‘I think the kitchen staff want to impress you,’ Cesar said.
‘Consider me impressed.’ Gabi grimaced. ‘I should have come out and thanked whoever brought it. I didn’t think.’
‘It’s OK. Daniella didn’t realise you were hiding.’
‘She just thought I was in the washroom—Maria would say that’s worse. I’m not sure royalty are supposed to use washrooms.’
She sat down opposite him. ‘This is incredible.’ A tantalising aroma of tangy lemon and thyme wafted up from her plate, where a portion of risotto was perfectly presented. In the centre of the table was a simple green salad. Gabi served herself and took a mouthful and closed her eyes in astonishment. ‘The dressing is sublime.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘I love it. I wish I could cook like this.’ She took another mouthful and looked at him. ‘Can you cook like this? I mean, does royalty get taught how to cook?’
‘It is not part of the royal curriculum, no. There are royal chefs who prepare every meal.’ He shrugged. ‘I do remember wanting to learn how to bake but I couldn’t convince anyone to show me how.’
‘Your parents?’
Cesar gave a small laugh. ‘My parents don’t work like that. You met them, albeit briefly. Can you imagine either of them baking cookies? I very much doubt either of them has even entered the royal kitchens, unless it was for some sort of publicity shot.’ He nodded. ‘I think once my mother did pose with Flavia and me with a bowl and a wooden spoon. In fact, I think that’s what triggered my desire to bake. The hope she’d actually make good.’
The words were matter-of-fact, said with a suggestion of lightness, but Gabi sensed an undercurrent of sadness, and an image of a young Cesar flashed across her brain. A small dark-haired boy who had truly hoped his mother would make good, make the publicity illusion into truth.
‘Wasn’t there anyone else? I mean, how does a royal childhood work?’
‘There were many nannies.’ Again there was a shadow in his eyes. ‘And a royal agenda devised by our parents. An agenda that did not include baking. The idea being we had more important things to do, and achieve. That it was our privilege and our duty to act for Aguilarez and the ability to bake a cake would hardly advance our country in any way.’
‘But that doesn’t sound like much...fun.’
‘Fun wasn’t a priority in our childhood.’
Gabi wondered if that was how her father had thought, understood more now why her mother had panicked, hadn’t wanted to bring her child up in the royal household, bound by royal rules.
‘Is that what you believe? How you would want to bring up your children? Because that isn’t my plan. I am going to be a hands-on parent and if my child wants to bake then my child will bake. And I don’t care if it advances Casavalle or not.’
‘I take it you know how to bake?’
‘I do. My Aunt Bea taught me, though she didn’t let me lick the spoon and it was what she called “functional baking”. So that I would be able to make the meals, make useful things.’ After Bea’s death Gabi had discovered a well-thumbed book on how to raise a child, including a section on functional baking. The find had touched her, made her realise anew that Bea and Peter had been thrown into a guardianship they had been truly bewildered by. ‘I always used to imagine, though, that my mother would have baked gooey chocolate creations with me, with sprinkles and icing and...’ Sometimes the image had been so clear she had almost been able to hear Sophia’s laughter. ‘Not that I am complaining. Functional baking is important too.’
‘It would be OK to complain.’ Cesar hesitated. ‘It must have been hard to lose your mother so young, however good your aunt and uncle were.’
‘I don’t really remember her, just a few elusive memories that I’m not even sure are true. And there are no photographs. I understand why now—she must have been worried about being recognised.’
‘And you had no idea who your father was.’
‘None. I know now that my aunt and uncle must have known—they can hardly have missed the fact that my mom married a king—but they maintained complete silence. All they told me was that my mother had never told them the identity of my father.’ They had rarely spoken of Sophia and, soon realising they didn’t like to discuss her mother, Gabi had stopped asking. Now she understood their reticence—the letter from her mother had explained that she had asked for the promise of secrecy, and Bea and Peter had maintained that promise to the end.
‘That must have been hard.’
Gabi nodded. ‘It was. In the end I made up a story; well, actually, I made up lots of stories. My father figured as a doctor, a soldier, a firefighter... Every hero in every book. Then every villain—I had him down as a criminal, a married man, et cetera, et cetera. Eventually I settled on a guy who couldn’t deal with the idea of parenthood.’ She lifted a hand to her face. ‘The worst thin
g was wondering if I’d passed him on the street, or if he was a customer in the shop. The realisation I wouldn’t have known him from Adam.’
Cesar studied her. ‘I think you would have. If Vincenzo had met you—there is a definite family resemblance.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘No, not really. I met him on formal occasions—he was a formal man. I am not sure if anyone knew him well. Perhaps your mother did, perhaps Maria did, but he wasn’t a man who welcomed or wished for closeness. But he was a good ruler—he and Maria were respected and liked throughout Casavalle.’
The words were a reminder of why they were sitting here, to consider the idea of a marriage. One that would be like Vincenzo and Maria’s—an alliance made in the hope of winning their people’s respect and liking. A marriage that offered respect and liking but not love. Though she believed that Maria and Vincenzo had achieved a closeness and a mutually supportive marriage.