"You're right.I'm not like that.At least, I don't think I am.But how would she know?All she knows about Prince Archibald is what other people have told her.She's never had a real conversation with him."I paused, realizing the absurdity."Except she has.She just doesn't know it."
This was getting complicated.This was getting very, very complicated.
The sound of footsteps on cobblestone made me look up.Through the stable window, I could see Betty crossing the courtyard with Madame Delacroix, and even from a distance, I could tell the lesson wasn't going well.Betty's shoulders were rigid with tension, and Madame Delacroix was gesturing in the sharp, impatient way that meant she was correcting yet another breach of protocol.
I moved closer to the window to get a better view.They'd stopped near the fountain, and Madame Delacroix was demonstrating something, probably the proper way to acknowledge dignitaries or some equally ridiculous bit of choreographed courtesy.Betty attempted to mimic the motion and immediately earned a sharp correction.
"Non, non, Your Highness.You must glide, not march.This is not a military parade."
Even from here, I could see Betty's whole body stiffen at the criticism.She tried again, her movements more controlled but somehow less natural.Madame Delacroix shook her head with the kind of theatrical disappointment that was clearly designed to shame rather than instruct.
"Perhaps we should focus on simpler movements first.Walking without looking like a farmer, for instance."
My hands clenched into fists.The urge to march out there and tell Madame Delacroix exactly what she could do with her etiquette lessons was almost overwhelming.Betty was trying so hard, putting herself through this torture because she believed it was necessary, and all she was getting in return was condescension and cruelty disguised as instruction.
"Your posture suggests defiance, Your Highness.Royal bearing requires submission to the proper forms."
Submission.As if Betty's spirit was something that needed to be broken rather than channeled.As if her authenticity was a flaw rather than the most valuable thing about her.
I watched as she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, clearly fighting the urge to tell Madame Delacroix what she thought of her submission comment.The small act of defiance made me want to cheer, but I could see the cost of it in the tight line of her shoulders.
That's my girl, I thought, then caught myself.My girl.My wife.When had I started thinking of her that way?
Probably around the same time she'd told me her biggest fear was using the wrong fork and accidentally starting an international incident.Or when she'd described her curtsy as looking like she was "dislodging something uncomfortable from her underwear."Or when she'd laughed at something I said and I'd realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life making her laugh like that.
So.Yesterday, basically.
The lesson continued for another excruciating ten minutes, with Madame Delacroix finding fault with everything from the angle of Betty's head to the speed of her curtsy.By the time they finished, Betty looked like she was holding herself together through sheer stubbornness.
"We will continue tomorrow," Madame Delacroix announced."Perhaps tonight you might practice in front of a mirror.Repetition is the only cure for such...rustic habits."
She swept away with the kind of dramatic exit that probably took years to perfect, leaving Betty standing alone by the fountain.For a moment, Betty held her composed expression.Then her shoulders sagged, and she sank onto the edge of the fountain like someone whose strings had been cut.
I should have looked away.Should have given her privacy for whatever emotional processing she was doing.But something kept me frozen at the window, watching as she buried her face in her hands.
Her shoulders started shaking.
She was crying.Not the dramatic, performative tears that I'd seen from women trying to manipulate me at court functions, but the kind of exhausted, overwhelmed crying that came from hitting your breaking point.The kind that happened when you were trying so hard to be something you weren't that you started to lose track of who you actually were.
Something cracked open in my chest.
That's when I knew I had to tell her.Not tomorrow, not after some careful planning and strategic consideration.Soon.Before another lesson could chip away at more of her confidence.Before another instructor could make her feel like she was fundamentally inadequate instead of just unprepared.
I left Celeste in her stall and walked out of the stables, my heart hammering against my ribs.Betty was still sitting by the fountain, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand in a gesture so normal and human that it made my chest ache.
"Betty?"
She looked up at the sound of my voice, and I saw her quickly try to compose herself."Peter.I didn't know you were here."
"I saw your lesson with Madame Delacroix."I sat down on the fountain edge beside her, close enough that our knees almost touched."Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."She attempted a smile that didn't fool either of us."Just having a moment of self-pity.I'll get over it.I always do."
"You're allowed to have moments.Especially when people are being unnecessarily cruel to you."
"She's not being cruel.She's trying to help me not embarrass myself at the wedding."Betty sniffed and wiped her eyes again."I just...I keep thinking that maybe they got the wrong person.Maybe the real Princess Bettina is out there somewhere, naturally graceful and fluent in seventeen languages and capable of eating soup without making it look like a crime scene."
Despite everything, I laughed."A crime scene?"
