Title: My Son, the Prince?

Summary: Clarisse is shocked to find that the son she and Rupert buried in the later years of their marriage was not their son, but a child switched at birth. That means that there is a direct heir to the Genovian throne! That also means that she has another child out there somewhere.

Author’s Notes: This is AU definitely. Circa 1988: Mia is little and has no real place in this story. For now, Phillipe is alive, as is King Rupert. Pierre has yet to abdicate.

~~~

Clarisse walked the length of the palace garden in companionable silence with Joseph just off her heels. Many scents filled the air, but the unforgettable fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine reigned supreme. She liked to walk amongst the flowers. The flowers didn’t care whether she’d worn this particular outfit before or if she wore the appropriate accessories to go along with it. They just adored her for how she spoke to them, sharing with them her secret feelings and regrets. They thrived from the trust and care she put into their well-being.

They were her escape from the tepid and sometimes cruel world of public figureheads. They and Joseph, that is. Joseph, who was the only human being in the palace she could talk to. He didn’t expect anything from her. He wasn’t concerned about whether she obeyed her P’s and Q’s, or if she simply decided to walk around her sitting room barefoot. For all it mattered to him, she could lay in bed all day. No, that wasn’t the responsible thing, but it was safe. What he cared most about was her safety, and furthermore her happiness. She’d found herself terribly unhappy of late. Joseph had noticed, but had been careful not to push her. She could be deadly when pushed.

“Joseph,” she paused and turned about. He waited patiently for her to pose her question. She was always so inquisitive. “Joseph, have you ever wanted a child?”

That threw him for a loop and he had to think about it. “There was a time many years ago when I thought about being a father, but it never happened.”

She tilted her head as though she were solving him out. In other words, what she always tried to do. He was the only one she could never quite peg. “It never happened?” She sat down on a carved stone bench and offered him the place beside her. He took it gratefully.

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed and clasped his hands together uncomfortably. “I never married the woman I loved and so, we never had children.” He refused to look at her as he said that. “Not everyone has a fairy tale ending, Your Highness.”

She winced and smoothed her pale pink skirt. “I suppose not. I simply thought that if anyone deserved one, you did.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“Yes. Well, I suppose we should go inside.”

Naturally, he rose first and offered her a hand. She thanked him graciously and gave his hand a casual squeeze before letting go. He fell behind her a couple of feet to allow her the privacy to confer with her flowers a little longer. They were all she had, who was he to take them away?

Finally, they departed from the wondrous place under twilight and entered the palace which was anything other than wondrous. It held beautiful things, of course, -- even beautiful people -- but it was so stifling and cold. The Royal portraits on the walls and mantles held little affection, and certainly no love. The only love to be found was that of Queen Clarisse for her children. And how she loved them!

She’d mourned for her sons, both of them. Her oldest, Pierre chafed at his role as heir to the Genovian crown. And young Phillipe rebelled at being the ‘spare.’ For years, he was too young to understand the phrase the heir and the spare. Unfortunately, naiveté doesn’t last forever. Once he’d come of age to officially enter society, he’d gone berserk; partying, seeing random women of less than reputable beginnings, and showing up at the palace drunk, which his mother did not appreciate. His father had attempted to smooth her ruffled feathers with boys will be boys. She had never wanted to hit the man more.

He justified the behavior instead of trying to end it. It left her unsurprised. Ignoring it had always been his way. It certainly had been his way with her.

However, at last her boys were both grown and to their own affairs. Pierre, ever the philosophical one, had taken a keen interest in theology and had even been dropping hints of his desire to study the subject in more depth. She could see no harm in it, but worried that his interest would grow to a calling; a calling that would lead him astray of his birthright. He was to be king when Rupert’s time was done. And if not him, Phillipe.

The very thought made her more anxious than she’d care to admit. Just a few years ago, while attending college in New York, Phillipe had fallen for and married an American woman. He’d concealed that little fact until it came time to tell them that they’d be grandparents shortly. That was 1985. The child would be nearly three now. It troubled her greatly that she’d never seen the girl. Oh, yes, there was the single picture of newborn with lovely gray eyes and fluffy tufts of raven hair, but nothing more. What Clarisse would have given to hold her only grandchild.

Unfortunately, soon came the question of succession. Who would succeed Rupert? It didn’t take a surplus of wisdom for her see that neither of her sons wanted to be king. They tolerated, maybe even enjoyed being royalty, but neither of them -- neither of them wanted to be king.

Tradition, however, prevailed. Seeing Pierre’s reticence, which she was sure, would later turn to outright denial, she knew what was to be. Knowing that, it had been her unhappy duty to bring Phillipe home from his decidedly average, but content life with the American woman, with Helen. It had hurt to do it, but the future of Genovia was soon to be in his hands. She knew Pierre and she knew Phillipe. Pierre would deny his birthright for his vocation. Phillipe, well, Phillipe never could.

Having known this, she had gone to Rupert two short years ago and had discussed bearing another heir. Yes, she was getting older and if they wanted another they’d have to try soon. So, they did. And in 1986, she became pregnant. She was ecstatic. Since her sons had come of age, she’d been rather lonely and without Amelia within reach, another child seemed just what she needed to cheer her up.

All had gone well, at first. The entire country had rejoiced at the rare gift of a third royal heir. In their memory, there had never been more than two; the heir and the spare. She dearly hated that phrase. That was to be her child. It would have no other obligation than to behave. This one, she could coddle and keep close.

She’d been so excited. The flowers bloomed and were kind of to her sensitive system. When she felt ill, she could stroll through them and find herself. She even napped there at times; discreetly reclining against her bodyguard Joseph.

The day she was to give birth had been odd in several senses. The child, which they’d decided to not learn the sex of, had been unusually still. While that had worried Clarisse, it had been a relief. With her increased size, and swollen ankles, it was wonderful not to have to deal with a thumping belly as well. Also, her husband the King had been locked away in negotiations of some sort that she hadn’t been granted entry to. She simply assumed that meant that it was something that would upset her and he didn’t want her to be upset. In addition to those things, Joseph had been especially…close. In a good way, of course. But close nonetheless.

She’d been in the garden when she went into labor. The contractions had been occurring all day, but they’d become especially painful as she overlooked her Clarisse roses from the gazebo. She’d cried out against her better judgment and drew herself tight around her stomach. The pain had never been that bad with her sons. Joseph moved beside her and asked what the matter was. She told him and he quickly lifted her into his arms to take her back indoors. Pain, she didn’t like pain. Not that type anyway.

She was in labor for twenty long hours before the child finally crowned. To her dismay, her child was whisked away before its first cry by a nurse. She had no idea whether it was a boy or a girl; she knew only that something was wrong. She sent Joseph to find out more, but he could discover nothing. Later on, a child was returned to her. A boy, perfect and mild. She held him and counted his fingers and toes, wanly stroking at his cheeks and snub nose.

As precious as the boy had been, there was something wrong. Everything was off, just so. He had blue eyes, yes, but not her shade of blue. She justified to herself that they could change later. His hair was dark as Rupert’s, but the wrong shade of dark. His skin was olive while she was pale and Rupert ruddy. She could not form a bond with the child, even as she looked into his eyes and saw his soul. Not even when he started to gasp for breath and change color in her arms. It was as though someone had simply squeezed his tiny lungs until they were devastated and empty.

She’d looked to Joseph for guidance and he had taken the child immediately to the doctor waiting outside. There was a commotion and he was gone for quite a while. When he came back to me, his face was explanation enough. The boy she’d held was dead, her son was dead. So, why didn’t she feel anything?

She continued not to feel anything until the Archbishop came to give him last rites. Rupert gave him a name because she couldn’t. She undoubtedly felt his death was unfortunate, but she didn’t personally miss him. Her tears came from that fact. How could she not miss the child she’d carried in her body for nine months? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t.

The nation went into mourning for the next several weeks over the death of Prince Antony Nathaniel Michel Christian Renaldi. The funeral was private and short as he was laid to rest in the Royal crypt. She did not cry then, her surviving sons on either side of her and Rupert nearby. She didn’t cry, even then.

Now it was two years later and she was still thinking of Antony. Still, thinking of how she didn’t miss him, but was sad for the life he hadn’t lived. It was as though she were thinking of another’s deceased son.

Clarisse sighed and roused herself from her reverie. Joseph waited patiently for her to compose herself. They would go to an orphanage today and see the children. She always loved seeing children. He thought it might cheer her up. She desperately needed it. It was coming quickly to the date of what would’ve been Antony’s second birthday and melancholy had become her mantle in place of grace.

“Shall we go, Your Majesty?” She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They left the palace and took the long road into the city of Pyrus. She sighed constantly on the way, concerning Joseph to no end. He knew how this time of year disturbed her. He was the only one who knew how she felt about the boy, the boy she could hardly call her son.

They came to the place, bedecked for her arrival. Before exiting the car she took a deep breath and placed a gentle smile upon her face. Always the queen, she was. He walked two steps behind her, watching her surroundings, insuring her safety. It was comforting to know he was right there. Very comforting, indeed.

She kept up nice for the children, never letting on what their presence did to her. Joe stood a larger distance away, near to the orphanage nursery. There laid the newborns and the toddlers, all in little steel cribs. It’s was disheartening to even see. Boys and girls, asleep and awake; some watching the commotion with interest.

There was one though; a girl not two years old, with golden waves close to her head and swimming cobalt eyes. She had high cheekbones and a delicately pointed chin, speckled beautifully with golden freckles. She was the youthful Queen Clarisse personified. She was truly angelic. He would have to bring her to the Queen’s attention before they left.

The opportunity arose as she was about to leave the building. He leaned over slightly and gestured towards the nursery. She followed him warily, not wanting to be so near children Antony’s age. Not one person could blame her, because they all remembered Antony’s untimely death. Still, trusting him with her life and her emotions, she went along to the glass-enclosed room. There were rows upon rows of cribs -- easily doubling as cages or jail cells. She walked the aisles, trailing her fingers along the rails lightly, taking in the sweet faces spying her in return.

Though not as painful as she was expecting, it was still agonizing to see so many parentless children. She could relate; she felt as a childless mother. All of them grown…and so far away. She couldn’t guess at what Joseph wished to show her. She looked to him for an answer. He only raised his chin towards the last occupied metal bassinet.

Sighing, she leaned forward and met the eyes that had haunted her dreams unknowingly. All the while she’d thought she was seeing herself. She called Joseph to her confidence.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“What is her name, this girl? What is she called?” They both looked at her blond head affectionately and spoke in hushed tones.

“Helene.”

She reached down and stroked her downy curls. “Helene Solange Meghan Renaldi.” That was the name she’d chosen for her daughter, the child she’d expected to have. That was the child she’d bonded with.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She looked to him sharply, questioning what he was implying.

“Joseph…”

“I shall find out for you, My Queen.”

She inclined her head in the affirmative.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we depart?” She nodded and they began to, only for Helene to begin to cry out in earnest. Unable to walk away from the bawling infant, she lifted her from her enclosure and took her into her arms.

“Now, now, my dear. We can have none of that. It shall never do for a princess to cry. Hush, now.”

She ceased soon and hiccupped lightly into the Queen’s chest.

“We shall meet again, Helene. Of that, you can be certain.” She adoringly kissed her forehead and smiled. “Now, hush.”

The child did she was told and set down again peacefully. She was, after all, a princess.

Upon their return to the palace, they went their separate ways and set to work. Clarisse attempted to work, while Joe proceeded to get to the bottom of this mystery. He made several calls; to the palace guards on duty that night, to the doctor (who was nowhere to be found), and the nursemaids. He found his answers limited. The only inconsistency was that some believed the Queen had given birth to a boy and some to a girl. That alone was cause for alarm.

Through some contrived business, the crown princess of Genovia had been stolen and replaced with what could only be a commoner’s child. That child had died…needlessly perhaps. There was only one person with enough influence to arrange such a switch -- besides the Queen herself. Who other than the king? But why?