This is a story about how Clarisse and Rupert wound up becoming the King and Queen of Genovia. (In a lot of ways I think Clarisse's story is more interesting than Mia's, frankly) This is my first fan-fic, so please feel free to weigh in and tell me what you think. Hope you enjoy!
1
"Clarisse Eleanor Mignionette", Rupert muttered out loud as he put his reading glasses back on his face and read the name atop yet another dark purple file-folder.
Folders had become his way of life for the last four days. Purple folders. Folders the color of royalty. Over 300 purple royal folders to be precise, each one of them containing the vital statistics of a woman who was hoping (or whose family was hoping) to become his fair bride. Or, more to the point, hoping to become the country's fair Queen. Being married to such a charmer as he was just a bonus, Rupert chuckled to himself.
Barring cupid's arrow finding it's mark and Rupert genuinely falling in love with someone (an appropriate someone, of course), he'd always known that at some point he was going to have to choose a spouse, from a very specific and appropriate pool of candidates, of course. He also knew that his father Henri – the present (and-eager-to-retire) King –and his mother, Katherine – the current (and tense-about-the-King's-impending-retirement) Queen expected to have a say as to whom he chose.
Still, it wasn't until this past Monday when he actually saw the folders piled at the head of the table in this dining room that had become his new home that it struck him how literal the phrase "choose a spouse" was. The artless, dispassionate way in which he was to go about fulfilling this royal responsibility made him feel … well, ludicrous really. He was literally plucking a human being out of a pile of papers and vowing to spend the rest of his life with her. Based on what he read in a folder. A dark purple royal folder.
As he had ploughed through the heap, pulling out "possibles" for a smaller pile, returning some "possibles" to the larger pile when a more possible "possible" presented herself, he reminded himself to be grateful that his parents hadn't included him in the preliminary stages of this merry-go-round (or should he say "Marry-go-round"). Their collaboration started out promising with the King and Queen agreeing to the parameters straight away. They would choose only from the six neighboring counties to start, they would only consider women who were between 18 and 23 and only those young ladies who were titled or came from politically or economically influential families would make the list.
All was harmony…until the first purple folder was opened. From that moment on, chaos reigned in the house of Renaldi. The King and Queen crossed swords over everything from educational backgrounds, to how much weight they should give the lack of horsemanship on a resume, degenerating all the way to a knock-down-drag-out of a row concerning the hip measurements of one poor unfortunate girl vis-à-vis providing an heir. Rupert could only stare at the closed dining room doors in bafflement after overhearing that discussion.
It was a six-month long bare-knuckle brawl, but between the two of them, the King and Queen had narrowed the field from literally thousands to the now legendary 300. They felt, at that point, it was safe to allow Rupert to join the festivities and help select his bride. His mission - to pore over the more-than-manageable (their Majesties' words) pile and select 15 to 20 young women he felt were most suitable.
It all sounded so simple in those heady days before he entered the dining room. He had begun to notice, however that The Women of the Folders, all charming in their own unique way he had no doubt, had nonetheless started to blend in his mind into one formidable yet, at the same time, bland woman. They'd all gone to the same right schools, participated in the same right activities, had the same right friends, and if he was not mistaken, all went to the same right hairdresser.
There was a fatal flaw in this process – there were, after all, only so many women on the planet, let alone in tiny Genovia, who were fit, not to mention willing to live as a queen. That meant that with very few exceptions – those exceptions representing his 'like to meet' pile – he had spent the last four days wading through the equivalent of 300 shades of beige.
So here he sat, absently staring at the folder in his hand, that of one Clarisse Eleanor Mignionette. At his mother's urging, his practice was to read the CV first, study the family tree, next the letters of reference, the list of awards and or commendations, then any news archive information that the public relations department might have included. Then – and only then – if still interested, should he feel free to peruse the photo.
Resisting the urge to discard this particular young lady's file based solely on her middle name and the ominous potential of having to include it in any name given to a daughter, he read the CV. He absorbed her stats – she was 19, raised in Pyrus, the daughter of the Deputy Minister of Agriculture. He made a note on the file to find a picture of the Deputy Minister, not quite sure if he'd met him. Trudging on through her highly appropriate CV, he noted that she, yes, had, from birth, gone to the right schools. He paused when he read that her studies focused on History and Political Science, with a minor in Education. That was different. Most of the others in the pile had focused their studies on Art History or European Literature and the like– important and laudable areas of study, of course, but definitely what Rupert, considered, fairly or unfairly, 'soft subjects'.
The family tree was impressive and letters of reference were exemplary, coming from the ever-loving 'right' people. Being just 19 her list of awards and commendations came predominately from her schooling, but they portended well. School government, debate and public speaking were well represented in her accomplishments as well as a number of articles she had written regarding a myriad of issues, some of which had been published not only in her academic paper, but in the Genovian Times as well.
He gave a muffled 'humph'– an impressive young lady and not necessarily in the usual 'she'll give a great tour of the artwork in the main hall' kind of way. Not that that wasn't important, but it seemed she brought something a bit different to the table than the other candidates. Or, at the very least, she framed her CV to highlight what Rupert, again, would refer to as her 'hard' accomplishments. A bold move, he thought, not going the traditional 'good hostess' route.
He sifted for the photo and regarded the face in the picture. Now that he saw her, he thought she rather 'looked' like her file, in a manner of speaking. Her file didn't have the overtly 'decorative' quality to it that most of the others did – her list of accomplishments didn't mention extensive knowledge of table settings and there were more of her published articles included than pictures of her in ball gowns worn at various public events. Her picture lacked that same overtly ornamental quality. She was a very pretty girl, certainly, but not in a particularly traffic stopping way. Some might say she was a bit plain (his mother leaped to mind), but he would say subtle. She was blond, with direct blue eyes and, at least in the picture, a calm smile. He turned back to her CV to confirm her age. She seemed more composed than a typical 19 year-old, at least in the picture. Her smile didn't even show her teeth.
"Well", he said to himself, "I'm intrigued." As he tossed her file in with the rest of the 'liked to meets' he thought she was certainly the least glamorous of the crew, but if nothing else, he would get the chance to thank her for breaking up the monotony, if only for a moment.
Resignedly reaching for the next folder, he soldiered on.