I return with Darcy and Liam a little while later.
“Gan Gan!” they squeal when they see her. The children had fallen asleep in the car from the train station, and I’d put them straight to bed last night, so their grandmother in the kitchen is a wonderful surprise.
“My little hobgoblins,” she coos, kneeling on spry knees. She gives her grandchildren loud smooches on each cheek, making them giggle.
As the children begin tucking into their breakfast, Liam, with his fists full of curry rice and boiled egg, a woman about my age enters the kitchen.
She is gorgeous, even bleary-eyed and tousled.
This is obviously Lady Jameson’s daughter, Juliette.
They have the same slender face and perfect nose, arched eyebrows and dainty ears.
Even half asleep, Lord Maier’s sister looks every bit the part of a potential future princess.
Her platinum blonde hair cascades down her back in voluminous curls that look so effortless in the early morning, and she moves her tall, slender body with a fluid grace that should look haughty but instead makes her look like a berobed ballerina flitting about backstage between numbers.
My mind immediately strays to Prince Friedrich and our little arrangement.
What chance do I have with him when there are stunning women like this around?
Women who roll out of bed looking absolute perfection and never have a bad hair day.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Lady Jameson trills. “Your eggs are by the stove.”
Lady Juliette says nothing as she takes two boiled eggs from the stove and pours herself a cup of black coffee into a plain white cup.
“She never eats my kedgeree,” Lady Jameson says to me out of the side of her mouth as I take a monstrous bite.
Lady Jameson’s cooking is absolutely incredible.
I didn’t even know what kedgeree was before I moved to Emarvia, but my goodness, it has quickly become a favorite.
Even the children enjoy the flavorful breakfast. A typical Friday breakfast involves a trip to our favorite bakery, but no complaints are heard as we tear into Lady Jameson’s offering.
Lady Juliette says nothing throughout breakfast, though I try to engage her in conversation on a few occasions, and her niece is delighted to have a newcomer to regale with all her adventures on tour this week.
Lord Maier makes an aside about his sister not talking before nine a.m., and I drop the attempt.
After breakfast, I take the children on their usual expedition to the park.
With the women arriving from around the world, plus their own security details, the capital is abnormally busy.
Tourists are, of course, frequent during the summer, but visitors drop off around September; the only draw for tourism in autumn and winter is the occasional rugby or international friendly football match.
I have to keep the children close on our walk, much to little Liam’s displeasure; by the time we make it to the park, they are a whirlwind of chaotic energy.
The rest of the day is as uneventful as they come, which suits me just fine since waves of nervous anticipation are increasing in intensity and frequency as the day wears on.
After the park, I feed the children a quick lunch before they go down for a nap.
Lady Jameson joins Lady Maier and me in the parlor for our regular afternoon tea and tea.
So called because Lady Maier spends the time regaling me with all the latest court drama and speculation while taking tea, or in my case, coffee.
Never tea. Her stories are so much like reading a Regency romance, it’s comical.
I try to make a mental note of some of the more salacious bits for my endeavor into this new social circle, but all the long names and titles are a jumble in my head.
I put on an easy dinner tonight as I had made an excuse to duck out early.
The Maiers are reasonable and often send me home early, especially on Friday nights, but mostly so I can study for class the next day.
This particular Friday, however, I have no intention of studying.
Not that I would have been able to focus on anything anyway.
I’m far too anxious for the evening ahead.
After making sure the family can manage without me, I slip over to my Aunt Sarah’s house. Surely, I have something remotely suitable for cocktails with the royal family at my aunt’s house.
The prince takes my privacy as seriously as I do, apparently.
I was nervous when he told me he would send a car to pick me up, expecting a flashy, indiscreet car like the one out of The Princess Diaries, complete with flags.
But the plain black town car waiting at the curb of my dormitory is as nondescript as they come, not even a hood ornament to distinguish it as the luxury model I’m sure I would know if I weren’t completely clueless about cars.
The palace chauffeur, who identifies himself as Walter, deftly maneuvers us through the busy Friday evening traffic of the capital.
The night’s events aren’t set to begin for another couple of hours, but Prince Friedrich suggested I arrive early, so I don’t get mixed in with the women who are actually here for his consideration.
The butterflies in my stomach multiply as I see the media already out in full force and police barricades lining the street near the palace to keep them in line.
I smooth the front of my black velvet dress—a piece Aunt Sarah had picked out for me to wear to a Christmas gala last year to raise money for the young girls she sponsors for private school.
I’m thankful for the long sleeves when I’m ushered from the car by a man in green military uniform at a side gate to Vertmure Palace grounds.
“Identification, please,” the Green Guard requests.
I dig my ID from the small clutch I had borrowed from my aunt for the occasion; I’m not typically a purse carrier, but this is not one of those awesome dresses with pockets.
I hand over my identification and hope the guard doesn’t notice my trembling hand.
These proceedings are doing nothing for the twisting in my stomach.
I am allowed back into the warmth of the car after a search of my clutch and a couple passes of a handheld metal detector.
The window acts as a poor substitute for a mirror as I rearrange my hair, blown about in the low wind that’s typical in Emarvia for this time of year.
The chauffeur turns down a cobbled side lane where a man in a grey suit stands at the top of the stairs under a small portico near the back of the palace. He waits until the car comes to a complete stop before starting down the stairs. I already have the door open when he reaches me.