This story is in no way tied to any particular faith but I do quote a psalm in it. These characters do not belong to me but to Disney and Meg Cabot. Please read and review. This is a companion piece to my story 'Indiscretions'. It may be an idea to read that first to give some context.
The quiet hush that swept over the winter palace had fallen over the country around November time, with the first flurries of snow. As always the royal family had retreated to the Winter Castle mid-December to ski and eat and drink expensive wines and take time as a family – their duties lessened slightly and, apart from the service in the village Church on Christmas day, they weren't expected to make public appearances. It meant thickly-knitted jumpers and rumpled hair. Slacks with loose hems and lying in past the breakfast gong. Catching up on paper work and policies. This time it had been more strained than it had been in many, many years. Joseph could not remember this many screaming matches for a long time and the worst of it was that the princes joined in now. It was the most difficult job for the help – pretending not to notice.
Relations, to the say the least, were strained. He laughed at his own diplomacy.
The argument the morning before had been so bombastic that the queen had retreated to the slopes all day; skiing until the piste emptied and the sun was dying behind the glorious mountain ranges in the north of the small country. He had followed dutifully behind her and she, being the better skier, had raced ahead. It was if she planned to keep going until she couldn't go any further, until she crossed boundaries and borders across the Alpine shelf and found herself in another world. He'd had to beg her to come off the runs because he – he - was becoming exhausted. His thighs and calves were still burning with an intensity that hadn't punished him since the army. It made him squirm with discomfort when he moved and he had been relieved when she had told him she wouldn't be skiing today.
"Are you ready to go dear?"
The queen's voice broke his thoughts. She was curled on the massive sofa, which had managed to consume her. In a thick-knitted jumper and no make-up she somehow seemed smaller. It was old and bedraggled; a typical piece of furniture in the Renaldi Winter castle – worn and loved beyond all reason. Her husband, his coat already on, sat down beside her. From the sidelines, sandwiched between a table covered with photos and a dresser, Joseph watched the exchange.
"Yes," he smiled, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
She smiled – a genuine, sweet smile. A shared smile that passed easily between friends. Friends. A married couple. The lines were blurred within the royal marriage.
"I'm sorry but I need to get -"
"Don't worry dear," she answered, leaning toward him, though she could have as easily been pulling away, "We should be going back by now."
"I'm going to take the boys – Pierre wants to come and..." the King swallowed, "And I don't think it's a good idea for Phillipe to stick around. I know you love it here and you're calm and you are at peace. I want you to have that here. He's not really giving you that. I'd rather handle his rages than leave you with it."
"We've advised him badly, Rupert," she suddenly whimpered, the entire timbre of her voice changing. She hasn't retreated after all, he thought to himself.
"Shhh Clarisse," the monarch soothed, rather banally, "He wants this. He wants it."
The queen said nothing, merely nodding, and it sounded like the King was hoping to reassure himself. Rupert had a habit of this – the self reassurance of the damned. Joseph felt his throat tighten. This family was a carousel, unbroken, that revolved on the same arguments and the same answers and the same problems. She had fought enough and it seemed, as she curled her hands under her chin, that she had given up wrangling with this particular problem. Her husband wrapped her in his arms, pulling her nearer.
"I'll see you in a few days?"
"Yes," Clarisse looked up at him.
The King stood and, with one last affectionate pat to his wife's shoulder, turned to Joseph.
"Look after her, eh?" He smiled tight-lipped, but kind nonetheless. Rupert found it hard to talk to the help, no matter how close that help was. Or how close it was to his wife or children. Typical breeding of the elite, Joseph had supposed.
Joseph noddded and watched as the King left. It was funny – he did the things he didn't want to do and thought things he didn't want to think. Between his thoughts and his actions there was a vast, endless cavern.
Clarisse turned to him then; "I'm going to nap," she stood up, already following behind her husband, "Wake me up in an hour please."
It was an unusually curt dismissal but he understood her need to sleep – perhaps to shake off the tension that had enrobed her. He was, which was rare and alien to him, glad she had Rupert. The King was firmly at her defence on this occasion and they were rallying against their youngest son. The sad, troubled, broken baby. Were all the youngest, in all the families all over the world like this? Pierre,sadly, had come home for a Christmas that wasn't really Christmas at all and Phillipe was being very difficult. So they were retreating with their father. He was easier to get a long with anyway because he didn't broach the difficult subjects like their mother did and Joseph knew the princes gravitated to that with magnetic ease.
It was his first family celebration without Amelia and Joseph had the sinking feeling that Christmas had brought the realisation that he wouldn't see his daughter for a considerable number of years. Surely you were supposed to want your children at this time of the year. He was 23 and he had already been bereft of something very important – Joseph did not think a child should feel so bereft. Then, he reminded himself, Phillipe has ceased to be a child a long time ago.
And the queen – well the queen was exhausted. It was evident in her posture and her lack of conversation. All she had the energy to do was ski – silently and wordlessly run herself to exhaustion. He knew she was finding sleep problematic because he had heard her wander about the dead, frozen halls of the castle, treading carpets under tired feet. So he supposed that the days spent on the slopes were at least exhausting her to the point of dreamless sleep.
So he was not offended by her dismissal, merely worried that she wouldn't pull herself out of this stupor. Then again he worried like this always and, as always, she proved him wrong.
He sat on the terrace off the sitting room, glaring white surrounding him, watching the silence of the mountains. The odd skier here and there but it was Hogmany so the slopes were mostly dead. He pulled his black jacket around him, missing the supple familiarity of leather, and shrunk down in his seat. The sun was high but the cold was absolute. He was reading a book but the he couldn't absorb the words. He had read the same page 3 times and failed to follow the writer's argument. He had spent so long listening to arguments this week that he was tired of following them. He placed the book aside and considered going down to the security room or the warmth of the kitchen. There would be company there.
He often forgot, or ignored, his own needs. It had grown out of habit rather than out of a clear decision to do so. The last time he had spoken to someone outside the royal family had been last night, when the Head of Security debriefed him on the journey for the King – Alois was stepping down soon, and he couldn't wait. The last time he'd stepped out of their world, merely to make sure their world ran even more smoothly, had been nearly 24 hours ago. He had forgotten to speak to other people. The he remember that most of the staff had gone with the King. A housekeeper, a lady's maid and of course him, were the only people who remained now.
He had contemplated going back home for the holidays and for a moment, a moment longer than he usually did, he had seriously considered it. He felt the welcome of Spain upon him – not strong sun but more than this beautiful, barren world of mountain tops and altitude. Then he couldn't be bothered with all the questions and the praise and the platitudes and the jealousy. He was caught, by his own fault, between two very different worlds.
He had to push bitterness away all the time but it stuck to him, just under the cotton of his shirt and the wool of his trousers.
It had come slowly at first, climbing from his feet up towards his chest where it rested and made a home. It had come with something else too – something that he dared not give a name to.
"You forgot to wake me up."
He could have been forgiven for considering the tone accusing but he knew better than that. He turned to her. She was leaning against the door jamb. She had wrapped a rich fur stole around her shoulders – the one that rested along the bottom of her bed here – and held it tightly at her breast plate.
"I was letting you sleep," he simply said.
Years ago, when she walked into a room, he would have stood as was custom. He stayed where he was though, merely turning his head back to the vista before him.
"I used to think I was trapped here," she said conversely, "There is this castle, surrounded by mountains on every side. I find it the opposite now; I would be inclined to remain trapped here forever."
He said nothing in regards to her musings, simply; "Don't you want to go inside?"
"No," she answered, and he was sure that her move to sit on the vacant chair was a pointed response, "I'd rather like to stay out here."
"Ok," he nodded, "I'll call for some tea."
He knew her habits well and standing up, disappeared into the sitting room without awaiting her answer. After the 3rd ring the kitchens picked up and promised the tea within 10 minutes. He stood at the phone table which allowed a perfect view straight through the French doors and out into the vista. He watcher he rest her head in her hand, transfer her weight from one side to another. She had picked those chairs but they were not comfortable and he wondered if she regretted it.
"Did you sleep?"
"I tried," she answered.
"So no?"
"No," she looked at him, shielded her eyes against the bright sun, "Not really."
"I know the physician-"
"Do you?" Her ire turned on him, almost as viciously as the white sun, "Do you make it your business to know everything about me?"
"Yes," he shrugged but did not bite, "It's what you pay me for."
"I don't pay you to know I have sleeping pills," she said, though the fight had fled her voice. She was rethinking this battle, he could see.
"No," he answered, "But you do pay me to guard your sleep."
"That's rather poetic," she observed icily.
He turned to her, "Your Majesty, have I offended you in some way?"
He watched as she reached out her hand from below the stole, shooting out towards the stone balcony, to touch the snow there. As if burned she withdrew it, her engagement ring catching the light. It blinded him.
"No," she answered, "No. I'm sorry."
"Ok," he said simply, sliding his glasses further up his nose.
"I want a drink," she said at length, breaking the cavernous silence.
"I've ordered tea," he answered.
"Not that kind of drink," she turned to him, "It's been a long time since I got drunk during the day. I believe my age began with 'twenty' the last time I was drunk during the day."
"Yes," he laughed a little, "That's why it began with 'twenty' and why it doesn't now. My bones ache at the thought."
"I had had an argument with Rupert the last time I got drunk during the day," she stood up, disappearing into the sitting room.
He sucked in an alpine breath – she was in a mood. One of those mood where he had to tread very carefully. She was prone, when in this kind of character, to trip him up and test how far she could push him.
She was sitting on the couch, where she had been this morning when her husband left, fiddling ineptly with the threadbare brocade on the arm. He turned round, closing the doors behind him. There was a thick, warm silence then. He had shut out the outside.
"You know Rupert," she said suddenly.
He didn't know what to say to her. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to leave her be. Her hostility couldn't be aimed at who she wanted to aim it at, so it was aimed with missile like precision at him. He just shrugged and she looked at him. He saw disgust cross her face then and he felt like saying, I'm not your sparring partner. Don't make me your sparring partner Clarisse.
"Yes," he finally said, "Of course I do."
"Sit down please," she looked at him, "You're making me uncomfortable."
Just as he did so the housekeeper came into the room, bearing a silver tray. Quieter than the staff at the Palace, she nodded and curtsied meekly and went from the room. He poured the tea, handing her the china cup, and sat back down beside her.
"Thank you," she smiled at him then and he felt her hostility dissipate slightly.
As if involved in some great conspiracy, she leaned towards him. Her thigh, under beige slacks, brushed against his.
"Do you know why he's had to go home?"
He swallowed his genuine response, "No."
She smiled, "Lady Aeryn is missing him."
He looked away from her.
"Don't be embarrassed Joseph," she said, "You know the king and I have an arrangement."
'Arrangement' implied something unofficial, something unclean and broken. He thought the entire 'arrangement' was bizarre and unholy – it laughed at everything he thought marriage was. He thought of the conversation after dinner, nearly a year ago, where he had told he would have worshiped her. Yes, worshiped you and left empty. But it was still there – a beast of bitterness rearing up in his chest.
"Don't think badly of him," she urged, "I've told him it's OK."
"Is it?"
This is what got him that written warning – being too honest. He wanted to take his words back.
"It has to be," she looked into the fire, "And I'd prefer it was someone we could control, rather than someone who would use it against him."
Of course, she preferred that his mistress was a Lady from an aristocratic house; it meant she had more control over it. He knew that she could call the woman for tea, and the woman would have to attend, and tell her exactly what she thought about it. So it gave her comfort, in a really twisted way, to think she could wield power over her husband's mistress. And who, he thought to himself, is the 'we' in that control?
"But it makes you unhappy," he said softly, kindly. He had to try another tact.
"Not unhappy in the sense of my marriage," she shook her head, as if trying to shake the very idea away, "No, but unhappy in the idea that it could become public. I can stand being humiliated in private by my best friend, just not in public."
Because he was her best friend, Joseph reminded himself. She cared about the king, even if she didn't want to. Joseph, the reluctant voyeur, would watch the CCTV screen as the King crept into her bed. Not for that, but in some ways that fact made it worse. He crawled into her bed for comfort and she gave him it. Rich silk pyjamas, years of good-breeding and finishing schools and frozen boarding school showers pressed together in the Queen's bed. Baggage carried on pure-breed fillies. Mouths chocked with silver spoons. They had to gravitate towards each other and even Lady Aeryn couldn't come between that. She loved him.
He felt a stab of jealousy – hot and vital.
"I don't think marriages are supposed to be happy," she said lightly, "If you look at the statistics – they're not. And arranged ones? Well, you have to navigate them completely differently. I care about him deeply and you know he cares about me."
"I believe in marriage," he stated, "I think it's a good thing."
"Why have you never married?" She asked and he could see she wasn't challenging or accusing, she was genuinely curious.
"Never found the right girl."
"Did you do a lot of looking?" She smirked.
He laughed then because underneath plaid suits and ancient pearls, she had a rather filthy sense of humour. And in private, because there were two very different Clarisses operating in the world, he had glimpsed it a few times.
"I did lots of exploring, at the same time I did lots of getting drunk during the day," he answered, shrugging off his jacket, because he was getting warm, "Bad combination."
"Mmmm," she nodded, "Sometimes it's a combination which allows for certain liberties."
He looked at her strangely.
Suddenly she reached her hand out, running her finger across his upturned palm.
"Your hands are rough," she said, the pads of her fingers rubbing against callouses and dry skin, "I'd always imagined them to be rough."
His eyes nearly, as if in a ridiculous romantic novel, closed at her touch. Water after a barren walk through the longest desert.
"If I got drunk, and you got drunk with me..."
She left the suggestion hanging in the air. He imagined himself reaching out to grab it, slipping it in his pocket then taking her in his arms. He was tempted to introduce defusing humour; maybe ask her if she wasn't already drunk because he could barely believe it. He was uncomfortable and aroused and he didn't want to have this conversation.
"I'm just as bad as Rupert," she whispered, making patterns on his calloused hands, "I'm just like a liar by omission. I have an 'arrangement' in my imagination. So many times in my head I've imagined your hands on me. Like you promised. And I think what I do is worse. Because I imagine it all the time."
"Not," he swallowed, "When you were drunk. I am not that man. I would want to make love to you properly."
"No," there was bitterness in her voice, "You're far too honourable. Am I so difficult to love?"
He looked at her as her eyes glazed over, tears gathering. God, she was messed up. She was so beautifully ruined. There were 2 Clarisses. One was broken though, and so was the other. That was what he'd forgotten. He'd imagined both of them in his arms, wrapped in his very masculine bed sheets, sighing as he kissed her in the half-light of dawn. Then he'd have to make her leave.
Caught between 2 worlds.
"Clarisse," he gripped her hand, "No. exactly the opposite; you would be too easy to love. You are too easy to love. I just don't..."
Years from now, he would do as she had asked, in the Genvoian Consulate in San Francisco; half a glass of wine between them, he would take her to bed and do what he had wanted to do forever.
But he had loved her long before the physical act of love.
"I couldn't handle it," he answered honestly, more candidly than he'd managed for years, "I couldn't play second fiddle to him. Don't you think I haven't thought about it. There have been nights when I've lain in bed and you are all I can think about and with you it would be – the point is, I can't be the man you sleep with. It would ruin me; it would ruin you."
"I am as bad as him," she cried softly, "I am just as bad. It's the thought that's worse."
"No," the moment had passed, the tension had snapped and curled in on itself and he felt able enough pull her into his arms. She moulded to him.
"No," he reassured, "It's not. It's different with us. It's been there a long time Clarisse. I would do as you asked right now, I would run down that hall, carrying you in my arms and I would make love to you until we were both exhausted. And for blissful hours, it would only be you and me but afterwards we could never go back. You couldn't look me in the eye again, and I know that," he lifted her chin with his fingers, "And so do you."
"I want you to kiss me," she whispered.
"I know," he kissed her cheek, her nose, the curve of her jaw bone.
"I am so sorry," she whispered as he kissed a line down her neck. This was awful. It was painful. There was nothing of eroticism or passion about it.
He pulled back, stared at her tear-stained face, "It would break you and it would break us. Please don't make me do this. I don't want to be your quick screw but I don't have the strength to say no to you Clarisse and I don't have the strength to say no to my own desires."
"I won't stop thinking it," she stared into the fire.
The silence was thick, clawing, desperate for action. He held her against him.
"Do you ever go to confession?" She questioned quietly, at length, when her tears had been cried out. She had her head in his lap, both of them facing the fire. He held her shoulder, squeezed every now and then, stroking her hair in between.
They both had the same faith yet Clarisse had a lot more of it than him.
"No," he said, feeling empty and void, "I can't bare to admit I want another man's wife – I believe it's the worst of the sins I could commit, but what's the point? It doesn't stop me; nothing does."
"For I know my transgressions and my sin is continually before me," she whispered and he could hear tears in her voice.
"You are always before me," he murmured, tracing his finger over the shell of her ear.
She remained silent and he knew then that the moment, longer than any of them before, was gone.
He pictured himself crawling into her bed as Rupert did. Not silk but black cotton. A boy from a small sea-side town made good. Stronger arms and a healthier body. No cigars or caviar or the smell of other women. He had imposed chastity on himself because he couldn't do that to other women. To hold them and pretend it was her. He had a respect for them that his King didn't. He had a respect for her that his King didn't.
He hated how she changed the tone so quickly; hostility, laughing, serious, temptation, tears followed by nothing. She was so able to shut herself off from him. She had curled into his lap and closed like a shell.
He had a love for her that no other man had. There were 2 Clarisses and both of them lay in his lap.
"I know my transgressions," he whispered, trapped between 2 worlds, "And my sin is continually before me."
Thank you for reading. Please review.