13. Claire
CLAIRE
“ T hey do know I’m coming, don’t they?” Claire said, as the car pulled up in the palace courtyard.
The royal palace had — the prince had told her — been built in the late medieval era and added to both in times of war and times of peace.
It had been both a place of defense and a place of pleasure for successive generations of the royal family.
The courtyard was its inner sanctum, the gates behind leading out into the square, and a wide flight of steps in front leading to an ornate set of double doors in bass relief brass.
It was awe-inspiring, and Claire couldn’t help but feel somewhat insignificant when dwarfed by its enormity.
“They know I’m returning with something to tell them, yes,” the prince replied.
Claire raised her eyebrows. “That’s not quite the same thing, is it?” she replied, looking at him pointedly.
“There wasn’t really time. My mother’s been in Paris. I think she’s probably only just arrived back,” the prince said. “Come on, follow my lead. It’ll be fine.”
Claire had no choice but to do so, and the car door was opened for her by a footman, dressed in red livery. At the top of the steps, an elderly man in a military uniform was waiting for them, and he gave a curt bow as they approached.
“Your Highness. Welcome home,” he said, turning to lead them through the now-open double doors into the palace.
“Thank you, Peeters. This is Miss Bellamy,” the prince said, though he made no attempt to introduce her further.
The man — Claire wasn’t sure what to call him. A servant? An equerry? — nodded to her. “Their Majesties are waiting to receive you in the long gallery,” he said, still leading the way.
Claire was looking around her in awe. The double doors had led into a large entrance hall, where enormous portraits of distinguished kings and queens hung glaring down at them from the walls.
A carpeted staircase led up to a gallery above, splitting there and leading left and right to two sets of ornate gold doors, flanked by footmen in the now-familiar red livery.
It was a far cry from suburban Detroit, where Claire’s family home consisted of a kitchen diner, a family room, three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a backyard.
“What’s the long gallery?” Claire whispered, as they followed the equerry — that was the name she’d decided on — up the stairs.
“It’s the throne room, but my parents use it for formal introductions. I think they must’ve gotten wind of our arrival… together,” the prince said.
Claire gulped. She wondered if the king and queen already knew about her — the lowly cook from the galley of Mr. Bellagio’s superyacht.
Perhaps Vittoria had made the phone call.
She’d not be happy to know she had to look for a new chef.
Or perhaps it was Anna-Marie. She’d have no qualms about selling her story…
“What do I say? Do I curtsey?” Claire whispered.
Meeting royalty was hardly something she had any experience of. The curriculum at McFarland High School hadn’t exactly covered it…
“Curtsey when you’re introduced. Wait for them to speak,” the prince said.
They’d arrived at the ornate gold doors. Claire still had a thousand questions, but there was no time to ask them. The equerry whispered something to the one of the footmen, who nodded and opened the door.
“His Royal Highness, Prince Adrien, and Miss Claire Bellamy, Your Majesties,” he said.
The prince led the way. Claire’s heart was pounding.
The door opened onto a long gallery — just as the name suggested.
One wall was lined with portraits, the other was a length of windows looking out over the gardens the prince had pointed out from the plane.
It had been raining when they landed, but the sun had broken through and was casting its rays over the plush red carpet that led towards a dais with two raised thrones, above which was the royal coat of arms. But it was the figures standing in front of her that attracted Claire’s attention — the king and queen themselves.
The prince’s mother was a formidable figure, with a commanding presence, dressed in a blue skirt and a red blouse, with a diamond broach at the neck.
Her hair was cut in a bob, which highlighted her long, graceful neck.
Her face, though not stern, held a searching expression — the sort any mother would surely give when faced with the woman her son had declared his love for so unexpectedly.
The king was older, with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
He wore a tweed suit, and green necktie.
He, too, had once been handsome — or so Claire imagined — and his figure was that of a man who’d surely spent much of his life outdoors.
“Father, Mother,” the prince said, giving a curt bow.
Claire dipped into a curtsey, raising her eyes nervously at the king and queen, who looked her up and down with a searching gaze.
“Adrien — we weren’t expecting you so soon,” the queen said, as the prince stepped forward, glancing back at Claire as he did so.
“No, well… I had to come… we had to come, Mother. I’d like to introduce you to Claire,” he said.
Claire stepped forward, not sure whether to maintain eye-contact or not, whether to smile or not, whether to extend her hand or not…
“We’re pleased to meet you, Claire. What a pity Adrien didn’t see fit to introduce you sooner. You’ve obviously known one another for a while.”
Claire blushed. She didn’t know what to say. This was all beyond anything she’d ever known. She could make a perfect soufflé, but as for meeting royalty…
“No, not exactly,” Claire said.
The queen raised her eyebrows.
“We met on Giuseppe’s yacht, Mother. Claire was the chef. And what an amazing chef she is. You should taste her soufflé,” the prince said.
The king, who’d so far said nothing, cleared his throat. “There’s been a lot of talk about the two of you. Speculation in the media. You were seen together in Monaco coming off the yacht. There are rumors,” he said.
A lump rose in Claire’s throat — Anna-Marie or Anton. What had they been saying? A lie stuck far harder than the truth. The prince was about to answer, but Claire knew she had to assert herself if she was ever going to make a suitable impression.
“Lies,” she said. The king looked at her in surprise. “Whatever they’ve written about us, it’s a lie. We met on Mr. Bellagio’s yacht, and yes, it was quick, but we’re both certain of our feelings.”
As an American, Claire wasn’t used to holding back her emotions. Her family had always spoken as they’d found. What was the point in doing otherwise? Despite the intimidating setting, Claire had found her voice, reminding herself she wasn’t the sort of person to be passed over or talked about.
“We are, yes,” the prince said, with a tone of relief in his voice suggesting Claire’s intervention was welcome.
The king and queen glanced at one another.
“Well… I suppose it’s no different from the arranged marriages of the past. They were announced quickly after the couple first met,” the queen said.
“And that’s what we are — engaged to be married,” the prince said, slipping his hand into Claire’s, who smiled and nodded.
Had the enormity of what she was doing not already have struck, it did now. It was to be announced she was to be married to the crown prince of Flandenne. It was extraordinary. Her — Claire Bellamy, a chef from Detroit. What would her parents say? What would her friends say? What would anyone say?
“Well, it’s going to take some time to get used to,” the queen said. “And we must get to know you, too, Claire. Our ways may be somewhat different to yours.”
No question about that.
“But you… approve of the match, Mother?” the prince ventured.
His mother smiled. She had a pretty smile, one that Claire found endearing. It almost made her feel guilty for the fact of their deception, though reminding herself of the restaurant was enough to assuage such guilt.
“We approve of your settling down, Adrien. But please… no more headlines, no more scandals, no more giving us cause for concern. If this match works, it will secure the future of the royal house, and your succession — with children, of course,” the queen said, glancing at Claire, who hadn’t given a second thought to kids.
The prince smiled and nodded. “I promise, Mother,” he said.
They exchanged a few further pleasantries, before the queen suggested Claire might like some time to get used to her new home.
There’d be no scandal in their living in the palace together.
Claire would have her own apartment next to that of the king’s sister, the prince’s aunt, the princess royal.
The family dined together on occasion, but with the king and queen busy with royal engagements, the couple would be largely left to their own devices — to planning the wedding.
“We’ll make the announcement in the next day or so,” the queen said. “We don’t want speculation to run rife, do we?”
And that was that. Claire’s interview with the king and queen was over. She’d survived her first encounter with her prospective in-laws. As Adrien’s parents left the long gallery, Claire breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well done,” the prince whispered, smiling at her, as she collapsed into the nearest chair.
“Did I say the right things? What did they think of me?” she asked.
The prince nodded. “You did everything right. I’m sorry it’s all so formal. But that’s my life, and…” he began, but Claire interrupted him.
“It’s all right. I understand. And I’m sure we can make it work for as long as we need to,” she said.
Quite how long they would need to was another question.
But for now, Claire was relieved to simply have survived her first encounter with the king and queen.
It had been an exhausting day, and she was tired.
The prince showed her to her apartment — like the most wonderful hotel room she’d ever been in — and it was there she slept for the next twelve hours, waking the next morning to a gentle knock at the door, and a maid bringing her breakfast.
“Good morning, Miss Bellamy,” the maid said, as she pulled back the curtains in the bedroom, revealing the palace gardens below.
Claire sat up in bed, yawning, as she glanced at the breakfast tray the maid had brought in for her. But it wasn’t the croissant, fresh fruit, and coffee that caught her attention, but rather, the headline on the newspaper laid next to them — “The Unknown Fiancée of the Crown Prince.”
Seizing it, she found herself with the bizarre sensation of reading a story about herself — a story with such remarkable elaborations as to quite take her breath away.