The Grand Duchess Anticipates
The truth was, this was far from the first time I'd seen Rebecca sulk.
Think back to the very first time I met the Grand Duchess — hadn't I failed to notice how sensitive her mood was, driven her into a huff, and then drowned in guilt over it? Even back then, when we had barely known each other, I'd managed to set off her temper. Just how many times I'd witnessed that pouty expression of hers over the past three years hardly needed saying.
"…The Grand Duchess?"
"Yes… She says she can't even stand the sight of you…"
But this, too, was a first of its own. Never before had Rebecca refused to see me at all. Whenever the Grand Duchess's feelings were hurt, it had stopped at sulky expressions or ignoring my words. Being turned away at the door like this had never once happened before.
…Just how far gone is she?
I couldn't even gauge how badly I'd crossed her this time.
"Lady Rebecca… she does seem very angry, doesn't she?"
Seeing my expression turn grave, Dorothy seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation herself — judging by the worry in her voice as she spoke up.
"…Yeah. She does."
"Shall I prepare the strawberries, like always?"
Dorothy, asking whether to ready the strawberries as we always had. Between the two of us, "strawberries" was a code word — one whose meaning was precisely what the word itself described. You might ask what sort of nonsense that was. It was the truth all the same, because between me and Dorothy, "strawberries" meant the words we used to soothe a furious Rebecca's heart.
Suggesting we prepare the strawberries was one and the same as preparing to defuse the Grand Duchess's temper, and whenever we were in agreement, Dorothy would ready them and I would carry them to her — that was how we had always coaxed her back to good humor.
And then, someone might object: who on earth has a grudge melted away by a mere strawberry? What kind of absurd notion was that? I could understand that critic perfectly — because there had been a time when I thought exactly the same.
I had seen plenty of passages in The Crown Prince Wields a Sword describing Rebecca Valencia's love of strawberries — so many that readers left comments wondering whether the author wasn't running stealth strawberry endorsements through her character. Just how deep that love ran was abundantly clear from the novel itself.
But the Grand Duchess of Valencia I came to know in the flesh was a character utterly faithful to the original setting. Most of her sulks could be settled, at least in part, by nothing more than delivering strawberries. Watching that from up close always left me with the same question: was Rebecca a strawberry farmer in a past life?
In any case, her strawberry devotion was more earnest than anyone's, and strawberries had always been the cure for the Grand Duchess's wounded heart.
"…Well. I don't think strawberries are going to cut it this time."
A grim premonition told me that this time, strawberries alone wouldn't be enough. The irony was that I had no idea why she was angry in the first place, or why she wouldn't even see me — but three years of experience living alongside Rebecca were telling me that mere strawberries could not fix this.
"True… this is the first time she's ever said she can't bear the sight of you, Young Master…"
"…Hah."
A sigh escaped me all on its own. I was already frazzled from being unable to find any reason behind the Grand Duchess's behavior, and now Dorothy was agreeing with me on top of it. I hadn't the faintest idea what to do.
I deliberated for a long while, but no good plan came to mind.
"You must have worn yourself out coming all this way — shall I bring you some ice cream to refresh yourself?"
Perhaps feeling sorry for me as I agonized over how to appease her mistress, Dorothy suggested I rest for a bit with a dessert — and I moved to refuse, doubting anything like ice cream would go over well in this situation.
"No, it's fi—"
…Ice cream?
…right up until that simple word, ice cream, smacked me across the head.
"…Ah."
I had finally found it — a way to pacify a Grand Duchess sulking to the skies.
"Dorothy, might I borrow the kitchen for a bit?"
"…Let me speak with the head chef first."
The cooks of most noble households would have been aghast at the very idea of an outsider borrowing their kitchen — but not this one.
"…Did you say ice cream?"
"Yes. …Ice cream."
"What a truly remarkable idea, my lord."
"See? That's why I need you to help me make it."
"I'll help with whatever you need, Young Master Albert."
Having once won over House Valencia's head chef with my "strawberry cake," I was granted the use of the ducal kitchen without a hitch, and with the chef's assistance, the dessert meant to win Rebecca back was complete.
And now, it was time to put it into action.
Rebecca had been in a foul mood lately.
There was no particular reason for it. Her daily life hadn't changed in any real way. If a single thing had changed at all, it was only that her fiancé — who had once visited at least once every three days — hadn't come by in over a week. Surely nothing so trivial could sour her mood, and so the correct conclusion was that there was no special reason for her bad humor at all.
Such was she, in an inexplicably poor mood — and yet today, her mood was far worse than usual.
Because a short while ago, her maid Dorothy had brought word that Albert, her fiancé, had come to visit. The news that Albert had finally appeared after a week and a day had put her in a terrible humor, so she'd told Dorothy to send him away — that she couldn't stand the sight of him.
And as a result, Rebecca was now feeling just a little regretful.
"…Maybe I should have just told him to come in."
Because the endless repetition of her days had grown terribly dull. Preparations for the swiftly approaching Debutante, and the same lessons she'd always received as the next head of House Valencia. Her routine, repeating itself without a single thrill to break the monotony, never failed to leave her bored. It had been her fiancé who melted that boredom away, and with Albert absent, she could feel its weight all the more keenly.
But Rebecca could never, ever admit that. Not if it killed her. She, the future Duke of Valencia, bored out of her mind simply because her fiancé hadn't come to visit? And that fiancé, of all people — the one who did nothing but tease her? Absurd. Utterly absurd. Though in truth, no one knew better than Rebecca herself whether it was absurd or not. The Grand Duchess's pride was simply far too strong to ever concede the point.
And so today, too, she had finished her duties ages ago and lay sprawled across her bed, thinking of nothing at all.
Knock, knock—
"…Who is it?"
"It's Dorothy, my lady."
"What is it?"
"I brought you some ice cream, my lady — in case you were feeling warm."
It was still only March, and Rebecca couldn't have felt warm anywhere if she tried — but the moment ice cream was mentioned, she found herself wanting some.
"…Come in."
Creeeak—
Lying with her back to the door, she couldn't see exactly what was happening, but from the sound of it opening, Dorothy had apparently entered with her permission. And since no one could eat ice cream lying down, the Grand Duchess sat up in bed to see who had come in.
"…Why are you here…?"
"It has been some time, Grand Duchess."
Astonishingly(?), the person entering her room was not her maid Dorothy, but her fiancé, Albert — and the very instant she laid eyes on his face,
Flop—
she flopped straight back over, turning her back on him. Why she was angry, who could say — but angry at her fiancé she most certainly still was.
"…Please leave."
"I shall take my leave once I've delivered this."
But even at her command, Albert shamelessly declined to leave right away.
"…What is that, then?"
She was curious, after all — what could the fiancé who had stayed away a week and a day have brought with him? — and so she turned back around to look at Albert.
"As Dorothy mentioned a moment ago — ice cream."
What her fiancé had brought really was ice cream.
"…What's with the color?"
It was simply that, unlike every ice cream she had ever eaten, this one was red.
"It's strawberry ice cream."
"…Strawberry ice cream, you say?"
Her fiancé had even gone so far as to call it strawberry ice cream. Born the ducal house's only daughter, Rebecca had eaten her fair share of ice cream in her life — but never once had she seen ice cream made from strawberries. Who on earth would think to put fruit in ice cream?
And that question of hers was resolved, neat and clean, the moment Albert opened his mouth.
"Do you remember the strawberry cake I made for you once before?"
"…Ah."
"It works on much the same principle."
She remembered it, too. That had been the very first time she'd ever sulked at her fiancé — and the first, and so far only, time he had ever made something for her with his own two hands.
She had asked him for something similar a few times since.
"Too much of it is bad for your health."
Her fiancé had refused, hiding behind her own well-being as his excuse.
"…You made this yourself, too…?"
"I had a little help, but I made it myself this time as well."
And he'd made it with his own hands again, no less. Remembering just how delicious that strawberry cake had been, Rebecca found the strawberry ice cream sitting before her utterly impossible to resist — and the moment she reached for the spoon,
Smack—
her fiancé swatted her hand away.
"…What was that for?"
Naturally, she demanded to know what that was supposed to mean.
"Do you happen to remember how you ate that strawberry cake?"
"Of course I remember. You were feeding it to m—"
"Yes. Precisely."
"…"
Only after that sly reply did she finally understand what this man was after.
"I'll be feeding you this time as well."
At Albert's declaration that he would spoon it into her mouth just as he had before, she gave a small nod.
"…Do as you like."
Her heart seemed to be fluttering yet again — but surely that was anticipation for the strawberry ice cream she was about to taste, and not anticipation of being fed by her fiancé.
At least, that was what Rebecca believed.