A Princess In Waiting. Carol Grace

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      Chapter One

      Once upon a time in a small country called St. Michel, wedged between France and Rhineland, lived a beautiful ex-princess named Lise de Bergeron. The former princess didn’t live in the stately palace with its turrets and ballroom and bevy of servants. She lived in a small cottage on the palace grounds. This gave her the independence she wanted and suited the present queen—her father’s fourth wife—and her grandmother, the dowager queen. Lise had no crown and no legitimacy since her parents’ marriage had been declared invalid. She was not surrounded by maids who waited on her hand and foot. She was attended by her former nanny, the woman who had raised her when her mother had deserted her and her sisters. Nanny was old now and afflicted by arthritis and Princess Lise was more caregiver than pampered princess.

      A lack of royal trappings did not bother the princess. What did bother her was that her father the king had just died, she’d been deserted by her husband, Wilhelm, of neighboring Rhineland, and she was three months pregnant. All in all, this past year had been a difficult one. The future was unclear. What was in store for her and her unborn child? She pushed the question to the back of her mind and concentrated on the problems at hand. Number one was stopping the leak in the roof of the cottage.

      “Nanny, who said April was the cruelest month?” she asked the old woman in the rocking chair.

      “One of those poets you’re always reading, I suppose,” said Gertrude, smoothing the afghan over her knees. “Perhaps the same one who said April showers bring May flowers.”

      “It can’t happen soon enough,” Lise said, gazing out the small leaded window at rain pelting the vast green acres surrounding the palace.

      “Ah, ma pauvre, is it really the weather that is making you melancholy or is it everything else?” the old lady asked with a worried frown.

      “I’m fine really,” Lise said hastily. It wouldn’t do to make Nanny worry about her. “Let’s have tea. I must confess I’m ravenous. You know, if I keep eating like this for the next six months, I’ll be as big as a blimp.”

      “Nonsense,” said the old woman. “You’re eating for two.”

      Lise placed one hand over her still-flat stomach. It was amazing how much she looked forward to having this child. No matter how uncertain the future.

      “When I was up at the castle this morning, the cook sneaked me some of her chocolate gateaux, so today we feast.” Smiling, Lise held the basket out so her old nanny could see the delicate frosted cakes.

      Keep smiling, she told herself. Though inside she was in turmoil, she couldn’t let it show. Not to Nanny, who’d suffer for her, not to Queen Celeste who would think she deserved it, and not to her sisters who would feel sorry for her. No one must know the pain she felt at being deserted and divorced by her husband, the shame of being disinherited, of coming back alone to be at the mercy of the current occupants of the palace.

      Today. She would think only of today, not tomorrow, not six months from now. She would take it one day at a time. At least she had a roof over her head, leaky though it was. The palace repairman said he couldn’t fix it while it was raining, he’d get to it when the sun came out and when it was convenient. She told herself she was lucky to have a job of sorts and she had her dear old nanny. Things could be worse.

      Things had been worse when she was married to Wilhelm. Yes, they’d lived splendidly in Rhineland, where he, as a member of the royal family, had money and power. But he was a cold, arrogant, ambitious man who’d been chosen for her by her father for political reasons. If she had one thing to be thankful for, it was that she was rid of the scoundrel. She’d endure any amount of shame if she never had to see him again.

      After handing Nanny a tray with her tea and cake, Lise sat down at the polished pine table in the kitchen and gratefully inhaled the steam from the fragrant brew.

      “What news from the palace?” Gertrude asked. “Did you see the queen by chance?”

      “No, I hear she’s keeping to her bed, preparing for the birth of her son.”

      “Son? It’s going to be a son, then?” the old woman asked, setting her cup down with a clatter.

      “So she says. But no one really knows. Not even the queen because she refuses to have a test to determine the baby’s sex. It seems talk of a boy is just wishful thinking. Because if it isn’t a son, she’ll lose everything—her power, her status…well, you know as well as I do, as well as the whole kingdom does, how desperate she is to bear a son.” What everyone knew was that according to the ancient law, the monarchy of St. Michel passes only through the male line.

      Nanny nodded thoughtfully. “I guess everyone in the country is feeling desperate for an heir. Because if there is no heir, our beloved country will be absorbed by Rhineland.”

      Lise shivered involuntarily at the thought. She and her husband had lived royally in Rhineland during the brief months of her marriage, but she had no happy memories of him or of his country.

      “Now, child, don’t fret,” her nanny said when her sharp eyes noted Lise’s distress. “Isn’t it true that the dowager queen has sent the head of the security force, Luc Dumont, to find the missing heir? Perhaps he will find him.”

      “Yes, maybe.”

      “Ah well, something will save us, it always has,” Gertrude said. “In the meantime, if you’ll hand me my knitting, I must get busy on the sweater for your baby.”

      Lise took away her tray and handed Nanny her knitting basket full of pale yellow yarn. After getting her settled next to the ornate cast-iron stove that gave off a comforting glow, Lise put on her smock over a turtleneck sweater and leggings and went to the adjacent greenhouse. It was there she did her best work as restorer of priceless artifacts of the Kingdom of St. Michel. Today she was painting an old cracked frame she’d restored.

      Besides the peace and quiet, Lise appreciated the natural light that poured through the slanted windows of the greenhouse even on a rainy day. There were only a few leggy green plants left by a long-ago gardener, leaving the shelves free for her collection of glass mosaics, jars of acrylic water-based paint and a selection of bristle brushes and tools. The smell of the damp earth and paint pigment melded together in a heady blend that soothed and inspired her.

      If there was any place she could forget her troubles, it was here. Mixing and blending the paint, she hummed to herself. The work was challenging, but her studies in London with a master craftsman had prepared СКАЧАТЬ