Lucy Gordon: Princess Dottie

© 2002

The hands of the clock crawled toward nine o'clock. Another long shift over, Dottie thought thankfully. Fifteen more minutes and she'd be out of the café. Until tomorrow, when it would be time to start again.

Her face brightened as the door opened and a beefy young man with an amiable expression, came in, waved to her and slid into a corner seat. She mouthed, “With you in a minute.”

A plump, dark-haired young woman appeared from the kitchen and made a beeline for the lad, Dottie noted wryly. She knew Brenda fancied Mike, and wasn't ashamed to make a play for him right under Dottie's nose, although she knew they were engaged.

Despite its name, The Grand Hotel was a down-at-heel boardinghouse with a café to match, in the shabbiest part of London. Dottie ran the café, and Jack, the elderly owner, had bestowed on her the title of manageress to cover the fact that she was a maid-of-all-work, who slaved long, tiring hours for a small wage.

Yet Dottie was happy. She had a fiancé she loved and a future to look forward to. Mike might not be glamorous, but he was kind, hardworking and devoted to her. True, his brain lacked the quicksilver alertness of her own. Unkind persons had been known to describe him as thick. Dottie would have been up in arms at that slander, but when her own mind went dancing away she sometimes wished he could follow her, instead of just saying admiringly, “You sound grand when you talk like that, Dot.”

Mike was proud of his fiancée: proud of her petite figure and fluffy blond prettiness, proud of her quick tongue, her shrewdness and her ability to laugh at herself. But he never pretended he could keep up with her.

As Dottie cleared away, Jack appeared and began to cash up. “Has it been a good evening, Dorothea?” he asked kindly.

Dottie made a face. “I wish you wouldn't call me Dorothea.”

The old man grinned. “Perhaps I should call you Ms. Hebden, then?”

“You do and you're dead,” she told him amiably. “Dottie's good enough for me.”

“There's a few hamburgers left over,” Jack said. “If you fancy them.”

She scooped them up eagerly. This was a valuable perk for people who were living on nothing so that Mike could save up for his own garage. She bid Jack good-night and headed for the corner table, tapping Brenda firmly on the shoulder.

“Hands off! He's mine!” But she said it with a good-natured smile.

Brenda grinned back. “Bet he's not. Bet I could have him off you.”

“Bet you couldn't!”

“Bet I could!”

“Oi!” Mike objected mildly. “D'you two mind not talking about me like I wasn't here?”

He allowed his fiancée to shepherd him to the door, only pausing to call back, “Better check your food for arsenic tomorrow, Bren.”

“Well if I do poison her it'll be your fault,” Dottie said when they were outside. “Serve her right for putting her head so close to yours.”

“It was just gossip,” Mike protested. “She's been reading that magazine again. Royal Secrets. ”

“Her and her royal scandals! That's all she thinks of. What is it this time?”

“The king of Elluria can't be the king 'cos his parents weren't properly wed.”

Dottie yawned. “Well, they'll find another one. Come on, I've got some free hamburgers.”

“Good for you! I'm starving.”

The avenue of lime trees stretched into the distance, the tips faintly touched by the crimson of the setting sun. Randolph regarded with indifference a scene he'd watched a thousand times before. It was as useful as listening to the conversation going on behind him, which he'd also been through a thousand times before-or at least it felt like it. And while he kept his back to the room nobody could study his face.

He was wearily used to that study. Ever since he'd been barred from the throne of Elluria barely hours before assuming it, the world was curious about his feelings. Sometimes he felt like a caged animal, staring back at faces pressed against the bars, all watching him for some sign of weakness. And he would die before he revealed such a sign.

These days his expression was habitually grim. He was a serious man who normally found little in life to make him laugh, although he secretly envied those who could. Recently heaviness had overcome him completely. Those who might have been his subjects had known what to expect from him, gravity and devotion to duty, tempered with a quiet, stern kindliness. Now they were almost afraid of him.

The prime minister, Jacob Durmand, approached him nervously. “Your Royal…Your Highness…oh dear!” He lapsed into confusion at having used the term “royal” to one who could no longer be described that way.

Randolph turned, forcing a brief, reassuring smile. It wasn't Durmand's fault. “It's a trial to all of us,” he said. “Don't worry about it.”

“Thank you. Oh dear, this is all very difficult. If only-”

“If only my dear, scatterbrained father hadn't fallen in love with an actress when he was young,” Randolph said wryly, “and been persuaded to go through a marriage ceremony when he was too drunk to know better. If only he hadn't believed those who said it wasn't binding. And if only he'd made sure of his situation before marrying my mother. But you knew my father, Durmand. He was the kindest man in the world, but he had this fatal habit of hoping for the best.”

“And if only Prince Harold hadn't discovered that your parents' marriage was bigamous,” the prime minister sighed. “Once he knew, he was bound to pounce, hoping to take the throne himself.”

“And get his hands on Elluria's mineral reserves,” Randolph said angrily. “How long would it take him to strip the country of everything? He's got to be stopped. Dammit, this family must have some offshoots left somewhere in the world.”

He was interrupted by an elderly man scurrying into the room, his arms full of papers, his face full of excitement. He was Sigmund, the royal archivist.

“I've found something,” he said.

They all crowded around the table while he spread the papers out. undervoice

“It goes back to Duke Egbert, who married an English lady in 1890,” he explained. “She was an heiress, and he had heavy gambling debts. They went to live in England.”

“Are you saying there are descendants there?” Durmand asked.

“One, as far as I can gather. And I'm afraid the family has come down in the world-gambling again. The duke had one daughter who married a man called Augustus Hebden. It's his great-great-great-granddaughter who concerns us. It's been carefully checked. The line is unbroken.”

“Did Egbert really leave no other descendants?” Randolph asked.

“The family was almost wiped out in two wars,” Sigmund explained. “In the end there was only Jack Hebden left, plus his sister, who never married. Jack had one child, Frank, who fathered the lady with whom we are concerned. Ms. Dorothea Hebden is next in line to the throne of Elluria.”

“Do we know anything else?” Durmand inquired nervously. “Has she encumbered herself with a husband and a brood of children?”

“Fortunately no,” Sigmund said, too deep in papers to notice that Randolph had stiffened. “Exhaustive inquiries have failed to turn up a marriage certificate. She is only twenty-three, but has already risen to the position of manageress of an establishment called The Grand Hotel.”