None of this belongs to me, aside from the plot. The verse of poetry belongs to Robert Frost and the characters belong to Disney. Please R and R.
"Congratulations, Your Highness."
There was a thread loose on the hem of her slacks, snaking its way down her crossed ankles and tickling the centre of her foot. She stared at it intently.
"Thank you doctor."
Without a further word she left the room - which seemed absurd in retrospect because it was her suite – and made her way through the quiet halls of the palace. She had never fantasised about this moment like she imagined other young women did. In fact, through the year long preparation for this goal, she had not once considered what it would feel like when she finally heard those words. The task of copulation – not wholly unpleasant – had been her biggest distraction. Rupert and her had set about it with diligence and determination. With alien curiosity, with frightened fingers, she stroked her abdomen over the cotton of her shirt. No changes – not yet.
She wanted to tell her husband but he was in a meeting. She didn't think it proper to pull him away or interrupt to share it with him – she would wait till they lay in bed that night. That seemed romantic. Who did one share this news with? She would have phoned her sister Catherine but she was in London and it didn't seem right to share it with her parents. She would not go to Rupert's mother or father. Beside, the King was in the same meeting as her husband and frankly, she despised her mother in law. They were too alike to ever consider each other likeable. They were allies at the most and nothing else and Clarisse was content with it that way.
So she found herself with the biggest news and no one to tell. It was February already, the continental sun was making a sterling effort to avail itself across Europe but it was still weak, so there were patches of chill as she walked through the gardens. She had read in the papers yesterday that the ski resorts had enjoyed a bumper year and there was still fresh snow on the piste. They had only managed a week in the lodge over the winter so she had greeted that news with a mix of jealousy and pleasure at the economic boost it offered.
She would have to pull back from her duties as soon as she began to show – it wouldn't do for the 2nd in line to be exhausted before he made his entrance into the world. Then, she resolved, she would take time to tend to her roses when she had to withdraw from engagements. The aphids were running rampant and the Head Gardner was nigh on incompetent. She had asked her husband to have a word with his father in this regard but he had been reluctant. She wouldn't mind spending the months waddling around the gardens, squashing aphids between the pads of her fingers.
It had been a day very similar to this, and she had been tending her roses much the same way as she intended to do, when her father had told her the Crown Prince was interested in her. She had laughed and asked, "Do you mean Rupert?"
The 30 year old Crown Prince, her brother's friend, was interested in 18 year- old Lady Clarisse. Her father had been, and still remained, ambitious. It struck her as odd that the only time she saw him now was when he visited the Palace for Privy council. He made a tremendous show of greeting her – his favourite daughter, the princess. She wondered how that conversation had gone often, and she would have asked Rupert, but she was clever enough to know that not once had her husband said he was interested in her. He hadn't even been a factor in the choice to wed them to one and other. It was advantageous for both families and their heirs were pliant enough to bend to their fathers' wills. So they were engaged to stop Rupert fooling about and to further her father's career.
She thought of her father and how he would scoop her onto his shoulders – he had called her princess when she was little. She was nothing like Catherine, he used to say through gritted teeth, when her sister appeared on page six with a champagne bowl in one had and and a man's hand in the other. Where Catherine was all fire, she was ice. She wondered if he'd favoured her because he was ridden with guilt. Then again, she didn't believe her father had anything to be guilty for.
That night, the night after her father told her, she lay top to toe with her sister, staring up at the canopy of the dusty four poster. Her feet were cold and she had thrust them under the pillow at the top to warm them up.
"You're stupid," Catherine had said suddenly, "You're so stupid."
Clarisse was both offended and confused for she didn't understand what had brought on such an attack.
Catherine sat up, a mad urgency in her eyes. Clarisse was suddenly frightened.
"You should have done what I did," she had cried.
Clarisse was truly puzzled and more than that, she was alarmed by the intensity of her sister's eyes. There was something urgent and broken about the set of her sister's mouth.
"I don't und-"
"I slept with that stable boy when I was young so I didn't have to do what you're going to do," her sister pressed on, "I made myself an obsolete bargaining chip. I don't do it because it's who I am. They can't want you if someone else has had you. No nobleman in his right mind would want a sullied girl like me. You shouldn't have kept yourself so perfect...it's made you a commodity."
Clarisse had nothing to say to that - probably because it was true. But what else did a well-bred lady do? Not read feminist books like Catherine and run about with the nouveau-riche, her mother had assured her.
She paused as the recollection of that night came to her. Commodity was such a cold word to choose, yet it fitted the role which she filled perfectly. A royal commodity, a vessel for the future heirs, a diplomat– it mattered very little. She would be a liar, and unfair, to say there was not fondness in her marriage and power in her position. Those were the things that her 18 year-old self, a hidden intellectual and ineffectual dreamer, had thought were important.
"Don't you want love?" Catherine had asked as she slipped the delicate pearls through their button holes, closing up her wedding dress. Her sister looked over her shoulder to her reflection in the mirror. Outside the roar of the crowds was deafening.
"You're too caught up in romance," she had answered, adjusting the glittering tiara on top of her head. It had been a gift from her mother-in-law. She turned to her sister, who was older than her by 6 years, and held her shoulders.
"Remember when we were little and you would choose a romance novel and I chose history books?" Clarisse had asked her.
Catherine had nodded as she bent down to rearrange the hem of her dress.
"You see, I know lots about history. The royal families of Europe are full of arranged marriages – from the Plantaganets, to the Renaldis, to the Bourbons to the Windsors. Houses and courts of intrigue, scandal and unlimited power. There is one thing that is notably absent."
"What is that?"
"Love – just ask Anne Boelyn what love did to her. It weakens you. Price Rupert needs a wife and father needs me to do it."
"What do you need?"
"I'm not old enough to know," Clarisse had answered as her sister slipped her veil on. And it was true – she wasn't clever enough to know either.
As she had walked down the aisle, her dress heavy and her arms intertwined with her father's, she hadn't known what to feel.
She still didn't know, as she stood in the middle of the sea of roses, what she needed. She hadn't discovered it and she knew she wouldn't. I've made my bed of roses, she though ironically, best now that I lie in it.
There was fondness, there was power, there was the possibility to do the ultimate and greater good for a country that she loved and cherished above everything. But there was no love. Her husband was kind and funny and they lay in bed at night chatting as she had one done with Catherine. Her 18 year-old self hadn't known what she had wanted and the 30 year-old Prince, rocking back and forth on his military boots at the steps of the altar, didn't really want her. He just didn't know how to say it.
So no, her father shouldn't feel guilt. The guilt at her choice rested firmly with her. And now another life rested in her womb. Perhaps she could find it in herself to love it.
She sat down on the bench beside the fountain, in the cold shade, and placed her hands over her stomach. She willed the life within her to feel it – to make her feel it. Suddenly hot tears sprang into her eyes, invading her without warning, catching her thoroughly off-guard. She should blame her hormones if she were worth her salt but not in this moment, in this moment it was bitter lose that had brought her to tears.
And anger at the 18 year old who had given in without a fight.
Love had slipped away from her in the quiet way that important things did. Slipping without your notice until only its shadow remained.
"Please, forgive me."
She startled at the voice, suddenly aware of another presence. She wiped her eyes hastily, hoping that the man in front of her hadn't born witness to her angry tears.
"Please forgive me Your Majesty."
The man, clearly feeling like an intruder, turned and began to walk away.
"It's 'Your Highness'," she answered, patting her cheek with her hand.
"Sorry?" He turned back to face her and she looked at him properly, now that her eyes were not swimming with tears. He was obviously uncomfortable.
"It's 'Your Highness'," she repeated, "I am not yet queen."
"Oh," he smiled, rather shyly, "You see I am not yet accustomed to the titles and protocols of the Palace."
He bowed slightly, inclining his head, and turned on his heels.
"Who are you?"
Again he stopped in his tracks and turned to her, "Colonel Romero. I am -"
"I know who you are," she answered, not unkindly, "The Prince has explained you are here for a year to advise Alois regarding the running of the security within and outwith the palace. How did you come to be an acquaintance of that riveting man?"
He appeared to think she was funny because he smirked, "I own a security company. He heard me speak at a conference in Madrid and, with the approval of the king, invited me to become a special advisor. I was intrigued by the possibilities..."
"You were intrigued by how good that would look on your company's client list as well, I imagine, Colonel."
"Yes," he nodded, evidently ignoring her jibe.
"And how do you find palace life?"
"Intriguing," he responded, "To say the least."
"Yes," she answered, "I used to think that too. Rather, I discovered that all the political intrigue has moved firmly into the Parliamentary chamber to be decided by old men who have little in common with the common man. And I imagine you find it intriguing to find the princess crying in the gardens."
His eyes widened a little, though he was gentlemanly enough not to admit it, he had obviously saw her crying.
"Are you alright? You seemed very sad."
His response was surprisingly kind and thoughtful and it caught her off-guard.
"A woman like me, who has everything, has nothing to be sad about," she answered.
"That might be what you're crying over," he shrugged rather aimlessly.
"No," she said firmly, "It can't be that Colonel."
"I always used to think," he motioned to the seat beside her and sat when she nodded her consent, "That the privileged amongst us must find life very boring. It's more interesting when one has to work for their food. You might be sad over nothing because there's nothing to really be sad over."
"I wouldn't know," she answered dryly, "I can't remember the last time I had to forage for my own food, now that you say it."
He laughed a little and fingered one of the rose bushes beside her bench.
"So, do you like the palace?"
"No," he answered, "I can't wait to go back to Spain."
"Aha," she smiled, "I knew you were not Genovian. And Alois?"
"A fool," he responded, evidently not concerned about propriety. She though it rather amusing.
Silence descended over them.
"I'm pregnant," she said suddenly.
He said nothing.
"The prince will be pleased," she continued formally, desperately embarrassed by her sudden urge to confide in him, "I look forward to telling him."
"Of course," he answered, "That must be nice news for any husband."
"Yes," she nodded, "You're the first person I've told."
"Between you and I, Your Highness," he said evenly.
She smiled, "So Colonel, you won't be staying?"
No, I won't," he answered.
"I have to, unlike you," she smiled, "Do you know any poetry?"
"Yes," he answered, "For a rough soldier, I rather like it."
"Recite something to me," she asked.
"No. I don't have the voice."
"I rather think you do," she replied, "My brother used to read poetry to me."
"No."
"Please," she said imploringly to the stranger beside her, "I need a distraction."
"One verse?"
"One verse," she answered, caressing her stomach. Perhaps this shadow, growing inside her, might be enough of love.
He coughed dramatically and she laughed. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. His voice was the first thing she would remember, amongst many other things about him. A shadow in black, sitting in the middle of her roses, who saved her that day. She was enthralled as he spoke.
"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."