Page 3 of The Harvest Homecoming

“You look like that portrait of Grandfather in the main portraiture hall. The one where he was painted sitting on top of that damn polo horse of his,” Frode commented, the astounded look gone from his handsome face.

“Language,” Mama said once more. “He does look more like your father’s side of the family with the lighter hair. What led you to do this, Harold?”

“I wanted a change,” I said, lowering my backside into a nicely padded chair as the sweet aroma of Mama’s beloved plumeria wafted around me. She studied me closely but merely nodded. The woman was used to a shock to the system. “Where are your lovely wives?”

“Home sick with a grisly head cold,” Frode replied while dropping a spoonful of clotted cream onto his scone as the tea steeped in his cup. He was quite exacting about his tea, much like Lady Alva, but she was British, and he grew up in a castle where coffee ruled the roost. “Even the nanny has it—nasty bug—the baby is miserable. Snotty and teething.”

He sneezed. We all gave him dark looks.

“And Alva? Is she here?” I enquired nonchalantly while lifting a warm scone from the tray with silver tongs. Always best to seem unconcerned so as not to appear overly interested. First rule of royal snobbery is to be placidly dull and composed. Something I generally failed at but was able to pull out of my childhood lessons when needed.

“She is, yes. She’s having some trouble with her courses, so she’s taking a nap.” Ivar rooted about on the platter for a maple-oat scone then coated it with cream before dropping a glob of jam on top. Proper Devon method taught to him by his lovely lady wife, I was sure.

“I didn’t know she had returned to college,” I said. Ivar looked as if he were chewing on the wrong end of a skunk. Then it hit me. “Her courses? Good Lord, Ivar, have we just dropped into an episode of Bridgerton?” I asked with a snicker while piling on my jam first and topping it with cream. Just to be contrary. Frode took note of my Cornish scone dressing with a cocked eyebrow. “Next thing, Mama will be wearing stays and fanciful wigs.”

“Like fuck,” my mother mumbled.

“Language,” we three boys chided, which got a snicker and a blush from the queen.

“Can’t you just say she’s got cramps or whatever womanly ailment is plaguing her?” I asked as Ivar turned the same shade as the raspberry jam.

“Personally, I appreciate Ivar not being coarse.” Mama eyed my scone with a sigh but carried on in the face of the sacrilege I had just committed. God, I wish Anders were here. He’d be just as prone to mangle his scone as I was. “I’m sure Alva will be present for dinner. As will your father, so we must tend to the harvest festival details with speed. Harold, do you want tea or shall I ring for someone to bring you coffee?”

“No, don’t run the staff for one cup of coffee. Tea is fine.” I turned from Mama to Ivar, sipping his tea silently. “Will Alva be staying for a few days?”

He lowered his cup, eyebrows tangled, to stare at me. “Why all the interest in my wife?” I opened my mouth to reply, but Frode leaped in as was his way. Crown prince and all that.

“Can’t I be curious as to the welfare of my lovely sisters-in-law? Perhaps I’m merely interested in life in Kensington or the latest gossip from the United Kingdom.” I stirred a spoonful of sugar into my tea while visually daring the crown prince to say something snide. Which, of course, being Frode, he immediately leapt to the wrong conclusion. I loved my brothers, truly I did. They were quite liberal for the most part and grand allies for the LGBTQ community as well as other causes near and dear to my heart, but sometimes Frode could slip back to pompous future king with frightening ease.

“Harold, please don’t tell us you’ve gone and gotten tangled up in that affair with Duke Cardigan-Marchmont?” Frode asked, making Mama glance my way with crinkled royal brows.

“No. Why would you even assume such a thing?” I was rightfully offended.

“Shall we say that your reputation for scandal precedes you?” Frode flung out.

“Oh. Well, yes, I can’t argue that in the past I’ve been known to get into a few tiny mishaps now and again, but—”

“Tiny mishaps?” Ivar chimed up now that his embarrassment over saying the word period had fled. Nothing eases discomfiture like being able to flay your younger brother. “You’ve been caught in a number of risqué situations that the crown has had to rush to rectify.”

“You’re a rectify,” I grumbled, and that was when Mama stepped into things.

“Enough, boys. Harold, perhaps if you took time away from your social schedule and returned to Östermon periodically, you would be better informed of how your sisters-in-law and nephews are doing,” Mama stated with a directness that meant she was serious now. As if I didn’t know she was speaking about me even though she was cutting into her scone with delicate precision.

“They don’t live in Östermon, Mama. Ivar and Alva live in the UK most of the year. Frode and his happy brood reside in Denmark,” I hurried to say as I pointed my jammy knife at my brothers. “And Anders is in the US, so my being based in Norway seems to be in line with what the others do.”

“Frode lives in Denmark for the skiing season. Then he returns to Östermon for the rest of the year to serve the crown as the heir. His sons will be educated here as you boys were until they reach college age, then they will matriculate to a good university somewhere in Europe. As for Ivar, he lives in the United Kingdom due to Alva’s inheritance of her father’s earldom but returns home every other month.” Mama gave me that look that said ‘top that, you little brat’ then returned to cutting her scone into small bits.

I shot Ivar a glower. “Ass kisser,” I whispered.

“Language,” Mama said, lifting her sight from her scone to me. “Now, may we please return to the matter at hand: the autumn festival. This is our two hundredth festival, which in and of itself makes it important. The final day of the harvest fete is also your father’s and yours,” and here she pointed her fork at me, “birthdays. Your father will be seventy this year, so I wish to have a grand party here at the castle as well as to arrange a fitting countrywide celebration.” I sighed while eyeing my scone. “Harold, there’s no need for such dramatics. Sharing your birthday with your father is quite special.”

“He dislikes me,” I reminded her.

“No, Harold, he does not dislike you. He dislikes the things you do and the splashy way you seem to revel in being a charming turd.”

My brothers tittered into their tea. Asses. “Fine, fine, I’m not going to argue about it. I didn’t fly here to fight over Papa’s sourness toward Anders and me for simply being who we are.”

Mama sighed this time. Laying down her silverware, she turned to me to speak when someone slipped into the solar. The same footman who had announced me.