Happy birthday to the inimitable Marjorie Nescio! Here is part one of your present. Part two - and if we're really lucky, parts three and four! - will follow tomorrow.
Title on loan from "Sacred Emily" by Gertrude Stein. Characters borrowed from Meg Cabot and Disney.
Perfect for Each Other
There it was again - that little light in his eyes. A reminder that her husband was in love with someone else.
Well.
Happy birthday to her.
She had always known. He had told her all those years ago, when they discovered her parents had been negotiating a marriage contract with his parents. He had told her gently, but in no uncertain terms, that he couldn't love her the way she deserved.
As if they'd had a choice in the matter. As if the Crown Prince hadn't been in desperate need of a suitable mate.
As if, in fairness, she could have been dissuaded. She was so young, and he was her heart's first desire. So she had told him she understood, and it wasn't a lie because she honestly thought she had.
When Rupert saw their entwined fate was imminent, he made sure everything was done properly. Clarisse had a dazzling ring, proffered to her by a prince down on one knee. She had a devoted fiance who became a faithful husband. Not once did he let his own heartbreak touch her, or bitterness affect his feelings of true affection for her.
It helped that the keeper of Rupert's heart did not cope so well. Titled duty had forced him to be present for the nuptials, but the moment he could flee, he did. For better or for worse, the new couple had their marriage all to themselves. Well, as much as any royal couple has their marriage to themselves.
Time went on. Clarisse's world expanded to include more than her Prince Charming, and much of her time was spent with charities, speaking engagements, and eventually motherhood. She learned that sometimes - sometimes - one must grow beyond youth before learning to fully interpret the heart's desires; and gradually, her love evolved to join Rupert's in a state of fondness.
Meanwhile, Lord Edouard Bellamy watched his jealousy collapse under the weight of futility, allowing him to realize that sometimes - sometimes - life with Rupert as a friend was better than life without Rupert at all.
Over the past few years, much to the amazement of both the Princess and Lord Bellamy, there was space enough in their lives for a careful friendship to slowly develop between them.
Now Lord Bellamy said something witty - again. Prince Rupert was laughing at him - again. Clarisse wasn't feeling terribly friendly.
She lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. She was contemplating it as she wandered over to the side of the ballroom where a long table practically bowed under shiny bags and elegant boxes. She ambled along until she reached the end, at which another table stood, holding three tiers of cake, frosted white and coated in toasted coconut.
A cake and - what's this? The knife for cutting the cake was laid out, next to a small glass dish with several tiny forks. She nonchalantly looked one way, then the other. She set down her champagne, ran her fingers over the gleaming silver of the knife handle before wrapping them around it.
If she poked the knife point into an inconspicuous spot around the back of the cake among the sugar flowers, making two small diagonal cuts into it, no one would know….
She eased the knife back onto its plate, not concerned about the slight smudge of crumb-studded frosting. Then she slipped one of the tiny utensils in between the cuts; she dislodged a bite of cake, and lifted it to her lips.
She closed her eyes and smiled. R-r-r-rum.
"I saw that."
Clarisse spun around guiltily and came face to face with Lord Edouard Bellamy. He was smirking in an impossibly charming way.
"We lost our taster recently. Now I have to try everything myself."
He shook his head. "Such a rough time to be royal."
"You have no idea," she sighed.
His tone shifted suddenly to one more earnest and...something else. "I know Her Highness will have a great number of splendid gifts to open, but perhaps she would consider a request to open mine first?"
Edouard Bellamy was anything but shy, yet she was at a loss for a better word to describe his current demeanor.
"I don't know," she responded lightly. "I believe, in order to show no preferential treatment, I am supposed to start at one end of the table and proceed laboriously toward the other."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flat box, which he placed onto the gift table. With an unsubtle bump of his fingers, he slid it in her direction, past all the other presents. He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Would you look at that? Mine is all the way over to one end."
She bit back a smile. "Why, yes, it is."
As stringed instruments hummed and couples swelled the dance floor and champagne flowed, the two not-quite-friends leaned over the box. She plucked off the lid just as he said, "I've heard you have a thing for roses, that you've decided to expand the rose garden."
Her breath caught as all the years of knowing without fully understanding hit her like a slap in the face.
Rupert had told Edouard she liked roses. Because they talked. Of course, they talked. Why wouldn't they talk? Talking was their only means of intimacy. They shared information, exchanged observations. And her nascent plans, floated to her husband late one night in the solitude of their bedroom - to turn the meager palace gardens into an Eden - had passed through that channel.
But she was older now, and like Rupert, she had learned to hide a treasured heartbreak of her own. So she smiled, determined to accept the gift in the spirit in which it had been chosen.
"It's beautiful, Edouard. Thank you. And yes, I do love roses."
He knew something was amiss, despite an authentic smile and genuine gratitude. In addition to never having been shy before this evening, he was rarely flustered; but he fumbled now, anxious to be sure he had done nothing wrong unwittingly.
"Do you…? Is it -... Please, if I may…" He reached for the box and gently lifted out the scarf. The rose-patterned silk ran through his fingers like liquid, and the light from the nearest chandelier caused the colors - her favorite colors; had Rupert told him her favorite colors? - to shimmer. He waited until she dipped her head, then draped it carefully around her neck and let it flow over her shoulders. It was beautiful, and she fiddled with an edge of it and longed to love it as she should.
Edouard was stammering through an explanation of being stumped - after all, a princess lacks for nothing, right? - and of wanting something that would be a reflection of her personal tastes. Something about a hint from Rupert, and an encounter with -
He had her full attention now. "What was that?"
"Christiana Poirier. I was at a party she gave, and I told her my dilemma - that I needed something special."
"I love Christiana. She is my favorite designer."
"I know. At least," he gave her the most attractive crooked smile she had ever seen, "I assumed so. You wear her quite often."
"Rupert could not have possibly told you that."
Edouard looked bemused, not quite understanding her relief followed quickly by a slight blush at an unrecognized admission. "He hardly knows a dinner jacket from a rain jacket, let alone one designer from another." He shuddered. "It's terrible. Thank god his job requires a valet. He must keep the poor soul on his toes."
"Believe me, he does." The scarf had taken on a new appeal, and she luxuriated in the feel of it against the bare skin of her neck and shoulders.
"I, however, know a true artist when I see one. For example, I adore what Christiana has done for women's hemlines these last few seasons."
"Doesn't she strike the perfect balance between vintage and modern?"
"And I swear I say this with utter sincerity: every time you step out in one of her creations, I am certain she designed it with you in mind."
"Oh, I'm not sure about that."
"It's true. The two of you are a perfect fit."
"Thank you," she replied with a gracious laugh.
"I mean it," he said quietly. She looked up and saw so many conflicting emotions rippling across his face, she nearly cried. He gave her a sad smile. "I wish I could say otherwise, but I can't. I've never met a better suited couple."
"Edouard," she breathed.
He cleared his throat and forced the tenor of the conversation to shift. "Even if he has no idea what makes this different from some mass produced atrocity hanging from a rack in a department store."
She couldn't help but chuckle. "He really hasn't a clue."
"Not a one."
"I suppose no one is perfect."
Edouard picked up the knife and checked his reflection in the broad blade. He set it down and made a minute adjustment to his tie. "Or rather, so few of us are."
"That is probably more accurate." She lifted the scarf and caught it up in a few delicate, wispy folds. Edouard held the box out to her as she placed it back inside. "What the hell, we love him anyway, don't we?"
Edouard's eyes widened for a short moment, then a grin spread across his face. Without so much as a sideways glance, he reached out and caught a passing champagne flute. Clarisse reclaimed hers, and they tilted their glasses toward one another. "Yes, we do, Your Highness." The rims clinked musically. "Happy birthday."
"You know, it rather is."