Author's notes:
This story has been in my head, in one form or another, for a number of years. It's been written and scrubbed out, enjoyed and abandoned, fretted over and hated too. I always wanted to do THIS kind of story but didn't feel I was able to for a variety of reasons. One is that I don't feel comfortable writing AU stories which are so obviously AU and don't really merge with the canon. Another reason is I never felt confident in my ability to pin it all down. I have Wild Mei Ling to thank on that front; she's been endlessly encouraging to me. So for that, this story is dedicated to her and her entertaining feedback. In terms of the canon, I've done my very best to provide as seamless a merge as possible further down the line but it might be shaky at points. That being said, it's still Clarisse and Joseph and that's what I love most about it.
This story is also an A.U. follow on to my story Reason Does not Understand and does feature characters and references from that story. In saying that you don't have to have read that to enjoy this. Some things simply might make more sense or be a little richer.
Please enjoy the story, read, review, criticise, discuss and favourite if you want to. Please just stick with it unless you HATE it. In which case, thank you for trying with it anyway.
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me, apart from any evident original characters. I make no monetary gain from this story and do not intend to infringe anyone's creative liscence.
The summer heat pressed violently against the windows, meaning that escape into the cool, air-conditioned halls was the only real option for finding some relief. The oppressive heat was, in a cliché that always seemed to fit, the perfect accompaniment to the mood in the palace.
She was scribbling furiously, her usually tidy scrawl becoming increasingly erratic as she pushed to complete a letter she wanted to send before the final post left the palace. With a hasty hand, blotting fountain-pen ink all over the document, she signed her name 'H.R.H Clarisse Renaldi' at the bottom of the letter. She sighed with discontentment but folded the document over anyway.
Passing it to Violetta, her secretary, she stood up.
"Shall we Joseph?"
He nodded silently, allowing her to go before him and out into the cool and dark hallway. When finally out of ear-shot and sight of everyone else, she slowed her pace just a little and came to walk beside him.
"Are you alright?"
There was no propriety or formality in his question and, in fact, it was rushed and blunt for very good reason. They had five minutes for an exchange, for her to speak with him the way Clarisse would, and then they would be back in the world of Her Majesty where openness and honesty was not at all an option for her.
"No," she shook her head, "No. I'm so tired."
He nodded, "Let's move some things about. I could-"
"I simply cannot, Joseph," she paused at the top of the stairs and slipped off her very high heels for a moment of comfortable walking.
"Did the king speak with you?"
She scoffed at his question, a little impatiently, "No, he shouted."
He stalled, flexed his fingers, and swallowed his irritation.
"He is angry," she said, "Very angry."
"Clarisse," he reached out his hand to touch her elbow, to stall her quickening progress, "You cannot take responsibility for this."
She faced him for a moment and her features showed her distress, "Joseph, I know that. I do. However it does not take away from the reality of the fact that he somehow holds me responsible."
"You aren't."
She laughed darkly and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears, "Tell your king that."
At this point they had reached the conference room. She had a meeting with the envoy from Spain, preceding the trip to Madrid two days from now, and the man had already been waiting an hour.
"Sit behind me," she whispered quietly, "Please. Don't stand at the door."
He touched her shoulder, gripped softly as he tried to convey his assurance, "Of course, Your Majesty."
-0-
To say it had been a trying day was an underwhelming statement in the extreme. Her hands shook, a mixture of exhaustion and emotion, as she fumbled for the bottle of pills hidden at the back of the medicine cabinet. Her unsteady hands unsettled all of the other contents on the lower shelf and they tumbled, rattling and spinning noisily into the sink below.
"Damn," she muttered, setting the bottle aside and returning the other items to their place.
Running the cold tap, she thrust a glass under the flow until it filled and emptying two of the pills out, swallowed them in one vigorous tip of the head. She set the bottle back in the cabinet and shut the little swing door.
Clarisse hated confronting her own reflection, particularly when exhaustion was in abundance and make-up was scarce. She leaned forward and trailed and pulled her fingers across the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. When had she become middle-aged? When had she become the mother of two boys who were staging the biggest coupe in Renaldi history?
Sighing, she turned away. She felt like a tremendous failure when she seen tears in her own eyes. There was nothing but indignity about it.
The night was cooler than the day – which had ended in a fuzz of heated lethargy in the conference room – but she had still thrown open the sashes and doors which led to her balcony. She settled down on the chaise, carelessly discarding the light white cotton robe and taking up the tea she'd ordered before beginning to undress. She adjusted the hem of her nightgown, pulling it down, and swung her legs up. She looked at the file on the table beside the tea but though that, for a moment, if she read another State document she'd be put off reading for the rest of her life.
The thought of solitude was appealing to her now, even though she had so much to do and so much to deal with. The thought of sitting here, waiting for the pills to kick in and carry her off to dreamless sleep, and doing nothing was so much more appealing.
"Mother?"
The sound, so often one to bring her untold joy, felt suddenly very unfair. Her anger momentarily found a home with the footmen who guarded her door but then she remembered that the crown prince had access everywhere he went.
Her son, calm and smooth, opened the double doors to the inner chamber, closing them gently behind himself.
"Pierre," she sat up, pulling on her gown to cover her arms.
"Please mama," he motioned with his hand, "I know you're tired. Don't –"
"Tush," she answered softly, though it was true that she was so very tired, "I always have time for you."
He smiled sadly, "I know you do."
She moved to make room for him at the bottom of the chaise, "Tea? I will ring for some."
"No mama," he tipped his head into his hands and the immediate despair was clear in his hunched shoulders and quiet voice, "Oh mama, I am so very sorry."
When she had first become a mother, she had not known how the joys of her children would be her own, and how their agonies would be hers too. Had she known it, she might have been better prepared for the hurt she shared with him now. It was a private, unnameable hurt which was nonetheless painful for having no shape or form.
"Oh my darling," she pulled him towards her and her first-born gave no fight, "Oh Pierre, oh my boy."
"I am so so sorry," he wept openly now, "I am so sorry."
"Pierre," she took his face in her hands, "You must listen to me. You are not at fault, you are not to apologise for following your heart."
"Mama he hates me," he muttered, "My father hates me."
"Oh no, that is not true," she said, and she really meant it, "Your father loves you. He's simply struggling with your choice."
"He's struggling?" He asked incredulously, "He has his spare, he has Phillippe. Mama it's taken me months to build the courage and he reacts like that, by blaming you. I feel so responsible."
She shook her head, "Darling, it isn't as easy as all that. He simply looks for the first thing to blame it on. He's not really angry at me."
He swiped at his tears angrily, as if ashamed of them, "Mama if I ignore this calling, if I don't join the church, I am throwing away what I believe God has asked of me."
"I know that," she whispered, "I honestly do."
Her son's conviction was perhaps the most startling thing of all. At first, when they had casually discussed it a year ago as they'd strolled through the blooming gardens, she'd thought he'd soon come to realise it was a whim. When a year had passed and he spoke of it with passion and desperation she suddenly realised it was not at all a passing phase. Initially she had been reluctant to think it was what her son wanted at all but when he spoke about it, it was as if he'd already studied and been ordained; there was a peace in him she'd never known before. To deny him that would have been the most selfish act she could imagine on the part of a mother.
But Rupert's reaction, as they had expected, had not been a pleasant one. For two weeks now there had been only fighting and screaming and vile accusations passed about.
"He needs time to adjust," she finally placated, despising the lack of commitment in her own voice.
"It's Phillippe too," he whispered, "I've put Phillippe in terrible position."
"He will come round," she said gently, "I promise."
Standing up she went towards the large settee, where she rarely sat herself, and took the fluffy throw that rested there. She unfurled it and threw it across the plump cushions.
"Come on," she held out her hand, "Stay with me tonight. Things always look better in the morning."
He kicked off his shoes, "Mama, I have to do this."
"I know darling," she settled on the settee across from his, watching as he lay down and pulled the throw over himself.
"Even if this can't ever be repaired," he said quietly, "I am going to do it. For the time being, I need to get away from here. I'm going to Florence to stay with Alexi."
"Yes," she felt the lull of the pills claim her, robbing her of coherency to react to such a sore statement, "It will be alright."
-0-
The following morning, having struggled to sleep, Joseph claimed an hour on the treadmill, a small joy in a palace full of misery. As he ran and went nowhere, he replayed his conversation with her over and over again and found himself coming across the same solution from whatever angle he examined it. She could not fix, could not repair, the ragged tear which Pierre had made in the Renaldi plans, but she could gather her strength to at least face it.
Slamming his hand onto the stop button, he stepped off and headed for the shower.
When finished, he was ten minutes early for his morning ride with her. A tradition spanning his entire time at the palace, he could have passed the duty of taking her out every morning – which had decreased over time to three or four times a week – to one of his subordinates. However it was a task, like all others, that it would be unpleasant to relinquish.
She emerged from her chamber, later than ordinarily, and had hidden her eyes behind sunglasses.
He bowed low, "Good morning Your Majesty."
"Joseph," she moved away, "Good morning."
The stable boy was already waiting, holding the reins of both their mounts in his nervous hands. Joseph had eventually bought his own horse – after borrowing the king's in his first year here – and he was proud of the beast, prouder than he was of his Jaguar or his bike. It was a fierce black Andalusian stallion, pawing at the ground impatiently, and he'd named him Guerra.
He first helped her mount her horse – now that the stable boy didn't even try to offer before Joe himself would excuse his attempts – and ensured she was settled in the saddle before climbing onto his own.
"I want to go for miles today," she said, kicking her disciplined mount to life.
"Whatever pleases you, Your Majesty."
They rode out of the grounds, as was now their not-so-secret routine, and across and up the hills. When first he checked his watch it was seven a.m. and by the time she spoke it was 9.30.
"Pierre was very upset last night," she said, slowing the horse down.
"I imagine so," he nodded, "Did you sleep?"
"Yes," she answered, not looking.
He knew why she avoided his eyes.
"I have an idea."
She was distant from him, but politeness dictated she sound interested, "Oh?"
"You have this State visit in Madrid," he continued, "The official engagements are only going to last three days. I understand you planned to come back. Perhaps it might be an idea to remain? There are four days you could have, to yourself, if you wished."
She laughed a little, "Such an idealist, Joseph."
He bristled a little, but tried again, "I would suggest, Clarisse, you need some time. You're fraught, and short-tempered, if you'll pardon my frankness."
"I always pardon your frankness, isn't that why you get away with so very much?"
Somewhere in her jest, there was bitterness.
"I was merely suggesting," he shrugged, "But if I am irritating you, I'll stop."
"I –" she removed her sunglasses and finally turned her face towards his, "Joseph I am sorry."
"Don't apologise," he said, "I just believe that you're sometimes better placed to remove yourself from situations. He can, at times…"
He stopped himself, stalled his words. Criticising the king never helped her really, in fact it only made it somehow worse. It was a habit he'd become rather fond of but he had to taper it back before he said something he couldn't recover from.
"He can what Joseph? I'll tell you what he can…," she shook her head, "He can make me feel like I've been the worst mother, and wife, in the world. Then he can love me like I'm the most precious thing on earth. He can make me feel like I'll never recover."
"Clarisse…"
"Don't pity me please. You're the last person on earth who doesn't," she said, "That's what I love about you."
At her words, the longing which had grown so much to be a part of him pushed its way to the centre of his focus. In some way or another, they said those words from time to time. Dressed up like players, the three little syllables would masquerade under casual jokes or harmlessly flirty comments, but there was always a pressing meaning behind them.
"I will think about it," she lifted her wrist, checked her watch, "We must go back."
Okay, so nothing too alternative yet. What did you think?