Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The week turned around again, and Saturday’s dance lesson was looming large on my horizon; as in, minutes away. I changed into leggings and a loose top, grabbed my three pairs of dancing shoes; ballet, jazz and heels.

“Meredith!” grandmother greeted me as I walked into the foyer.

“Madame,” I said, sweeping her a curtsy.

“Very nice dear,” she complimented.

I’ve been practising.

It’s a kind of psychological thing at James; on her part only. I have nothing to do with him.

The better I get, the more he’ll fall in love with me.

You just keep telling yourself that, sweet-cheeks.

“Thank you Madame,” I replied, “I’ve been trying to practise.”

“Well, you haven’t been practising your dance, have you?” she asked.

“No Madame, I’d need a partner,” I replied.

“Madame Vennart is waiting for you in the ballroom.”

We walked together.

Grandma remained silent, so I decided to keet quiet as well.

The door was leaning open, warm late-summer sunlight streaming in through the windows. I smiled at the tiny specks of dust floating around; I’m sure Grandma would have rather blasted them to atoms for daring to float in the Royal domain.

Dare to float dust! Be free!!

…Why me?! Why god, what did I ever do to you?

Suddenly I felt a little sick when I saw the grand piano that had been wheeled into the hall. Next to it stood the familiar figure of Madame Vennart, a terror under normal situations, an absolute nightmare under bad.

“Madame Vennart,” I smiled painfully.

Again, I ask you; what did I do?

*gulp*

“Meredith,” she nodded.

An expression of slight discomfort, as if someone she really didn’t like was standing a few paces away, was always on Madame Vennart’s face. When I was younger, I used to think that she hated me, but when into my less innocent teen years, I formulated the idea that she had plastic surgery which went slightly wrong. I smacked myself mentally for the horrid thought. She did look positively hawk-like though; certainly rivalling my new head teacher, Mme Winthrope.

For heavens sake, she even carries a cane!

“Madame Vennart is to continue your tuition in dance,” Grandma explained, “You were a little rusty the other night.”

Oh, why thank you!

I thought I danced ok…

Ok just isn’t good enough anymore.

I nodded, trying to keep my smile on my face.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Grandma smiled at me as if she’d given me a treat.

“Young prince Philippe has agreed to partner you, in order to improve his own technique, but he will not be arriving for another…” Mme Vennart paused to consult her watch, “another forty-five minutes. So we will examine your posture.”

Oh dear…

“Ballet shoes for now,” Mme Vennart said, nodding at my collection.

I slipped them on and stood up straight.

“Take you position for a waltz,” she ordered.

I straightened my back, bending back my shoulders, head straight forward, arms out as if my hands were resting on a partner’s shoulder and other hand.

I winced as Mme’s cane poked me between the shoulders.

“Pull them further back!” she barked.

I pushed them as far back as they could go, which, as I was already stretching it, hurt a lot.

“Chin up!”

“Keep your buttocks tucked in!”

Ugly word, buttocks…

“Smile! You are not walking to your execution!”

No? Really?!

“Ah!” cried Mme Vennart, as I tried again to straighten my back fully whilst avoiding poking my hips to one side, or unflexing my shoulders.

*hopefully* Is she having a heart attack?

No such joy.

“Monsieur!” she cried again, sweeping away from me, “It is most kind of you.”

I wondered whether to keep up my posture, looking over my shoulder to see Philippe entering. I slacked my shoulders gratefully.

“Meredith!” cried Mme Vennart, “What do you think you are doing?!”

“I apologise Madame,” I muttered, contorting myself again.

Philippe smiled at me from across the room, hands in the pockets of his slacks.

Mme Vennart won’t like that!

“Hands out of your pockets please, monsieur!” she cried.

Philippe started, his hands flying out of his pockets as if he’d been bewitched.

“There will be no slacking in my class,” Mme Vennart continued, “No chewing of gum, or eating, drinking only in designated breaks, you do as I say or you leave the room. Understood?”

“Yes Madame,” Philippe gulped.

“Good,” she cried, snapping her cane on the floor, “Take your position for the waltz!”

Philippe started to walk over to me.

“Without Meredith!”

Philippe stopped mid-stride. Blinked, then took up the male position.

“Not bad,” she said, prodding his shoulders, “Pull them back.”

She paused momentarily, viewing her handiwork.

“It’ll do; take up your position together!”

I sighed in relief as I was allowed to slack for a few seconds. My shoulders ached like crazy; I’d forgotten how painful Mme Vennart could make dancing. Philippe raised his eyebrows at me as he took me in hold, as if to suggest that Mme Vennart was slightly insane.

Just slightly?

“And… dance!”

Just as my calves were beginning to go into melt-down, the door opened and James walked in. He stopped, and blinked at me and Philippe whirling around, then saw Mme Vennart, his mouth forming a small ‘o’ of understanding.

“And who are you, mousier?!” cried Mme Vennart.

James gulped visibly.

“Just came in the wrong door,” James gabbled.

“Well, I suggest you exit by said door immediately,” she hissed, “Unless you wish to dance as well?”

He could do with some lessons.

“No. No, I’m fine,” James said, exiting hurriedly.

“What are you two doing, standing there?! DANCE!”