by Nina Milne
Further silence, and then Marcus rose to his feet, an enigmatic look on his face. ‘I suggest that is the end of this special council meeting.’
As everyone filed out Frederick ran a hand down his face and turned as his chief advisor approached. Frederick shook his head. ‘Not now, Marcus. I can’t take any more wedding advice.’
The dark-haired man gave a half-smile. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Now, that I don’t believe.’
‘You should.’ Marcus eyed him. ‘That is the first time since your ascension to the throne that I have seen you stand up for something you believe in.’
‘Rubbish. I have stood in this room and fought to convince councillors to support education and tax reform, to close the casinos...’
‘I get that. But those were all Axel’s policies. This is your marriage.’
‘Axel would have agreed that I am doing the right thing.’
‘Then maybe you and Axel had more in common than I realised.’
For a second his chief advisor’s words warmed him—but only for a fleeting second. If Marcus knew the truth he’d never use such words.
Frederick rose to his feet before the urge to confess overcame common sense and tried to rid himself of the grubby feel of deceit.
‘Frederick? I’ll support you in this, but you will need to make this work. You need to win the public round.’
‘I know.’
Luckily, he knew the perfect person to help with that.
* * *
Sunita stared down at the diamond ring that sparkled and glistened and weighted her finger. She looked around the apartment that appeared opulent yet felt oppressive, with its heavy faded gold curtains and the bowls of flowers that, though magnificent, emanated a cloying, gloom-laden scent.
These were showrooms—there should be signs and information leaflets to outline the names of the rich and famous who had stayed within these walls, to document the lives of the painters who had created the looming allegorical creations that adorned them.
The furniture was decorative—but the stripes of the claw-footed chaise longue almost blinded her, and the idea of sitting on it was impossible. As for the bedroom—she’d need a stepladder to get up into a bed that, conversely, seemed to have been made for someone at least a foot smaller than she was.
Well, there was no way she would let Amil live in a showroom, so she needed to make it into a home.
She started to unpack—hung her clothes in the wardrobe, took comfort from the feel of the fabrics, the splash of the colours, every item imbued with memories.
She halted at a knock on the door.
Spinning round, she saw Frederick framed in the doorway, and to her annoyance her heart gave a little pit-pat, a hop, skip and a jump.
‘Hi.’
‘Sorry, I did knock on the main door.’
‘That’s fine. How did the meeting go?’
‘As well as could be expected. The council understand this marriage. But we need to get the publicity right to prevent a public backlash.’
Sunita moved away from the wardrobe. ‘OK. Let’s brainstorm.’
Her mind whirred as they moved into the lounge and perched on two ridiculously uncomfortable upholstered chairs.
‘We need to make sure the people understand why we have left Amil in India—that it is simply so we can prepare a home for him. I could talk to the local press about my plans to renovate these apartments and the state apartments. I also suggest that before Amil arrives we go on a tour of some of Lycander, so it’s clear that I am interested in the country—not just the crown. I won’t accept any modelling contracts straight away.’
Even though her agent’s phone was already ringing off the proverbial hook.
He rose to his feet, looked down at her with a sudden smile that set her heart off again.
‘Let’s start now.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll take you on a tour of an olive grove.’
‘One of yours?’
For a moment he hesitated, and then he nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll arrange transport and press coverage.’
‘I’ll get changed into appropriate clothes for touring an olive grove.’ In fact she knew the very dress—a long, floaty, lavender-striped sun dress.
A shot of anticipation thrilled through her.
Stop. This was a publicity stunt—not a romantic jaunt. She had to get a grip. This marriage was an alliance that Frederick had ‘brokered’—a word he had used in this very room a mere hour before.
The problem was, however hard she tried—and she’d tried incredibly hard—that anticipation refused to be suppressed by logic or any other device she could come up with.
Perhaps it was simply to do with the glorious weather, the cerulean blue sky, the hazy heat of the late August sun whose rays kissed and dappled the rolling hills and plains of the Lycander countryside. She could only hope it was nothing to do with the man who sat beside her in the back of the chauffeured car.
‘So, where exactly are we going?’
‘The place where it all started—the first olive grove I owned. It was left to me by a great-uncle when I was twenty-one. I visited on a whim and—kaboom!—the whole process fascinated me. The family who lived there were thrilled as my great-uncle had had no interest in the place—they taught me all about the business and that’s how Freddy Petrelli’s Olive Oil came into being. I expanded, bought up some smaller businesses, consolidated, and now our oil is stocked worldwide.’
‘Are you still part of the company?’
‘I’m still on the board, but by necessity I have had to delegate.’
‘That’s pretty impressive—to take one rundown olive grove and turn it into a multi-million-dollar business in a few years.’
‘You turned yourself into one of the world’s most sought-after supermodels in much the same time-frame. That’s pretty impressive too.’
‘Thank you—but it didn’t feel impressive at the time.’ Back then she’d been driven. ‘I needed to succeed—I would not let my family see me fail. I wanted them to know that they had been wrong about me. I wanted to show them I was my mother’s daughter and proud of it.’
At every photo shoot, she’d imagined their faces, tinged a shade of virulent green as they opened a magazine to see Sunita’s face.
‘That’s understandable—and kudos to you for your success. You have my full admiration and, although it may not be politically correct, I hope they choked on envy every time they saw your picture.’
She couldn’t help but laugh as a sudden warmth flooded her—it had been a long time since anyone had sounded so protective of her.
Before she could respond further the car came to a halt—and right after that they were mobbed. Or that was what it felt like. Once she had alighted from the car she realised the ‘mob’ actually consisted of four people—a middle-aged couple, a youth and a young girl—all of whom broke into simultaneous speech.
‘The crop has been excellent this year. The olives—they will be the best yet. And last year’s olive oil—the gods have blessed it, Freddy!’
‘It has been too long, Frederick, too long—how can you have not been here for so long? And why didn’t you tell me of this visit earlier? I would have prepared your favourite dishes. Now. Bah... All we have is what I have had time to prepare.’
‘Thanks so much for the links to the bikes. Oil, gears, helmets...’
‘Frederick, I’ve missed you! Why haven’t you visited?’
There was no mistaking the family’s happiness at seeing him, and as Sunita watched Frederick contend with the barrage of comments his smile flashed with a youthful boyishness.
‘Pepita, Juan, Max, Flo—I’d like to introduce you to Sunita...my fiancée.’
For a moment the silence felt
heavy, and Sunita could feel her tummy twist, and then Pepita stepped forward.
‘Welcome, Sunita. It is lovely that Frederick has brought you here. We have all been reading the papers—every article. The little bambino looks adorable.’
As she spoke Pepita swept them forward towards a whitewashed villa. Terracotta tiles gleamed in the sunshine and trees shaded the courtyard outside.
‘Come—lunch is all ready, Alberto, sort out the drinks. Flo, set the table, Max, come and help me serve.’
‘Can I help?’ asked Sunita.
‘No, no, no. You and Frederick go and sit.’
Within minutes, amidst much debate and chat, food appeared. A bottle of wine was opened, tantalising smells laced the air and Pepita beamed.
‘Come and serve yourselves. Frederick, you have lost weight—I want you to eat. They are not your favourite dishes, but they are still good.’
‘Pepita, everything you cook is good.’
Sunita shook her head. ‘Nope. Everything you cook is amazing.’
It truly was. The table was laden with a variety of dishes. Bite-sized skewers that held tangy mozzarella, luscious tomatoes that tasted of sunshine and basil. Deep-fried golden rounds of cheese tortellini. Freshly baked bread with a pesto and vinegar dip that made her tastebuds tingle. Baked asparagus wrapped in prosciutto. And of course bowls of olives with a real depth of zing.
But what was truly amazing was the interplay between Frederick and the family—to see him set aside his role of ruler, to see him morph back to the man he had been before tragedy had intervened and changed his life path.
There was conversation and laughter, the clatter of cutlery, the taste of light red wine, the dapple of sunshine through the leaves causing a dance of sunbeams on the wooden slats of the table.
Until finally everyone was replete and this time Sunita insisted. ‘I’ll help clear.’
Frederick rose as well, but Pepita waved him down. ‘Stay. Drink more wine. I want to talk to your fiancée alone.’
A hint of wariness crossed his face, but clearly he didn’t feel equal to the task of intervention. So, plates in hand, Sunita followed Pepita to a whitewashed kitchen, scented by the fresh herbs that grew on the windowsill. Garlic hung from the rafters, alongside copper pots and pans.
‘It is good to see Frederick here,’ Pepita ventured with a sideways glance. ‘And now he is a father.’
‘Yes.’ Sunita placed the plates down and turned to face the older woman. ‘I know you must be angry at what I did, but—’
‘It is not my place to be angry—this is a matter for you to sort out with Frederick...a matter between husband and wife. I want to tell you that I am worried about him. Since his brother’s death we have barely seen him—all he does now is work. I know that he avoids us. There is a demon that drives him and you need to get rid of it.’
‘I... Our marriage isn’t going to be like that, Pepita...’
‘Bah! You plan to spend your lives together, yes? Then that is your job.’
Her head spun as the enormity of Pepita’s words sank in. She was planning to spend her life with Frederick—her life. She wouldn’t have another one; this was it.
Closing her eyes, she forced her thoughts to centre, to concentrate on the here and now. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she heard herself say, wanting to soothe the other woman’s worry.
* * *
Frederick looked up as Sunita emerged from the house. Her face was slightly flushed from the sun, her striped dress the perfect outfit for a sunny day. Her expression looked thoughtful, and he couldn’t help but wonder what Pepita had said—though he was wise enough to have no intention of asking. He suspected he might not like the answer.
Guilt twanged at the paucity of time he had given to this family—people he felt closer to than his ‘real’ family.
He turned to Juan. ‘Is it all right if I take Sunita on a tour?’
‘Why are you asking me? It is your grove, Frederick—I just tend it for you. Go—show your beautiful lady the most beautiful place in the world.’
Sunita grinned up at him as they made their way towards the fields. ‘They are a lovely family.’
‘That they are.’
‘And it’s good to see your royal authority in action.’
‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere—but you’re right. Pepita wouldn’t recognise royal authority if it rose up and bit her. To her I am still the twenty-one-year-old they taught the olive oil business. Right here.’
Sunita gave a small gasp, her face animated as she gazed ahead to where majestic lines of evergreen trees abounded. Olives clustered at the ends of branches clad with silver leaves that gleamed in the sunlight.
‘The colour of those leaves—it’s like they’re threaded with real silver.’
‘That’s actually the colour of the underside of the leaf. When it’s hot the leaves turn light-side up to reflect the sun. When it’s cold they turn grey-green side up to absorb the sun.’
‘That’s pretty incredible when you think about it.’
‘The whole process is incredible. The olives are growing at the moment. They won’t be ready to harvest for another few months. You should be here for the harvest. It’s incredible. The green table olives get picked in September, October, then the ones we use for oil from mid-November, when they are bursting with oil. It is exhausting work. You basically spread a cloth under the trees to catch the olives and then you hit the trees with sticks. The harvest then gets carted off to the mills—which is equally fascinating. But I won’t bore you with it now.’
‘You aren’t boring me. Keep going. Truly.’
Her face registered genuine interest, and so as they walked he talked and she listened. They inhaled the tang of the olives mingled with the scent of honeysuckle carried on the gentle breeze, revelled in the warmth of the sun and the lazy drone of bees in the distance.
It was impossible not to feel at peace here. Impossible not to note Sunita’s beauty—her dark hair shining with a raven sheen in the sunlight, the classic beauty of her face enhanced by the surroundings—and it took all his willpower not to kiss her. That would be a bad move.
She looked up at him. ‘I can see why you fell in love with this place—it has a timeless quality.’
‘A few of these trees have been here for centuries.’
‘And in that time history has played out...generations of people have walked these fields, beaten the trees with sticks, experienced joy and sadness and the full gamut of emotion in between. It gives you perspective.’ She gave him a sideways glance and took a quick inhalation of breath. ‘Maybe you should come here more often.’
‘Because you think I need perspective?’
‘Because Pepita misses you.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘No, but it’s pretty obvious. I’d guess that you miss them too.’
‘I don’t have time to miss them. In the same way I don’t have time to come down here—my days in the olive oil industry are over, and I’ve accepted that.’
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t visit more often.’ She stopped now and turned to face him, forced him to halt as well. ‘No one would grudge you some down-time. And this place means something to you.’
That was the trouble—this place took him off his game, distracted him from his mission, reminded him of a time untainted by guilt, of the man he had once been and could never be again. When Axel had been alive.
Yet he had brought Sunita here today—why? The reason smacked into him. He’d succumbed to temptation—one more day of ‘just Frederick and Sunita’. Foolish. ‘Just Frederick and Sunita’ didn’t exist.
‘Yes, it does. It represents the past. A part of my life that is over. For good.’
Reality was the crown of Lycander and the path he had set himself. Axel had die
d—had been denied the chance to rule, to live, to marry, to have children. The only thing Frederick could do now was honour his memory—ensure his vision was accomplished. Ensure the monarchy was safe and Lycander prospered.
‘It’s time to get back to the palace.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two weeks later
SUNITA GAZED AROUND the transformed apartments with satisfaction. It hadn’t been easy, but the spindly chairs of discomfort, the antique non-toddler-friendly glass tables, the dark gloomy pictures were all gone—and she didn’t care if they were by museum-worthy artists. Mostly it hadn’t been easy because of the intense levels of disapproval exhibited by nearly every single member of staff she’d asked for help.
In truth, Sunita quite simply didn’t get it—she hadn’t expected instant love or loyalty, but this condescension hidden behind a thin veneer of politeness was both horrible and familiar. It made her feel worthless inside—just as she had in her stepmother’s home.
Giselle Diaz, the housekeeper, looked down her aristocratic nose at her, Sven Nordstrom, chief steward, somehow managed to convey utter horror, and the more junior members of staff had taken their cue from their superiors. Whilst they listened to Sunita’s instructions, they did so with a frigid politeness that made her quake.
But she’d stuck to her guns, had ransacked the palace for real items of furniture, and tucked away in nooks and crannies she’d discovered some true treasures.
Old overstuffed armchairs, ridiculously comfortable sofas...and now she and Amil had a home, a haven.
Sunita gazed at her son. They had brought him back from Mumbai ten days before and he had settled in with a happiness she could only envy. With a smile, he crawled across the floor and she scooped him up onto her lap.
‘What do you think, sweetheart?’ She showed him two different fabric swatches. ‘Do you like this one or this one? For your new nursery when we move to the state apartments.’
‘Dabadabad!’ Amil said chattily.
‘Shall we ask Daddy? That’s a good idea, isn’t it?’
Frederick would arrive at any moment—every day without fail he was there for Amil’s breakfast and tea, and for bedtime. Otherwise he worked.
