sunshine, and, if things went well, she had no doubt that Joachim would come to visit her. Distance was clearly nothing to him – he’d even come to Russia overnight to visit her on the press tour. And if the Miami visits went well, and he invited her back . . . well, then,
maybe
she would allow herself to start thinking about the
possibility
that he might want to make her his Queen . . .
That was how Lori had envisaged the process – assuming, naturally, that they liked each other more and more with every visit, that the liking blossomed into something stronger. The oddest thing of all about the situation in which she, quite unexpectedly, found herself, was that she wasn’t even sure that the blossoming, as it were, had actually happened. She couldn’t actually
remember
Joachim telling her that he had fallen in love with her, that evening in the tower terrace of Schloss Schwanstein, the ugliest name in German for the prettiest one in English, Castle Swanstone. It was as lovely as its English name, not an adjective Lori had expected to use for a castle: she’d thought of them as being imposing, dominating, with castellations from which boiling oil could be poured on invaders, slits in towers for archers to rain down arrows on ditto, surrounded by a wide moat, barred by a huge clanking drawbridge.
But Herzoslovakia’s castles weren’t like that, not at all. They were beautiful, fairy-tale creations, perched on hills high over rivers with exquisite views over the countryside below, clustered with towers and turrets and balconies, designed in a Gothic Revival style but with nothing gloomy about their interiors at all; the rooms were charming, painted in light clear blues and creams and greens, furnished with delicate, priceless furniture, hung with gilt-framed watercolours and oil paintings of landscapes. Clanking suits of armour, displays of historic weapons and heavy dark portraits had been discreetly moved to attic storerooms by the Dowager Queen, whose taste was impeccable.
There was so much to admire in Herzoslovakia: the beauty of the tiny, mountainous country, the friendliness and affluence of its citizens; as a tax haven, Herzoslovakia’s wealth meant that there was full employment and more than enough money to go round. Joachim had taken her on a tour of the castles, stopping for a couple of days in each one, barely an hour’s drive between each – when, of course, they didn’t travel by river, on his private motorboat.
Each castle was prettier than the last, each suite of rooms reserved for her use more enchantingly decorated, and by the time they reached Schloss Schwanstein, Lori was in an absolute daze. Dinner that night, in the tower terrace, hundreds of candles in crystal sconces and candelabras providing the only illumination, gas flames flickering outside on the stone balcony in huge wrought-iron torches, had been utterly perfect: blinis with caviar, delicate curls of smoked salmon on golden beetroot canapés, tiny steamed dumplings, each topped with a dot of sour cream, all served on priceless, gold-edged, royal-crested china, vintage champagne from the royal cellars poured into crystal coupe glasses . . .
For once, she had said hell to her eating plan and the one-drink-a-night rule. A soft Hungarian red wine had followed the champagne, served with seared beef with foie gras and miniature puffed soufflé potatoes; then elderflower and champagne sorbet with Italian rosé dessert wine, Rosa Regale by Castello Banfi, in smaller crystal glasses from the vast matching set. By the time coffee came, in paper-thin gold-rimmed china demi-tasse cups, Lori’s head was swimming with enchantment. The string quartet at the far corner of the room, partially concealed behind a two-fold Chinese gilded screen to afford Joachim and Lori some privacy, were playing Borodin’s ridiculously romantic String Quartet No. 2 in D major, written to evoke the memory of the composer’s blissful courtship of his beloved
maybe
she would allow herself to start thinking about the
possibility
that he might want to make her his Queen . . .
That was how Lori had envisaged the process – assuming, naturally, that they liked each other more and more with every visit, that the liking blossomed into something stronger. The oddest thing of all about the situation in which she, quite unexpectedly, found herself, was that she wasn’t even sure that the blossoming, as it were, had actually happened. She couldn’t actually
remember
Joachim telling her that he had fallen in love with her, that evening in the tower terrace of Schloss Schwanstein, the ugliest name in German for the prettiest one in English, Castle Swanstone. It was as lovely as its English name, not an adjective Lori had expected to use for a castle: she’d thought of them as being imposing, dominating, with castellations from which boiling oil could be poured on invaders, slits in towers for archers to rain down arrows on ditto, surrounded by a wide moat, barred by a huge clanking drawbridge.
But Herzoslovakia’s castles weren’t like that, not at all. They were beautiful, fairy-tale creations, perched on hills high over rivers with exquisite views over the countryside below, clustered with towers and turrets and balconies, designed in a Gothic Revival style but with nothing gloomy about their interiors at all; the rooms were charming, painted in light clear blues and creams and greens, furnished with delicate, priceless furniture, hung with gilt-framed watercolours and oil paintings of landscapes. Clanking suits of armour, displays of historic weapons and heavy dark portraits had been discreetly moved to attic storerooms by the Dowager Queen, whose taste was impeccable.
There was so much to admire in Herzoslovakia: the beauty of the tiny, mountainous country, the friendliness and affluence of its citizens; as a tax haven, Herzoslovakia’s wealth meant that there was full employment and more than enough money to go round. Joachim had taken her on a tour of the castles, stopping for a couple of days in each one, barely an hour’s drive between each – when, of course, they didn’t travel by river, on his private motorboat.
Each castle was prettier than the last, each suite of rooms reserved for her use more enchantingly decorated, and by the time they reached Schloss Schwanstein, Lori was in an absolute daze. Dinner that night, in the tower terrace, hundreds of candles in crystal sconces and candelabras providing the only illumination, gas flames flickering outside on the stone balcony in huge wrought-iron torches, had been utterly perfect: blinis with caviar, delicate curls of smoked salmon on golden beetroot canapés, tiny steamed dumplings, each topped with a dot of sour cream, all served on priceless, gold-edged, royal-crested china, vintage champagne from the royal cellars poured into crystal coupe glasses . . .
For once, she had said hell to her eating plan and the one-drink-a-night rule. A soft Hungarian red wine had followed the champagne, served with seared beef with foie gras and miniature puffed soufflé potatoes; then elderflower and champagne sorbet with Italian rosé dessert wine, Rosa Regale by Castello Banfi, in smaller crystal glasses from the vast matching set. By the time coffee came, in paper-thin gold-rimmed china demi-tasse cups, Lori’s head was swimming with enchantment. The string quartet at the far corner of the room, partially concealed behind a two-fold Chinese gilded screen to afford Joachim and Lori some privacy, were playing Borodin’s ridiculously romantic String Quartet No. 2 in D major, written to evoke the memory of the composer’s blissful courtship of his beloved
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