ROLAND TRIED TO LOOK CONSERVATIVE. He had left his elegant silk shirts in the closet, choosing instead a more conventional shirt of ordinary white linen. He ignored his trendy brocaded jackets in favor of plain gray homespun. He left off all his jewelry and wore the same simple belt buckle and black boots that his father and uncles favored. He had even considered cutting his long hair, but eventually decided just to get it trimmed and tie it in a ponytail, which he then tucked under the back of his collar. He did his best to make a good impression, that of a serious, mature businessman, and now, sitting at the long conference table with his relatives, he realized that he had failed utterly.
“Caraway seeds,” his Aunt Agatha was saying. She was the oldest of the dozen Westfield family members seated around the long conference table, three years older than her husband, and although everyone pretended not to know that, she led every meeting. Her voice was absolutely flat and expressionless, carrying no hint of the disdain that Roland knew she was feeling, the same disdain she showed for all his ideas. Of course, she had never actually flat-out rejected any of his ideas. She would say something like, “We find your ideas interesting,” or “We’ll consider your proposal carefully,” or sometimes just “I see.” This was going the same way.
“Seeded rye bread,” said Roland brightly. He was trying to keep a positive tone, hoping the enthusiasm would be contagious, but a note of desperation was starting to creep into his voice. “The richness of rye bread blended with a subtle hint of caraway…”
“Do people eat a lot of caraway seed, Roland?”
“Not per se, no. But research shows that when mixed with rye dough…”
“You seem to be doing a lot of research with seeds, Roland.” His Uncle Jeffrey flipped through a stack of old proposals that he had brought with him. All of them had been written by Roland, all had been rejected at previous meetings. “Poppy seeds on hard rolls, sesame seeds on buns, lemon muffins with…” He scanned the proposal. “Poppy seeds again.”
“All those products did very well in the test markets,” said Roland. “As did these.” He had prepared sample loaves of bread, which were now sitting in covered baskets in the center of the conference table. None of the committee members had bothered to touch them.
“And now rye bread with caraway seeds,” said his Aunt Agatha. She poked at a basket, pushing it down the table, away from her. “Is there perhaps some reason for this obsession with seeds, Roland?”
“The reason is sales,” said Roland. “Sales of sliced bread have been flat…” It was the wrong thing to say. Expressions hardened all around the table. His family was not prepared to face bad news. He tried to recover. “I’m just saying that the movement toward natural foods is growing. We need to give the health food people a product they can get behind. Seeds, nuts, berries, they love that stuff. By adding seeds to our products we can…”
“I see,” said Aunt Agatha.
“Roland,” interrupted his Uncle Stimson. “I hate to belabor the ludicrously obvious, but bread is made from seeds. That’s what flour is, finely ground seeds of wheat and rye. It doesn’t need more seeds.”
“Although we do find your ideas interesting,” said Aunt Agatha.
“Don’t be discouraged, Roland,” said his Uncle Jeffrey. “You may rest assured that we’ll consider your proposal carefully. Now, to the next item of business.”
And that was it. The conversation turned to pricing structures and the cost of flour. Roland collected his papers and departed the conference room. He left the baskets behind. His father excused himself from the group and followed him. At the end of the hallway he caught up with his son and put an arm around his shoulder. “Roland,” he said. “I want to tell you again how much I appreciate your efforts. We all appreciate your efforts.”
“They don’t appreciate my efforts, Dad. They don’t even listen.”
“It’s a complicated business, son. They’ve been at all their lives. It take time to earn their confidence.”
We don’t have time, Roland thought. Not the way the sales of sliced bread are falling. We’ll be bankrupt in two years if this keeps on. He didn’t bother to say this. He had said it too many times already.
His father seemed to read his thoughts. “I know, Roland. Sales will recover. We’ve been through downturns before. Truthfully, the best thing you can do for the family right now is to go ahead with this marriage. A connection to the royal family will help business more than you can imagine. We’ve worked very hard on this, Roland, for a very long time. We’re counting on you to do your part.”
“Do what part? Dad, I’m the groom. All I have to do is show up with a ring and a best man. The bride and her mother do all the work.” They left the building. It was still before noon, a cool, clear, crisp day, and traffic was heavy. They stood on the edge of the street, waiting for a space to clear among the wagons and rumbling carts.
“That’s not true, Roland,” his father said, once they had crossed the street. “Don’t underestimate your role in this. The groom has a lot of important responsibilities. He has to—um—buy a ring, for example. And choose a best man. And then he has to—uh—show up. Okay, maybe he doesn’t have a lot of responsibilities, but they’re important responsibilities. In fact,” his father continued, warming to his theme, “showing up is really the key to the whole marriage ceremony.”
“Yes, all right, fine,” said Roland. They stopped in front of a Westfield Bakery. It was one that Roland had been given personal charge of. “Ring, best man, show up. Got it. You can count on me, Dad. I won’t let the family down.”
They exchanged pleasantries, then Roland went up the stairs to his office. Rows of books, covering all aspects of cookery, lined the walls. On one side of the door hung a painting of Agatha Teasdale, who was said to have invented the dumpling. The other side held a portrait of Primus Colazius, the philosopher who first postulated a connection between bacon and eggs. A small stove kept the room warm and held a teakettle. As a gentleman, he was forced to refrain from actually taking part in the baking process—the guilds would have a fit if he tried—but an office over a bakery gave him as much control as he could maintain over his test loaves. Even now, the room was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. Baskets of loaves—wheat, rye, honey nut oatmeal—awaited his approval. Stacks of carefully handwritten recipes stood on his desk, with notes written in both margins. He picked one up. It was a recipe for rye bread. The previous week he had scrawled across it with a charcoal stick, “a sure winner,” then added an exclamation mark and circled it. Now he snarled at the paper, tore it in half, and fed the pieces into the stove. With a sudden fury he grabbed the whole stack and dumped it into the stove, which only had the effect of nearly smothering the fire inside. He grabbed a bell off the bookcase and rang for his valet. “Neville,” he said when the man appeared, “you see all this bread?” Roland gestured at the baskets lining the wall.
“Sire?”
“Take it to the almshouse and tell them to give it to the poor.”
“Yes, Sire. I will fetch a few of the delivery boys.”
“Fine. And Neville?”
“Sire?”
“Man does not live by bread alone.”
“No, Sire.”
“Go to the market and buy some stuff to go with it. Fruit, cheese, pickles, you know what I mean. Take it all to the almshouse. There’s money in the cupboard.”
“Yes, Sire.”
His valet left, closing the door quietly. A short time later a trio of delivery boys tiptoed in, collected the bread, and tiptoed out again. Roland sat at his desk with his head in his hands, watching the stove, seeing the tiny remaining flames lick at the paper. Before long the fire recovered, eating happily at two years of work. He went through the rest of the paper on his desk. The heavy marriage contract had arrived only a few days ago. He had set it aside to read later. It was wrapped in brown paper, bound with string, and sealed with the royal seal. He cut the string, unwrapped it—and once again set it aside to read later. He went through the latest invoices for the bakery and updated his ledger books. He riffled through a sheaf of marketing studies and added them to the stove. The dancing light did nothing to dispel his gloom. Presently he became aware of a commotion in the street. He went to the window, opened the sash, and looked down. People seemed to be gathering outside. Some seemed to be looking up at him. He frowned and closed the shutters. Before he could return to his chair, the door was flung open by his valet. “Sire!” the man said, a bit breathlessly. “The Princess Gloria has been kidnapped!”
“Really?” Roland sat down, picked up an invoice, and studied it. It was from his glove maker. He would put it into a separate ledger, along with the bills from his hatter and his tailor. “Which one is the Princess Gloria? And why should I care?”
“The oldest one, Sire.” His valet pointed to the contract on Roland’s desk. “And the one to whom you are engaged.”
Roland looked at the first page of the contract and slapped the invoice down on top of it. “Oh, damn it to hell. That’s all we need right now.”