Clarisse drummed perfectly manicured nails against the lacy cloth she had chosen, attempting to dispel the tension thrumming in her veins. He offered her a smile across the room and she returned it. A moment later Phillipe, still in his riding gear, entered the dining room.
"I am really sorry I am late mama," he bent to kiss her and it was evident his apology was genuine, "I lost track of time. Pip is still out on the terrace."
"I called for a stable boy though," he continued as he scraped a chair along the 17th century marble floor and, leaving his filthy riding crop on the table, pulled the chair in again. Joseph saw Clarisse's eyes flutter mournfully towards it.
"Your Highness," Joe motioned to the offending item, "Would you like me to take that?"
"Oh, yeah," he smiled, "Thanks Joe."
He reached, with reluctant fingers, for the crop and removed it. He handed it to Felix, the footman who was nearby, and asked him to take it to the stables.
Joseph had done the back-shift when he first started in the palace. It was a nightmare this shift – the king was always late to dinner, for one reason or another. The queen was always irritated beyond belief, the princes were restless and, as they got older, rebellious. There were interruptions to dinner and then often, late nights working in offices. When the king was alive it was often an after dinner argument. In short, it was the shift that every smart person, from every area of palace staff, hated. He had been glad to escape that shift the moment he was promoted.
Now he was the Head of Security he didn't really have shifts but he still did then nonetheless. He was, in fact, not required to work any shifts. He was a tactician and advisor and planner – not actively required to be in service. He just spent most of his time with her. Tonight though, as she always did, she had asked him to stand by so he let Anton leave his back-shift with the promise to repay it.
The conversation, this back-shift, was stilted but Clarisse was trying, and honestly, so was the prince.
"Mia wrote me today," he told his mother as the fish course was taken away, "Or should I say, emailed."
"The tools of the devil," she answered dryly, "What did she write about?"
"School, friends, her friend's save the whales project, her Fabergé egg..."
"She does love that, doesn't she?"
"Yes, she's still thanking me nearly a year on," he answered as he examined the main course, which had just been put down to him, with his fork; it seemed to meet his appraisal as he shovelled a forkful into his mouth.
"I'm glad she liked it," Clarisse answered.
"Mama, all her gifts have been your idea. My case in point; that egg was yours when you were a child! That's why she's loved them," he answered.
"I'm a girl..." his mother answered wryly, "We're supposed to have things in common I hear. I am glad she keeps in touch with you."
"Me too," he answered, taking a sip of his wine.
"Would you like," Clarisse sat back in her chair, leaving her fork at the side of her half-finished plate, "To see more of her?"
"Of course mama," he said softly, without anger, "But it's not possible. You know that. Helen doesn't want it, I don't want it really... for her."
"If you were not king it would be possible. Indeed, if you were not crown prince it would be entirely possible."
For a sensitive subject for both of them, they were handing it very well but Joseph had the advantage of seeing the fist of Phillipe's hand, which he was clenching and unclenching on his thigh.
"Yes but it's not, is it mama?"
"It is Phillipe," she said simply, "If you are no longer crown prince."
"But I am not no longer king or prince, am I?"
His fist, previously clenched on his thigh, flew to the table top and the slam reverberated around the room. She flinched. His patience had disintegrated.
"You're not hearing me properly," she said calmly, "I'm not being clear I suppose. Renounce it. That's what I am saying. Abdicate. Renounce your-"
"Mama," he interrupted, "What on earth do you mean?"
"Exactly what I'm saying," she stood up, leaving her napkin on her seat, "Renounce your crown. It tears me to pieces to say it...but watching one's son torn to pieces is equally as horrifying. Renounce the title."
She moved to stand beside him and motioned for everyone to leave the room.
"No," she suddenly said, "You should stay Joseph."
He bowed and slid against the wall, pulling the doors closed. He watched as Clarisse knelt beside her son and took his hand in hers.
"I will not stand by, my love, and watch you punish yourself any more for something you do not have to," she said softly, cupping his cheek, "I have watched too many of those I love miserable, without witnessing my son in misery. A name is but that; a name. And you can choose how you use it."
She stood up and bent to kiss her son at the crown, "I'll give you as long as you need."
She turned to him, "Walk with me Joseph."
It was only when they reached outside that he realised she was shaking. She stopped at the balustrade to regain her breath and she shook violently, her entire body quivering.
"That was the hardest thing I've ever done," she said quietly, "Or will ever do."
"Take my arm," he grabbed her hand and weaved it through his, "Here. That's it. It's not; you've done far worse Clarisse."
"Nothing as hard," she rested her head on his shoulder, "Nothing as personal."
They were in the midst of her rose garden now. With the fountains switched off there was only the noise of the crickets and soft pawing of the horses. He guided her to her favourite bench in the middle of a circle of rose bushes. She had stopped shaking, her breathing had calmed.
"I just made the biggest speech of my entire career, to a room with only my son and my Head of Security," she said suddenly, "Isn't it ironic? At least it was to two of the people I care about most."
"You care about me?"
"Yes," she answered, "I needed you there tonight. And why, my dear friend, would you ask a question you know the answer to?"
"Just checking," he answered softly, "That's all."
"I need to check on my estates. Rupert's private will left me a good sum, my estates turn over some money and those investments you helped me with...they are there."
Her mind could not calm down. She was frightened and it was evident she felt the urgency to share her panic with him now.
"Are you worried about money?"
"No," she shook her head, "Worried about managing it. I've never managed my own life before."
He couldn't help but laugh, "Clarisse, I'll help you."
"I know you will," she said, wrapping her arms around herself, "I always know that."
"You're cold," he instinctively wrapped his arm around her shoulder, shrugging off his suit jacket as he did so, "Take this."
She took the offered blazer, draping it over her own shoulders. She smiled lightly.
"What brings a smile to my queen's face?"
"It smells of you," she said honestly.
When they finally reached her chamber it was dark and, as warm days were prone to do, it had turned into a sharp evening. They had taken a few laps around the garden, and discussed both possible and ridiculous ways that she might spend her time after her son abdicated his title. He could see she was exhausted but, contrary to the exhaustion she had described the evening before, she was exhausted in a good way.
"Tea?" He paused at her door.
"Something stronger," she turned to the footman, "Go to the cellar and bring a brandy. 1851 please. And have the kitchen give you two proper brandy bowls. Proper brnady bowls please, I detest drinking it from anything else."
"Why brandy?" He asked as he followed into her suite.
"I took very little advice from my father," she answered, "He was cold and hard hearted and valued his son more than his daughters. But he always told me to salute my victories and my losses with the most expensive brandy in my cellar. Suffice to say that I've consumed a lot of brandy over time. And anyway, it's the only spirit that doesn't knock me out."
It fascinated, and horrified, him that that she delivered those assessments of family members in such cold terms.
She began the exact same routine as the night before, minus the itch at the back of her knee.
"Clarisse," he sat down on her couch, "Don't you ever call for your lady's maids?"
"No," she placed her earrings on the desk where she had left the ones the night before, "I don't want to bother them."
"That is what they are paid for, rather handsomely might I add."
"Joseph, I can dress myself. And undress myself for that matter."
"I suppose," he agreed, embarrassed by her candour.
He's not come and spoken to me yet," she said quite suddenly.
"I know," he watched as she abandoned her shoes at the side of the couch this time and thinking little of what she was doing to him - for how could she - threw herself with a flourish onto the couch beside him. Even that, in itself, was ladylike. She swung her legs round and her feet fell into his lap.
"You've earned yourself another horrible task," she whispered, "Last night is the first night I have slept properly since long before Rupert's death."
He swallowed, "Isn't that because you had bent up your indecision?"
"No," she looked him straight in the eye, "It's because you were here. I have-"
The door to the suite opened and Mrs Kowt came in, carrying a silver tray with the glasses and dust covered bottle of brandy. She curtsied for her queen, who had removed her feet quickly from his lap. He cursed the housekeeper. Clarisse, free from bonds of sincere responsibility, had been about t confide something to him. Disappointment flooded him.
"Colonel," the housekeeper said, "I didn't realise you were here."
"Who did you think the other glass was for Mrs Kowt?" The queen asked, not unpleasantly.
The housekeeper blushed furiously and Joseph couldn't help but be entertained. Clarisse could be a little vile when she wanted to.
"The Head of Security had tea with me in my suite last night, and the night before, and has been doing so for some time," Clarisse uncorked the bottle, "But as the maids know everything, I wager you already know that. You are, and have been, a discreet employee Mrs Kowt. Don't let palace gossip ensnare you now."
The monologue took both the form of a telling-off and a friendly titbit of advice. The housekeeper looked chastened.
"Your Majesty," the housekeeper curtsied and scurried from the room quicker than he thought her capable of.
"That was cruel," he said, taking the glass she held out before him.
"She's harmless but she loves gossip," the queen answered, swirling this sticky liquid around the glass, "You know we are a topic of gossip?"
"I do," he said vaguely.
"Pray tell," she said, raising a perfectly aristocratic eye brow. He wondered if they taught you that gesture at finishing school.
He laughed.
"It's patchy – it's not believable."
"It's not true," she countered, swinging her feet back into his lap and closing her eyes, "Where were we?"
"I can't carry you to bed tonight," he said kindly.
She opened one eye, "Why not?"
Because, he wanted to say, I might not be able to resist the temptation to climb in beside you.
"Am I fat?" She teased.
"No, you're beautiful."
She said nothing, but he noticed her mouth tightened a little.
"My knees can't cope," he said, desperate to fill the silence.
"Then, my dear, I promise to try very hard not to fall asleep."
"Ok," he whispered, "Just one request - take your stockings off."
He was impressed by his own daring. Then again, he'd never been particularly shy.
"How do you know they're not tights?"
He was surprised at her response. He thought she might be horrified by his request, yet it seemed merely to have amused her. Perhaps it was easier to shed the title of queen than he'd previously imagined.
"Ladies like you don't wear tights," he said, a little embarrassed.
"No, we don't," she agreed, "Cover your eyes."
He was good at visually imagining things; it was part of his job to be able to visualise scenarios and imagine all possible ends. God, he begged, close my mind's eye down. He saw soft hands raising a richly lined hem to fiddle with lace tops until freed from the pale skin of thighs. So very graphic. No such luck; perhaps because of his desire not to see it so vividly, the image was all the more intense.
"Done," she said, balling up the offending garments and placing them beside her shoes.
"Do you just leave your clothes all over your chamber?"
He took a sip of his brandy and then went back to his task, his fingers working the tension from her feet.
"Yes...mmmmmh," she answered, "They just tidy themselves. I am terribly messy Joseph...I always have been. My governess hated it when I was younger. I really am quite slatternly. It would be awful if I didn't have people running after me. I thought you knew this about me."
"I knew you were untidy but I've never watched you be untidy – you're actively messy," he laughed.
"You will flee from my flaws, Joseph, I promise..." she said dryly, "Just like my governess."
"If I was going to flee, I would have flown a long time ago," he said seriously, squeezing her foot.
"I know that," she said softly, "Don't think I don't know that. Or that I don't appreciate it. You've been...invaluable to me." She sat up quickly to look at him, "That sounded so pompous and officious. I meant you have been a fantastic friend. Forgive my lexical choice -"
"You do have a tendency to be very wordy," he laughed.
"Oh it's awful, isn't it? Rupert used to tell me to stop it..." she smiled.
"I don't blame him," he watched her as she sipped her brandy and it was evident that she wanted to say something.
"I miss him," she whispered, "Not as my husband – he was that in name only - but as my friend. I cared a great deal for him and I leaned on him for so much. Much more than I realised until he was gone. He grounded me on those rare times when I needed grounded."
"Like with Phillipe?"
"Exactly," she nodded, "He would have been better at dealing with this. He was so good at objectivity."
"No," Joseph answered, "He wasn't as close to them as you were."
"Or you were," she responded, "But he loved them. He really did."
"He did," Joseph agreed, "He was proud of them. He would often -"
"Mama?"
The voice shattered the gentle conversation, bringing to an end her relaxed air. She swung her legs round and, straightening up, ran her fingers through her hair to tidy it up. He watched her posture grow rigid beside him. The moment slipped like sand through his fingers and he felt himself grasping for it with a futile heart.
"Mama!" Pierre strode into the suite. He looked tired.
Joseph stood up, moving to stand behind the couch. Phillipe, if he thought it odd to find the Head of Security in his mother's chambers, made no comment to indicate that.
"Mama. Oh, hello Joseph. Mama..." he stopped mid-sentence, his words trailing off. He stood there like a child, wringing his hands as he clasped them before him. Joseph stood up and walked towards the window. He knew he shouldn't leave because she would want him there but he felt uncomfortable so, as he always did, he managed to blend into the surroundings and he was sure they had forgotten he was there. He watched the crown prince sit beside his mother and place his head on her shoulder and sob his thanks like a child would sob their displeasure.
If he had wanted anyone to be the mother of his children, it would have been her. That was why he found himself childless. And the pain crippled him. He hated himself for it.
Her arm went around her son's shoulder as she cradled his head to her chest. He was sobbing now – there was not restraint or honour left. Guilt seemed to flow from him unheeded, spilling into the room around them. All the while she held him, cocooned against her, cooed noises of comfort that were so much more than just noises. It was a cathartic sobbing – ridding himself, exorcising the fear and hate from his body.
She was an incidental mother, she had once told him. I was a mother because I was the wife of a king, not because I was going to be good at being a mother.
The room grew warm and thick, not only with heat, but with emotion. All 3 people there were intensely embroiled, albeit for different reasons.
He cried himself out eventually and after a few more minutes of hushed reassurances and promises between mother and son, Joseph felt it was safe to re-enter their world. First though he quietly opened the balcony doors; letting much needed air into the room. The night air, firmer than the warm day which had proceeded it, rushed into the room, breaking the spell.
The prince sat back in the chair. His eyes were raw and sore and his cheeks were puffy and thick.
"I know what this must be doing to you mama and I can't ever make up for this," he said, "I've thought about your words since dinner and I know this is all you've fought for and all you've worked for and I'm letting you down."
"Have a brandy," she held her glass to him, "We're celebrating our new start in life."
"Mama, this can't be easy for you," he whispered, taking the offered bowl.
"No," she agreed, "It's not."
She turned to Joseph finally, "Come and sit and reassure him please."
Joseph passed behind his seat, grasping Phillipe's shoulder as he did so.
"Your mother wants your happiness," he confirmed, sitting down on the seat across from the couch.
"But it's the end of the Renaldis. My father would-"
"Your father would understand," Joseph interrupted softly.
It was a lie that none of the 3 people in the conversation would have missed but they chose to brush over it anyway.
"What will you do?"
He turned to his mother. His hand reaching out to grasp hers as she smiled softly.
"I will dedicate my time to doing the things I've never had the chance to."
She smiled at Joseph then and he wondered if he was reading something which hadn't been written yet. He shook the thought away. His mind still burned with the conversation they had engaged in just before Phillipe had come into the room.
"Phillipe," she continued, "We will be absolutely fine. We have more than enough talent, education and connections between us to make a very decent life."
Joseph admired her very much in that moment. He knew she was afraid, completely, and yet she was pretending to take all of this in her stride.
"Ok, ok..." Phillipe stood up, excitement expanding his chest, making him see broader and happier.
He was renewed with hope and it showed in his bearing.
"Good night mama," he bowed a little, then turned to Joseph, "I will see you in the morning. Joe, would you arrange for me to go driving tomorrow? Juan usually accompanies me."
"Of course Your Highness," he smiled.
"Thank you Joe," he made his way from the room, almost at a gallop.
She exhaled a breath then, and with a smile that seemed founded upon relief, her entire body seemed to relax.
"Where should I live?" She turned to him, "Where should I find a house?"
It was not an entirely serious line of questioning, though she appeared to find the entire thought of freedom that she had never known enjoyable.
He thought about it seriously, and even though it was one of those treacherous thoughts, thought about how beautiful it would be to wake up beside her, by the sea. She loved the sea – the vast, endlessness of water full of hidden secrets. Many times he had afforded her an hour to steal away to the beach, to walk along the sand with her thoughts.
He wanted to make love to her by the sea, in a bed of clean cotton.
He hated that he had these thoughts.
"By the sea," he answered, moving to sit beside her on the couch.
This time she did not swing her legs up but instead she slid nearer him. He had to lift his arm to accommodate her so she was pressed against his chest. There was, there had been for some months now, a silent transition happening. And they did this silently too. They continued to push lines and boundaries, despite being aware that there was no hope for a relationship. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, there was now.
She would no longer be Queen and he would no longer be Head of Security.
"I need you to stay," she said into the silence, "I need you."
"I know," he rubbed her arm, "I want to be here."
"Will you stay with me by the sea? We could lock ourselves away in our own world," she continued.
She wouldn't look at his eyes. He was ashamed that she couldn't bring herself to look at him. But he was enthralled too.
"Would you want that?"
"More than anything," she whispered, bowing her head to shield her eyes further.
"Me too," he answered, lifting her face with his fingers,"Don't hide from me. I know how you feel. You know how I feel-"
"Yes," she interrupted, with a strength in her voice he was surprised by, "But I've ignored it for a long time. I've ignored how I feel for a long time. Are you angry at me?"
He was shocked by her blunt admission. He smiled at her then, hoping it would shatter the tension between them.
"No," he touched her fingers on his chest, squeezing them, "No Clarisse. I know it would have been, it will be, impossible..."
He kissed her forehead, hardly believing that this was happening between them. Years of fantasies collided in this one moment for him. He was convinced he would suddenly realise he was imagining it.
"I've loved you for years," he said softly, whispering it almost. There was reverence that came with this admission.
He felt bare, unprotected.
He hated himself for it.
"I know Joseph...and the possibilities are..." she shook her head, "I don't have the right words. I want to say I love you but I'm frightened it will break something between us which I cannot afford to lose. I am being selfish but I can't..."
"There aren't the right words," he said seriously, aware that this conversation felt like it was taking place in a parallel universe to the one in which he had loved her in the shadows for years.
"We'll have lots of time to find them," she smiled up at him then, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "So you'll stay...as the man who loves me."
He kissed her then; soft, gentle. The first kiss he had shared with her.
"Yes, as the man who loves you."
Thank you for reading this chapter. Please review.
