CHAPTER 5
Betty
If I had to curtsy one more time, I was going to commit an international incident.
"No, no, Your Highness," Madame Delacroix said for what had to be the twentieth time this morning. "The left foot goes back, not forward. You're not stepping on a bug, you're showing deference to your social superiors."
I bit back the urge to point out that in America, we didn't have social superiors, just people with more expensive lawyers. Instead, I attempted another curtsy, promptly wobbled like a drunk flamingo, and nearly face-planted into the priceless Persian rug.
"Perhaps we should take a break," Madame Delacroix said with the kind of diplomatic smile that barely concealed her horror at my complete lack of grace.
"Perhaps we should," I agreed, grateful for any excuse to escape this torture chamber disguised as a drawing room. "My knees are staging a protest. I think they're unionizing."
The morning had been a parade of humiliations.
First, the dining etiquette lesson where I'd used the salad fork for my eggs and committed a crime against European civilization.
Then the "proper deportment" session where I learned that I walked like a "robust American farmhand" instead of gliding like a princess.
Now this curtsy nightmare, where my attempts at deference looked more like I was trying to dislodge something uncomfortable from my underwear.
I was starting to understand why revolutions happened. Also why Marie Antoinette had been so cranky. Try maintaining a pleasant disposition when you've spent six hours learning that literally everything you do is wrong.
"We'll continue this afternoon," Madame Delacroix said, gathering her notes with the air of someone planning a military campaign against my incompetence. "Perhaps by then you'll have... absorbed some of the instruction."
Right. Because clearly the problem was my absorption rate and not the fact that these rules were designed by people who had way too much time and not nearly enough hobbies.
As she swept toward the door, I noticed a distinguished-looking man in an expensive suit standing in the hallway, making notes in a leather portfolio. He had silver hair and the kind of bearing that suggested he was used to being listened to without question.
"Lord Chancellor Renaud," Madame Delacroix said with a respectful nod as she passed him.
He acknowledged her with a brief smile, then stepped into the doorway. "Your Highness, a moment of your time?"
"Of course."
Thierry Renaud approached with the measured steps of someone who was perpetually calculating. He was probably in his late fifties, with sharp blue eyes and the kind of face that would be perfectly at home on currency. Or possibly a "wanted" poster, depending on how the next few minutes went.
"I trust your lessons are progressing well?"
"That depends on your definition of progress," I said. "If you mean 'learning new and creative ways to embarrass myself,' then yes. Spectacular progress. I should get a medal."
He made another note in his portfolio, and I caught a glimpse of what looked like detailed observations about my responses. Under a heading that read "Protocol Adaptation Assessment," I could see phrases like "resistant to correction" and "American informality persistent."
Great. I was being graded on my sarcasm. Hopefully, there was extra credit.
"The adjustment period can be challenging," he said diplomatically. "Perhaps we should discuss your schedule for the remainder of the week. There are several important lessons that require your immediate attention."
"Such as?"
"Diplomatic greetings, formal dining with multiple courses, proper conversation techniques for state functions." He consulted his notes. "Your Italian language instructor mentioned some difficulties with pronunciation. We may need to add additional sessions."
"Is there anything I'm doing right?"
"Your enthusiasm is... noted." He made another entry in his portfolio. "Though we may need to work on channeling that energy in more appropriate directions."
There was something about the way he was studying me that made my skin prickle. Not in a creepy way, but in a way that suggested he was looking for weaknesses he could file away for later.
"I should mention," he continued, "that there will be some additional paperwork regarding your marriage contract. Simple clarifications about your new diplomatic status and inheritance rights. Nothing complex, but the lawyers want to ensure everything is properly documented."
"What kind of clarifications?"
For just a moment, something flickered across his face, too quick to read, but it made me pay closer attention to his answer.
"Standard provisions for royal marriages. Property arrangements, succession charts. All routine, but the legal language can be quite complex." He closed his portfolio with a decisive snap. "I'll have the documents prepared for your review."
"Should I have my own lawyer look at them?"
"That's entirely your prerogative, though I should mention that European marriage law is quite specialized. Most American lawyers wouldn't be familiar with the intricacies involved." His smile was perfectly pleasant and somehow unsettling. "But of course, the choice is yours."
After he left, I escaped the drawing room and wandered through the palace corridors, feeling like a kid playing dress-up in her mother's closet.
Everything about this place screamed money and tradition and centuries of people who knew exactly which fork to use for what.
I was Betty from Oregon who put ketchup on mac and cheese and considered flip-flops appropriate footwear for most occasions.
The smell of something amazing led me toward what had to be the kitchen.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I'd barely touched the formal breakfast laid out in the dining room.
Apparently, there was a proper way to eat croissants that didn't involve tearing them apart with my hands like some kind of pastry savage. Who knew?
I pushed through a set of swinging doors and entered what looked like the command center of a five-star restaurant.
Copper pots hung from ceiling racks, professional-grade appliances covered every surface, and the whole space hummed with organized activity.
This was the kind of kitchen where Gordon Ramsay would feel right at home, probably yelling at someone about risotto.
"You must be the princess."
I turned to see a man in his forties wearing chef's whites and an expression of mild amusement. He was stocky and bearded, with the kind of hands that suggested he actually used them for work rather than just gesturing elegantly at things.
"Just Betty, please. And you must be the person responsible for whatever smells incredible in here."
"Chef Auguste Moreau," he said with a slight bow that managed to be respectful without being mocking. "And you look like someone who could use actual food instead of whatever decorative nonsense they served you this morning."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Madame, I have been cooking for royalty for fifteen years. I know the look of someone who is slowly starving on haute cuisine." He moved to the stove and began assembling something that looked like heaven on a plate. "Sit. Eat. Tell me what disaster occurred in etiquette class today."
I perched on a stool at the counter and watched him work. "How did you know about etiquette class?"
"Palace walls have ears. Also, Madame Delacroix looked like she needed a very strong drink when she passed through here ten minutes ago. Possibly several."
The plate he set in front of me contained what had to be the most perfect omelet ever created, filled with herbs and cheese, and accompanied by bread that was still steaming from the oven. I took a bite and actually groaned with pleasure.
"This is incredible. I would commit crimes for this omelet. Serious crimes. Felonies, even."
"Simple food, made well. Sometimes the best things are not the most complicated."
There was something in the way he said it that made me think he wasn't just talking about cooking.
"Is that your philosophy on life too?"
"Life, cooking, people. Authenticity is rare in palaces, Princess. Do not lose yours in the quest to become what others expect."
I looked up from my omelet to study his face. "Are you giving me advice?"
"I am giving you breakfast. The advice comes free with the meal. Like a prize in a cereal box."
A young woman entered the kitchen carrying an armload of linens. She was probably close to my age, with dark hair pulled back in a practical bun and the kind of posture that suggested she took her job seriously but hadn't let it crush her spirit yet.
"Petra," Chef Auguste called out. "Come meet the princess who prefers to be called Betty."
Petra approached with a curtsey. "Your Highness. I'm Petra, your lady's maid."
"My what now?"
"Lady's maid. I'm responsible for your wardrobe, your schedule, ensuring your rooms are maintained to proper standards." She paused, then added more candidly, "And for reporting on your adjustment to palace life."
At least she was honest about the spying part. I appreciated that.
"Reporting to whom?"
"Lord Chancellor Thierry Renaud. He's responsible for your royal education."
"The man who's making my life a living nightmare, in other words."
Petra's lips twitched. "He prefers to think of it as preparation for your important role."
"What do you prefer to think of it as?"
She glanced around the kitchen, then leaned closer. "Between us? I think you're handling an impossible situation better than most people would. And your curtsy isn't that bad. I've seen worse."
"Really? Whose?"
"A visiting countess last year. She actually fell over. Took out a footman on the way down."
Chef Auguste nodded approvingly. "See? You are not the worst. This is progress."
"'Not the worst' should be my new personal motto," I said. "I'll have it embroidered on a pillow."