Inconceivable! Page 19

  he taper candles flickered, sending shadows dancing across John’s handsome features. We gave Brigitta, our chef, the night off and I cooked dinner. At my request, John dismissed the rest of the staff for the evening. The requisite number of royal guards stood outside Langbroek Palace. For us, this was being left alone. I needed to discuss an issue with him that caused me tremendous anxiety, and didn’t want to risk anyone, not even staff, overhearing us.

  One of the perks that came with “couple time” was John’s harp playing. The instrument sat unused in a corner most of the time. But after Brigitta left, I cooked and he strummed, creating a beautiful soundtrack for my preparation of the pasta.

  Now that we were finishing our meal, nervousness gnawed at my stomach.

  “So, I was reading some stuff online, and I think I need to buy a thermometer.” I tried to sound casual.

  “A thermometer? Are you feeling ill?” He wrinkled his brow in concern.

  “No. I feel fine. Actually, I don’t feel fine. What I mean is I’m not sick, but I’m worried.”

  “What do you have to worry about, love?”

  “I’m concerned I haven’t gotten pregnant yet.” There. I’d said it, despite the growing tightness in my chest. Why did this discussion make me feel so weird?

  “Are you trying to tell me you want to have more sex?” His eyes lit up and he raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m always up for more sex. But don’t you think it’s odd I’ve been off the pill for nine months and we haven’t had any luck getting pregnant? I thought I might get a thermometer and track my basal body temperature.”

  After multiple adventures into the depths of online infertility discussion sites, I knew it was time to begin monitoring my ovulation in this way.

  “I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds extreme. I don’t think there’s anything wrong, but if it would make you feel better, go see Dr. Cloutier.”

  Rather than comforting me, the suggestion I see the royal family’s physician filled me with panic. Worry-filled thoughts niggled my mind.

  “Okay. I’ll ask Astrid to make an appointment. Do you want to come?”

  John pulled out his phone and didn’t look up. “If you want. But I can’t imagine he’ll have much to say to me. I’m going to Belvoir tomorrow at nine for a briefing on the protests at the smelter. I’ll be gone until after lunch.”

  “Okay.” Disappointment filled my chest. I wanted him to show support by going with me to see Dr. Cloutier. I disliked the Meinrad family’s physician. He was kind, but emotionally removed.

  I was glad to hear John was headed to Belvoir in the morning. That gives me plenty of time to creep on the discussion boards and obsess over how to get pregnant.

  The harsh paper crinkled noisily under my bottom as I scooted toward the end of the exam table. A thin white sheet covered me below the waist and draped over the sides of the table to the floor.

  “That’s good. You can stop there, Duchess,” Dr. Cloutier said with his thick French accent. He refused to call me Hatty despite my request that he use my first name. Being in such a compromising position, legs propped and parted, made me realize how little titles mattered. When Dr. Cloutier looked at so many women down there, could he really tell us apart? I doubted it.

  He conducted the exam with efficiency and emotional sterility. A cold poke here, a bit of pressure there.

  “You may sit up, my dear.”

  I adjusted and held the sheet tighter over my lower half as I sat on the edge of the table. My legs dangled like a child sitting in a grown-up’s chair.

  “I think you’re merely overanxious about getting pregnant. There appear to be no problems, and we don’t even consider an infertility diagnosis for a woman your age until you fail to conceive after one year of unprotected sex. Stop worrying because that will make you less desirable to your husband, and desirable you must be.” He smiled and winked before turning to my file. His wrinkled hand scribbled something on my chart.

  Those were the words he said. This is what I heard: It’s your fault. Your worrying is causing you not to get pregnant. So, stop it. Focus on how to entice your husband and not on getting pregnant. It will happen.

  Basically, the plan was to have more sex. We could totally do that.

  Every time I swallowed, it was like sending a knife down my swollen, aching throat. The pain reminded me of the time I had strep as a kid.

  I threw on some sweats and climbed into bed. Lying on top of the covers, my eyes drifted shut; fatigue overtook my body.

  But the sound of John’s voice finishing up a phone call just outside our room sent me into a panic, and I jumped out of bed. Spurred by adrenaline, I sprang for the door and locked it to give myself a chance to change into something sexier. The egg white-like substance on the toilet paper this morning told me it was my most fertile day this cycle. I’d learned online this was the body’s primary evidence of pending ovulation.

  We’d started our day with slow, luscious sex when my throat felt merely scratchy. But I wanted to squeeze in one more romp to maximize our chances of getting pregnant, sore throat be damned.

  The knob jiggled. “Hatty? Are you in there?”

  “Just a minute.” Ugh… it even hurt to talk. Naked and chilled, I shoved the sweats under the bed. Forget the lingerie; I answered the door in the buff.

  “Sorry. Did you need something?”

  “I do now.”

  John pushed into the room, pressing his lips to mine. I turned my head. “Be careful. I might be getting sick. Kiss me anywhere but my lips.”

  He held me in his arms and twisted his lips to one side. “Are you up for this?”

  I laughed and patted his cheek. “For sure. I’ll spread my legs, but not my germs.”

  He grabbed my ass and licked my neck before walking me backward to the bed. He lifted me onto the mattress. I watched him undress, kicking out of his pants and popping a button off his shirt as he tore at it too roughly. I ran my fingers over various sweet spots, knowing he got aroused more quickly when I gave him a show.

  My desire to move things along intensified as gunk streamed down the back of my raw throat. I wondered whether we had any cough medicine in the bathroom.

  John didn’t bother taking off his socks before he climbed on top of me, pushing my back into the mattress. A desperate need to cough concentrated itself in my throat. I swallowed in hopes of making it go away. As he entered me, a violent cough exploded from my mouth and the force pushed him out.

  “Go again,” I choked, putting a fist over my mouth in case I coughed again.

  “I don’t think you’re up for it.”

  “But you are.” I grabbed him down there, not wanting him to lose his concentration. “We’ve got to do this. Please?”

  He laid his hand across my forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  I relaxed, letting my feet touch his legs and he jumped. “Your toes are ice cold. We’re done.”

  He went over to the dresser and grabbed a pair of thick socks.

  “My sweats are under the bed.” I stood as he retrieved my clothes. He helped me get dressed and tucked me into bed.

  After he put on his robe, he came to my bedside. “I’ll be back. Do you need anything?”

  “Your semen. But if you aren’t willing to give me that, then some ginger ale would be nice.”

  “Okay. I’m going to ask Astrid to call Dr. Cloutier’s office and arrange for him to see you tomorrow morning.”

  He kissed my forehead before leaving the room.

  he scientists from the Royal University prepared to release their findings about the environmental impact of the smelter. Toulene’s Ministry of Agriculture received a courtesy copy of the results one day before the scientists went public. Things didn’t look good. John and his family couldn’t believe scholars who worked for a university they supported could produce such a scathing report. The findings blamed the monarchy for failing to intervene and initiate an environmental clean-up program.
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br />   “Their conclusions are complete speculation because they’re not supported by the science.” John paced the parlor at Belvoir, running his hand through his hair.

  Aunt Elinore, Granny, and Leopold were also there. Cilla, the family’s public affairs guru, sat on the arm of the sofa, listening intently. She intimidated me. It went back to that Sunday morning call early in my relationship with John when she confronted me about the story Paul had filed exposing Princess Beatrix’s foundation.

  “John. We were going to sell the plant anyway because it’s a money pit. At least this study gives us cover to make that move now,” Aunt Elinore said.

  “I don’t care about the public relations aspect. I care about the science. This report rests on thin evidence produced by shoddy research. And we could’ve avoided being caught in the middle of this if we’d sold the property several years ago, as we’d planned to do,” John countered.

  I coughed, still recovering from my cold, then cleared my throat. “Then why don’t you hold a press conference and refute the findings?”

  All four of them looked at me like I’d just suggested John run naked through the streets.

  “Hatty, if John holds a press conference about this issue and doesn’t take questions, the reporters will erupt in a frenzy. God only knows what they’d write. We can’t allow that to happen,” Aunt Elinore explained.

  “Okay. Then, don’t call it a press conference. He can just read a prepared statement and walk off stage. The longer you go without issuing some kind of response, the longer the story stays alive. Talk about the researchers’ shoddy work, you get coverage for a day or two, and then the press goes back to reporting on what Claire Léglise is wearing for her wedding.” Claire was set to wed a British royal at a ceremony outside London in two weeks. The woman who broke up with John because she didn’t want media attention regularly talked to reporters about the preparations for her big day. I heart hypocrisy.

  “I think Hatty has a point,” Cilla said, standing. “If we draft a statement, have John read it, and leave, we might prevent this story from growing into something bigger.”

  John sighed, shaking his head, his irritation apparent. “Hatty, this isn’t going to work. You’ve never dealt with anything like this.”

  “But I know what journalists will think if you don’t respond. Your failure to comment will become the story. Giving a statement means you’ll have coverage for twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours. Then, they’ll move on to the next big thing. It’s a way to shut it down.”

  John paced, his hands behind his back. “Look, you don’t know how this works. Reporters don’t just let us walk on stage, read a piece of paper, and walk away. They always try to get in their questions. This is way beyond anything you experienced as an intern.”

  That stung. “But I do know how editors think, and how newsrooms operate…”

  John exhaled noisily, exasperated. “Hatty, please let us handle this. You don’t have a degree and your experience is still quite limited.”

  Oh no he didn’t. Oh yes he did.

  “Excuse me? Excuse me? Who’s fucking fault is it that I don’t have a degree? Don’t take away the value I bring to this discussion. I worked for several months in two newsrooms. I write guest columns for The Guardian. I’m telling you, reading a statement is the right thing to do.”

  P.S. Did I just drop the f-bomb in front of the Queen of Toulene?

  The queen stood. “Cilla, if you think it’s the best move for John to read a statement, I can go along with that. Please brief the reporters and let them know John won’t accept questions. If any of them try to shout questions at him afterward, have their credentials revoked.”

  I looked at John, triumphant. Mic drop.

  That evening, John burst into our bedroom at Langbroek and slammed the door. I didn’t look up. I sat in bed typing a message to Kendra27, one of the women who frequented the same infertility discussion board as me. Where else but online could the infertile share tips, encouragement, and the occasional pregnancy test photo?

  “How dare you speak that way to me in front of my family,” John huffed.

  I threw down my phone and jumped out of bed, ready to have it out. “You dismissed me like I’m some kind of hick who doesn’t know anything. That was hurtful and embarrassing. Get your head out of your ass, prince.”

  He stomped over to me, and I took a step back, unsure what he was about to do. He grabbed me by the arms and pulled me to him. He kissed me with a fierceness I didn’t anticipate. It left my knees wobbly.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Your turn,” he said, letting go and stepping away.

  “My turn for what?”

  “To say you’re sorry for behaving like a child.”

  “I’m not sorry I called you out on being a jerk. But I’m sorry I did it in such a blunt way. Next time, I’ll use more tact. There. Are you happy?” I turned to climb back into bed.

  His hands wrapped firmly around my ribs, right under my breasts. “You’re not allowed to go to bed angry.”

  He turned me toward him and kissed me, leaning into me until I sat down on the bed. He unbuckled his pants and removed his shirt. An intensity that was both sensual and angry-looking colored his face.

  I laughed. “Are you requiring make-up sex?”

  “Yes. And you’re going to enjoy it.”

  Hot damn. He was right.

  After the last of the thrusting and a final, strong heave, John started to climb off me.

  “Hey, stay inside!” He froze in place, though I felt him already going limp.

  Keeping him inside me a couple of minutes after he climaxed was one of several “tricks” I’d discovered online for improving the odds of sperm arriving at their destination inside my uterus.

  “Okay. You can get up.” I patted his arm. He kissed my cheek and headed for the bathroom. I kicked my legs into the air and supported my pelvis with my hands, using gravity to assist the little swimmers.

  John came back into the bedroom and gave me a funny look. “I bet that’s uncomfortable. How long do you have to stay like that?” Embarrassment brought a flash of heat to my cheeks as my husband looked at me in what was probably the least flattering position known to humans.

  I lowered my legs, peeled back the covers, and slid underneath.

  “That’s it. Just a couple of minutes.”

  John clicked off his bedside lamp, leaving us in darkness. As I cozied my body into his, satisfaction brought a smile to my lips. I was doing all I could to maximize our chances of getting pregnant. Surely, it would happen this cycle.

  an you believe Prince Henri and Prince John married those two commoners? Honestly. They must be after their money. Don’t you think?” Adela batted her eyes at the handsome Frenchman who brought our entrées. His face was blank; he didn’t recognize us.

  “I do not know.” He responded in stilted English as he set our plates on the table.

  “I think that Adela girl will look hideous when her belly gets really big.” Adela puffed up her cheeks and reached her arms in front of her abdomen, fingers entwined. “Can you believe she got pregnant so soon?”

  Adela, you’re killing me! And her emerging bump was, in fact, killing me on the inside. My jealousy was an untamable beast that nickered at every reminder of Adela’s pregnancy.

  “Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait.” Our garçon made a hasty retreat.

  I laughed too loudly at the poor guy’s awkwardness. I needed to adjust my volume from Ozarks holler to Paris café. “I can’t believe you just said that! Do you think he knows who we are?”

  “Not a chance. I’m Camilla Madiera and you’re Jill Larson. Are those the fake names we decided to use?”

  “You picked them. Your name sounds like a movie star and mine sounds like a farmer’s wife.”

  “You are a farmer’s wife. Kind of.”

  “He’s an environmental scientist, thank you very much. Let’s finish in the next twenty minutes so we can head up the
hill before traffic picks up.”

  Sacre Cœur was our destination. Adela was Catholic, and wanted to visit this church before giving birth. It was the pretext for what I viewed primarily as a wives-only shopping excursion to Paris. I craved a new pair of boots as much as I craved another bite of brie.

  As we rode through the streets, Adela looked at something on her phone. “What does John say about the protesters?”

  Protests resumed at the smelter with new vigor after John made his statement to the press condemning the scientists’ findings.

  “He says they’re orderly, so that’s good. He’s hoping the town will implement a curfew so the queen doesn’t have to step in with a heavy hand.”

  Strategy sessions about how to handle the protests consumed a great deal of John’s time, so I loved getting to spend the day with Adela. It was the first time we’d been together for any significant length of time.

  “You know, you’re a riot. Why haven’t we done this sooner?” I offered her a piece of gum.

  “We’re too busy coddling our princes. But we should plan more escapes like this.” She popped the spearmint nugget into her mouth.

  I looked at my bag from Au Printemps sitting in the floorboard. It held black silky lingerie, exactly what I needed to fulfill Dr. Cloutier’s advice to focus on making my husband happy as the main means to getting pregnant. This little something-something promised hours of baby-making fun. Even though all my post-sex pelvis-lifting efforts hadn’t yet brought positive results, we had to stay the course. I did my best to bring an optimistic spirit to our baby-making efforts, but a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach grew more intense with each passing month. Having to watch Adela swell into new, beautiful proportions only increased the pressure for me and John to conceive.

  At Sacre Cœur, our plain clothes guards walked ahead of us. The crowd was light, so we easily found a bench, the ideal place to sit and take in the sights of the basilica.