When a Food Lover Meets Prince Julian

I was reaching for a second slice of pear tart when Prince Julian set down his fork. The luncheon had been arranged to celebrate the restoration of Bellweather Hall, a stone building the royal family had converted into a public arts center. I'd come as a guest of the foundation, not because I belonged to the royal circle. My family had once possessed a title and three drafty estates; now we possessed one respectable house, a dwindling account, and a reputation for remembering how things used to be. I had been invited because I wrote about food for the Bellacourt Ledger. I'd expected a polite afternoon and a complimentary meal. I had not expected the roast chicken to be so good. "You've had enough," my aunt Lydia murmured beside me. "I've had enough to know I want more." "That is not what people mean." I took another bite of tart. Across the table, Julian watched me. His face was pale beneath the tall windows, and his dark suit hung loosely at the shoulders. The palace papers called him disciplined, reserved, and tireless. At luncheon, I saw a young man who had pushed the food around his plate until the sauce had dried at the edges. His fork moved once. He cut a small piece of chicken and lifted it to his mouth. The room noticed. I tried not to look at him. That only made me more aware of the silence. Julian chewed, swallowed, and took another bite. Then he set the fork down. Conversation crept back into the room. Someone laughed too loudly. The foundation chair asked me about my column, and I answered while avoiding the prince's eyes. When the meal ended, I found him waiting near the doors to the garden. "Ms. Bell," he said. "Your Highness." "I'm told you write about food." "I write about restaurants. I eat everywhere." "Is there a difference?" "Not when I'm paying the bill." One corner of his mouth shifted. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was the first thing I'd seen him do that wasn't part of a public expression. "I had two bites," he said. "I saw." "I was hoping you'd pretend you didn't." "I could have. But I'm a poor liar when I've had a good lunch." His gaze dropped briefly to the tart plate I still carried. "Did you enjoy it?" "I did. The crust needed more salt, but the pears were perfect." A palace aide approached before he could answer. She introduced herself as Mrs. Vale, the royal household's director of private operations. She wore a charcoal suit and the expression of someone who had already organized the day into manageable pieces. "Your Highness has another appointment," she said. Then she turned to me. "Would you be willing to discuss a temporary position with the household?" "For what?" "A dining companion." I looked at Julian. He did not look embarrassed. He looked as if he'd already regretted asking, but planned to remain in the room until I answered. "Is this a medical appointment?" I asked. "No," he said. "My physician is handling the medical side." "Then what would I be doing?" "Eating with me," he said. "Talking about something besides what I'm eating." Mrs. Vale folded her hands. "The arrangement would be private, of course." I thought of every woman at that luncheon who had watched him take those two bites. I thought of the way a simple meal had become a public event. "I'll consider it," I said. Julian nodded once. "That's all I'm asking." Mrs. Vale handed me a card with a number and a palace crest. I put it in my purse beside a receipt for the tart. By the time I reached the front steps, three guests had already asked whether I'd noticed the prince eating. I gave them the same answer. "I noticed the tart." ***** The palace called the next morning. I took the meeting in a private dining room at the west wing, where the curtains were open and the table had only two place settings. Mrs. Vale sat at one end with a slim folder in front of her. Julian sat at the other, without a jacket. "The proposed arrangement is six weeks," Mrs. Vale said. "Three shared meals each week. You would be paid at your usual consulting rate." "I don't have a usual consulting rate." "Then you may name one." I glanced at Julian. "Do you want a companion, or someone who can make this look like progress?" "I want company," he said. "If the palace wants something else, the palace can hire someone else." Mrs. Vale's expression did not change. I noticed she had put a palace press release beside the contract. "What's that?" I asked. "A draft statement. We would not issue anything without your consent." I read the first sentence. It described me as a "trusted culinary friend" who would join the prince for informal meals as he returned to a healthy routine. "I'm not his friend yet," I said. "And I'm not a doctor." "It's an early draft," Mrs. Vale said. "Then it should be easy to change." Julian lifted his glass of water. "What would you change it to?" I thought about the word healthy. It made his appetite sound like a public project, like a garden renovation or a new wing. "Nothing. There doesn't need to be a statement." Mrs. Vale placed her fingertips on the draft. "The public has noticed the prince's absences from several functions. Silence tends to invite speculation." "Then tell them he has a private medical team." "That would be misleading." "Would it?" Julian didn't answer for her. He watched me, waiting. I put down the paper. "I'll do the meals. No photographs. No announcement. No comments about what he eats or doesn't eat. And I won't be asked to encourage him to finish anything." "Agreed," Julian said. Mrs. Vale made a note. "I'll include those terms." I signed after she changed the draft contract. My fee was higher than I'd expected, and the work was three days a week. It was also temporary. At lunch, Julian stared at a bowl of soup as if it had arrived with an accusation attached. I ordered the same soup. "Do you have to match me?" he asked. "No. I like leek." "I'm not going to eat it because you're eating it." "I wasn't aware I'd asked you to." He looked at the bowl again. I broke a piece of bread and dipped it into mine. For a while, we talked about restaurants. I told him the worst dining room in Bellacourt was a new place with excellent seafood and chairs designed to punish the human spine. He told me the palace kitchens made the best toast and the worst coffee. He ate one spoonful of soup. I kept talking. By the time the meal ended, his bowl was still mostly full. Mine was empty, and I had ordered a second piece of bread. It felt like an ordinary lunch. That was why I came back.