She thought of her social calendar: every minute of every day was filled with engagements. From ten A.M. until six P.M. she was on public display. She inspected factories, listened to people’s complaints, shook thousands of hands, sidestepped personal questions. Then there were the trips around Lanconia, for several days in a row when she did nothing but visit one hospital after another, comfort one dying child and his parents after another. Then at night she was escorted to some long, tiring ball where people talked to her with quaking voices.
Before she had gone to America, she hadn’t minded her duties so much. They had been what she had done since she left the schoolroom and she had been trained for them. But now…now she had been able to shop in stores, she had gossiped with other women, she had jitterbugged in public. She had been able to be a normal ordinary person who wasn’t watched and judged every minute.
She remembered once, when she was eighteen, that she had worn a dress with a low neckline to an afternoon garden party. At the party, a man had suddenly fainted at her feet. When she bent to help him, he whipped out his camera, snapped her picture, then scampered away. The next day every paper in the free world carried a photograph of the semiexposed bosom of Princess Aria of Lanconia.
That was her life. She lived in a glass box, her every movement scrutinized and examined then exposed to the world.
Yet she had considered asking this American husband of hers to share that life. How would he be as king? Would he toss reporters into swimming pools? Would he call people like Julian “Count Julie” to their faces? Would he dine with common-looking women in public places? Would he show up at dinner wearing his undershirt?
And how would the people of Lanconia react to him? Would he be contemptuous of the goatherders? Of the grape pickers?
All Americans seemed to think their country was the only one on earth. Could Lieutenant Montgomery give up his American citizenship to become a Lanconian? Would he bother to learn the language?
He was so quick-tempered, so impatient, so intolerant. She remembered their time on the island. She understood now some of his intolerance, some of his anger, but if he remained in Lanconia, he would be consorting daily with people whose lineage could be traced to generations of kings. Their snobbery made Aria’s seem like that of a peasant. How would they treat this American commoner? How would he react to their treatment of him? She had a vision of Lieutenant Montgomery wrapping Cousin Freddie’s pearls about his thin neck the first time Freddie looked down his nose at the American.
And then there was the fact that the lieutenant didn’t want to be prince consort. She didn’t think he could do a good job at best, but if he was reluctant, he would be like a large, spoiled two-year-old.
She took a deep breath and turned away from the window. Mr. Sanderson was right: it was over.
Her easy, happy American interlude was over. It was time now to return to her destiny. She had been born to be queen and now she must continue preparing for that duty—no, the honor of being queen, she corrected herself.
She was able to smile when J.T. reentered the room.
He frowned. “I guess you’re glad to be home.”
“Yes and no. America will always be a fond memory to me. Dolly said she will visit me, so I don’t plan to lose all contact with your country. Perhaps you will visit—”
“No,” he said sharply. “Can we get this over? I mean our public argument?”
“It has been postponed.” She was studying his face. Until today she had thought they were always to be married but now she knew these were their last few hours together. “We dine together and…and spend the night, then tomorrow or the next day I’ll be contacted, I’m sure. Tomorrow we must be seen as often as possible by as many people as possible.”
He wore only a towel about his middle and was rubbing his wet hair with another towel. He looked so good her fingers ached to touch him.
“I wish you hadn’t,” he said. “I need to get back to the base as soon as possible and the sooner…” He trailed off.
She stiffened. “The sooner you get rid of me the better.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “It’ll be better for me to get this over with.”
Dinner was one of the most difficult meals she had ever experienced. She felt like a fool because the idea of not seeing him again was making her very sad but he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. He was cool and remote to her.
Aria had to hide her feelings and play the despicable American when any Lanconian was near.
“You think we want a table out in the middle?” she demanded. “J.T., honey, they want to stare at me. They want to point at me and say I look like their plain-faced princess. Do we have to stay in this town? I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to stand it.”
“This way, madame,” said the haughty waiter, and led them to a secluded table in the corner.
“What will you do when you get back?” Aria asked when they were alone.
“Look at Buicks,” he said, then glowered at her. “Work. Do what I can to help in the war.”
“Will they let you keep our little house?”
“I don’t want it.”
Aria smiled at that. Perhaps he too was upset at their parting. “I shall miss America and I shall miss you,” she whispered.
He looked down at his empty plate. “It’ll be nice to have my time be my own again. I’ve been neglecting my work.”