Inconceivable! Read online

  “Let’s get you home,” Tilda said, putting her arm around my waist.

  “C’mon, you.” Pru wrapped her arm around me from the other side.

  Bernard spoke into his sleeve again and held the door open for us. We walked through the kitchen to the back exit.

  Bernard stopped us. “There are a lot of reporters with cameras out here. We’ve moved them back. Duchess, how do you want to proceed?”

  “Open the door, Bernard. We’ll just walk to the car.”

  He did, and we did. The cameras flashed. The reporters yelled. Anchored by Tilda and Pru, I walked to the car and got inside as though it were just another day in the life of a duchess. And I suppose it was.

  rince John Weds American in Lavish Private Ceremony

  By Clarence Watson

  January 5, 2014

  Sorry, ladies! It’s official! Prince John is taken. The bells of St. Joseph’s Cathedral in Roeselare rang out the news of the nuptials Sunday as a select group of guests witnessed Prince John Meinrad and Duchess Hatty Brunelle, originally from the United States, exchange vows.

  “They couldn’t take their eyes off each other,” a palace insider told Xpress exclusively.

  Sources close to the happy couple say the queen kept the pair apart after she set their wedding date. She announced the date just hours after the palace released news of the engagement.

  The Timing

  Speculation abounds about the spectacularly short engagement.

  “There are any number of reasons for a quick ceremony,” said royal observer Nic Capucine. “The most obvious one is Hatty’s pregnant. We know securing the line of succession will be their first order of business, so if she’s already expecting, the palace will just call it a ‘honeymoon baby.’”

  Publicists for the pair sharply denied the timing had anything to do with the duchess being pregnant.

  What They Wore

  Duchess Hatty reportedly walked down the aisle in a dress custom-made by Mathias Bonhomme. He’s the chief designer for Valise, the same fashion house in Paris that made many of the outfits worn by John’s late mother, Princess Beatrix. The strapless dress had a sweetheart neckline with a fitted bodice. The elegant full skirt swirled out from her waist. The bodice was adorned by a few flowers and vines that echoed the lace pattern on the veil.

  Bridesmaids were Lady Prudence Hanover of Sydney, Australia (cousin to Prince John), and Tilda Mburu of Roeselare (Duchess Hatty’s closest friend and chief of staff to Assemblyman Hans Aalders). Lady Pru and Tilda wore dresses made of champagne-colored raw silk. These gowns came from a tailor in Roeselare who reportedly turned them around in record time.

  Prince John’s brother Henri, their cousin Count Gerhard Hoehenstaufen of Leipzig, Germany, and the Australian boyfriend of Lady Pru were also in the wedding party. Prince John accompanied them to Cypress where they were fitted for black tuxes. A tailor on the island has a long-standing relationship with the Meinrad family. Their black tuxedos offered a stunning contrast to the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  Luxurious Honeymoon

  Mum’s the word on the honeymoon location! The palace won’t say where they’re spending their first days as a married couple, so we asked some of our Xpress staff to weigh in on the possibilities.

  “I think he’ll whisk her away to the Caribbean. What’s more romantic than the sun setting over clear blue water?” asked Suzette Schultz, Xpress advice columnist.

  “He’ll surprise her with a safari in Kenya where they can behave like a couple of wild animals. Grr!” predicts Jean Piquet, Xpress Europe fashion editor.

  “These two lovebirds will cozy up in a posh ski resort in St. Moritz, Switzerland where they can lie in bed together and NOT watch it snow,” speculated Genevieve Hastert, Xpress beauty editor.

  We’ll just have to wait and see if this is a honeymoon or a babymoon!

  crept into the bathroom, trying not to awaken John. When I pulled down my underwear, there was a wet, bright red spot.

  “Damn it.” I hated having any kind of “personal stain” on my clothing since I didn’t do my own laundry. It was like making an announcement to the entire staff: clean up in aisle five! Of course, I could just trash the panties, but it seemed too wasteful. I blamed my Ozarks upbringing for my inclination to be frugal.

  I took off my silk pajama bottoms and underwear, and went to the sink. The cold stream of water helped me rub out the blood. As I continued to work on it, John walked in.

  “Did I catch you with your panties off?” I could be holding a dead rat, and as long as I was partially naked, he wouldn’t notice the animal carcass.

  I turned off the tap and dropped my underwear into the sink. He walked over. cupped my right breast through my pajama top, and kissed my neck.

  “You might want to stop right there. It’s that time again.” I nodded toward my panties soaking in cold water.

  “Are you sure? I thought you’d be nine months late this time,” he said between kisses.

  “Good grief! We’ve only been married for five months. What’s your hurry? I’m selfish. I want more time to have you all to myself. The Baby King can wait.” I loved the silly nickname we used for our future oldest child.

  I firmly pressed my hand against the front of his pajama pants. “Even if we can’t do the deed, we can still have fun.” I stopped and walked back into the bedroom. As he followed me, he peeled off his clothes.

  “Hatty, this is David Steiner and his wife, Shelly,” John said while shading his eyes from the afternoon sun.

  “So lovely to meet you both.”

  The U.S. Ambassador to Toulene shook our hands to welcome us to the July 4th VIP reception on the back patio of the embassy. Their three small children, Chase, age five, Karissa, age three, and Jax, age two, were decked out in red, white, and blue outfits. Jax toddled around us with a red popsicle dripping onto the front of his tiny flag-themed polo. The other two kids pulled on the hem of their mother’s skirt. Shelly maintained her composure while repeatedly removing the kids’ hands and smoothing her clothes.

  “Hatty, I loved the piece you wrote for The Guardian last month about the need to implement stronger early childhood education programs across the continent. Your research was sound and the arguments were compelling.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Please call me David. Do you enjoy being a contributor to the paper?”

  “It’s a dream job. The editors paired me up with a wonderful mentor, a senior writer, who’s coaching me as I transition into writing for the editorial page. It’s quite a change, and it’s a little difficult working from home instead of being in the newsroom. But I love it.”

  “Good. Keep those insightful editorials coming. The continent needs that kind of perspective.” The ambassador turned to John. “While I have you here, I wanted to ask about the protests at the smelter. Are the local law enforcement officers in Kortrijk handling the situation or will they need back-up from some of the surrounding communities?”

  “We feel confident the police in Kortrijk can keep things under control. The protesters aren’t local. Our investigators believe a radical environmental group recruited them in other countries and brought them inside our borders.”

  It must have sounded like boring grown-up talk because the Steiner children got a bit noisier and Shelly furrowed her brows in distress. I saw a stack of children’s books on a bench in the corner.

  “Which one of you likes to read?” I bent down closer to the kids’ eye level.

  “Me!” Three little hands shot into the air.

  “What do you say we read some of these books?” I offered, pulling the three children away with me to the bench.

  I picked up Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus and started reading. The children knew the drill and they yelled, “No!” every time the pigeon asked to get behind the wheel. John and the ambassador looked our way, still talking, while Shelly threw back a highball.

  As I continued reading to the kids, I wat
ched John shake hands with the ambassador and make his way around the room. From where I sat, I observed what people outside our bubble saw: a confident man who always had something interesting to say, but wasn’t so insecure he had to dominate the conversation or be the center of attention. I loved watching him smile in that charming, self-effacing way that made him seem accessible. He knew how to come across as a regular guy. These were the characteristics that caught my attention before I ever met him in person. It’s why everyone fell in love with him.

  Shelly came and escorted the children into the building behind us. When I was alone, John walked over to me.

  “Children love you. Do you know why?”

  “Because they think ‘Hatty’ is a funny name?”

  “It’s because you’re not pretending to be someone else. Kids can sniff out pretense a mile away. You had them in the palm of your hand.”

  “I could say the same thing about you and the people you met just now.”

  “Then I suppose we’re a damn good team.”

  He squeezed my hand and led me to the bar.

  After I got off the phone having wished my parents a Happy Fourth, John and I sprawled across the couch at Langbroek Palace. We’d moved in two weeks earlier, happy to have a few kilometers between us and Belvoir. We watched the recording of last year’s A Capital Fourth concert featuring the National Symphony Orchestra playing in Washington, D.C. I loved the patriotic music because it reminded me of the July 4th celebrations of my childhood―sweaty hair, hands covered in sticky watermelon goodness, and live bands playing on the town square.

  John’s phone buzzed in the pocket of his shorts. He snorted as he woke up. He always dozed off when we stayed up past 10:30.

  “Turn that off, please,” he said, his eyes on the glowing screen in his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” I paused the concert.

  He turned the phone around. It was a text from Henri: At Adela’s. It’s positive.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He told me earlier this week she was late.” Late. As in late-late. Yikes.

  John dialed and then held the phone to his ear. “Take her to Belvoir. I’ll meet you there,” John said when Henri picked up.

  After another moment, he disconnected, and rubbed his forehead. “We need to have the staff ready your old room.”

  “Let me handle that part of it.” I started to stand, but John grabbed me and pulled me onto the couch.

  He smoothed my hair with his hand. “You were worth the wait.”

  He kissed me with an intensity that bordered on harshness. I opened my eyes while our lips were locked and moving. His face was scrunched up, almost in agony. He pulled back, clenched his teeth, and took a deep breath. “I can’t believe Henri let this happen.”

  I put my hands on his face. “It’s going to be fine. We need to focus on keeping this quiet. Let’s go.”

  Gloom hung over John’s frowning face as we ate breakfast at Langbroek. He stood and took one more gulp of coffee.

  “Try to have a good day.” I kissed John gently. Deciding a comforting kiss wasn’t enough to improve his outlook, I followed an impulse and rubbed his crotch through his khaki pants. “That’s the teaser for tonight’s double feature.”

  He smiled for the first time since he rolled out of bed. “Naughty girl.” He kissed my forehead, squeezed my breasts, and left. Leave him wanting more. That’s how I roll.

  I left the breakfast nook and headed to our bedroom. Lord, I didn’t think I’d ever get him out of the palace. With him gone to the assembly for the day, I had time to investigate the small book I discovered last night at Belvoir when I was helping Adela get settled in my old bedroom. When I went into the bathroom to see whether the hair dryer was still stored under the sink, I flicked on my phone’s light and flashed it inside. After finding the hair dryer stowed neatly in its place, an old metal box sitting in the back right corner glinted in the light and caught my eye. I reached inside and pulled it out. There was a tiny lock on the latch that popped open when I tugged at it. Sitting inside the box on an old silk handkerchief was a notebook. It was black like the one John used on occasion, except this one was bigger. I flipped open the cover and recognized the neat handwriting with flowing curves. It was the same cursive that was on the Journey album cover I’d found in Princess Beatrix’s dance studio. Realizing I held a treasure, I resisted my desire to start reading while I sat there on the bathroom floor in Belvoir. I didn’t want Adela to walk in and find me thumbing through the journal. Instead, I stuffed it in my purse and put the box back inside the cabinet.

  Alone and sitting on the couch at Langbroek, I cracked open the journal.

  January 21, 1988

  Happy birthday to me! This notebook is a present from my dear husband. He says it’s a useful gift for his newly-minted 19-year-old wife because I’ll need a place to keep track of my schedule and obligations. During the three months since our wedding, I’ve made only one mistake, agreeing to speak at a luncheon for career women when I’d already committed to helping fold brochures at the AIDS in Africa office. So, here’s to no more mistakes, Little Notebook! You’re my new best friend!

  As I read through the entries, the details revealed more than her schedule. I got a glimpse of the inner workings of Princess Beatrix’s marriage to Leopold. It felt wrong reading such intimate details about John’s parents. After devouring the entries through April, which included some rather racy revelations, guilt trumped my curiosity. My days of investigative journalism were behind me and I didn’t want to be a snoop. I closed the journal and tucked it away in a shoebox at the back of my wardrobe.

  ith as much subtlety as possible, I adjusted my body in the hard wooden pew at the front of the church. Something along the back zipper of my dress poked mercilessly into my flesh.

  “Weddings make you uncomfortable, Mrs. Meinrad?” John whispered and my hand went to my eyebrows for my patented “I’m stressed” gesture.

  “Of course not. Something’s poking me back there.”

  “Hey, that’s my job.” He pushed my hem up an inch and squeezed my thigh.

  The pipe organ lurched into a melodic chord progression, and the entire church stood. John tried to adjust my dress to avert the poking. As he jiggled and pulled the area around the zipper, the hem of my dress slid up.

  “Careful,” I whispered. All we needed was a tabloid report about me flashing the congregation at my brother-in-law’s wedding.

  By the time Adela passed our pew with her chin slightly lifted, the sharp poking was gone.

  John moved from our spot in the front row to the altar where he stood by his brother.

  During the ceremony, the vicar led Henri and Adela through the vows and other rituals. St. Andrew’s Cathedral was smaller than St. Joseph’s where John and I exchanged vows, but it was a stunning venue with an interior that boasted an airy palette of white, mint green, and pink.

  Henri and Adela looked at ease as the vicar prayed over the communion elements. He had no knowledge of the circumstances that led the couple to his altar. And while the tabloids had snarked on and on about how a pregnancy scare spurred me and John to get married post haste, they made no such allegations about Henri and Adela.

  A young boy stood and began singing Ave Maria.

  Ave Maria

  Gratia plena

  Maria, gratia plena

  Ave, ave dominus

  Dominus tecum

  Benedicta tu in mulieribus

  Et benedictus fructus ventris

  tuae, Jesus.

  I translated the words in my head, remembering them from my high school choir days: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

  The fruit of Adela’s womb remained a secret thanks in part to the sweeping gown she wore. It swallowed her small, muscular frame, but it did the job of concealing even the tiniest trace of a belly swell.

  The thought of the baby inside her s
parked an unexpected pang of jealousy. My period had arrived Friday, right on schedule. Aside from being a few days late in July, I’d had regular 28-day cycles. Now that it was August, we’d had eight straight months of unprotected sex. What the heck was going on?

  Seeing Adela so radiant and imagining the joy that would literally come from her body, a beautiful blending of her DNA with Henri’s, I felt strongly for the first time that I was ready, perhaps even eager, to get pregnant.

  Riding in the car toward Belvoir for the reception, I whispered to John, “I want to have your baby.” I smiled, realizing those were the lyrics from the silly song I sang at Kamikaze Karaoke the night we met.

  He smiled back and squeezed my hand. “I know.”

  John came to bed at 1:00 a.m. We were exhausted from the wedding, reception, and after-party. I slid out from under the covers when I heard him snoring. I removed my laptop from its case and crept into the den. I searched words like “infertility,” “trouble getting pregnant,” and “trying to conceive.”

  I cringed as I read about how endometriosis and polycystic ovarian syndrome hinder a woman’s ability to get pregnant. Then I poured over websites featuring treatments with scary names like ovarian drilling. The acronyms also made my head spin. On the infertility discussion boards, the women used them in their posts: DH doesn’t want another IUI. He thinks we won’t get a BFP until we do IVF.

  I found the meaning of each set of letters and translated: Dear Husband doesn’t want another In Utero Insemination. He thinks we won’t get a Big Fat Positive until we do In Vitro Fertilization.

  I read about one woman who was on her eighth in vitro fertilization cycle. Eighth! Another woman was preparing for some kind of exploratory surgery to find out why she couldn’t get pregnant. I also saw the story of a couple struggling with the husband’s problem: he didn’t have any sperm in his ejaculate.

  What I read overwhelmed me and fanned my fears. A headache threatened, so I shut the laptop and went back to bed.