D'Artagnan was inside the tiny bedroom and at Jacqueline's side so fast that he couldn't remember how he got there. From what he could see, she had fallen, tried to keep upright by grabbing onto a small table by the bed. The table was now on its side and the glass vase that had been propped so nicely upon it was now shattered on the wooden floor. Jacqueline was on her knees amongst the shards, clutching the back of her head with one hand.
"Jacqueline! What happened?"
"I – I don't know."
D'Artagnan bent down and picked her up, turning sideways and placing her on the bed behind him. He sat on the edge beside her and moved her head onto his lap. He stroked her hair softly and watched her eyes slowly drift closed. He smiled to himself and thought once again about a life with her as his wife. And now that he knew she shared his feelings...No, he thought to himself, how can I be so selfish? That would mean exposing herself to Mazarin and risking her life. No matter how much he loved her – and he knew now that it really was love – he could never do anything about it. This broke his heart and, for the first time since childhood, d'Artagnan felt a single tear trace the edge of his cheek as he looked down at Jacqueline's now-sleeping form. Her eyelids fluttered in a dream and he quickly brushed the tear away. Well – at least he would enjoy this while it lasted.
A few hours later, Jacqueline awoke to a delicious aroma coming from the kitchen. She sat up slowly, expecting the familiar sharp pain at the back of her head. Surprisingly, when she lifted her hand to the wound, she found it tightly bandaged. Had d'Artagnan done this? What a foolish question, Jacqueline chastised herself, of course it was him. She looked around the room and found that he had also pulled her dress back out from behind the pillow and laid it over the back of the old rocking chair in the corner. She listened for a moment then, when she was sure it was safe, she walked over to the chair and quickly slipped into the dress. This time she was determined to tie the strings herself. Taking a deep breath to calm her, Jacqueline reached behind her. This time, memory took over. When she was presentable – as presentable as any woman with a bandaged head, no hair brush and a wrinkled gown could be – she made her way towards the kitchen and found d'Artagnan sitting at the table.
He smiled as she approached and pushed a steaming bowl towards her.
"Well, Sleepy Head, how're you feeling?"
"Better, thank you."
They exchanged a smile then both quickly looked away again. "So," Jacqueline began, "What's all this?" D'Artagnan smiled once more before indicating behind him. "I made dinner," he said simply. He looked so pleased with himself that Jacqueline couldn't help returning the smile.
----
The food was delicious; Jacqueline was surprised, to say the least. She said as much to d'Artagnan who merely grinned. "My father wasn't around much when I was young," he explained, "I basically lived alone with my mother for all those years before she died. I couldn't help learning things like cooking."
"Things? As in more than one?"
"Ha! Yes, well, you've got me there. I'm a pretty good housemaid, too. " he laughed again.
----
An hour later the pair found themselves seated next to each other on the floor of the parlour. D'Artagnan remembered another night much like this one. King Charles had been in France and had asked Jacqueline to become his wife. He had thought then that he would lose her forever. Now, however, he realized that, had she left with Charles then, Jacqueline would now be safe from Mazarin and have a life beyond anything he could ever hope to give her. But it had been Jacqueline's own decision to stay, hadn't it? She had chosen to remain in France without his help. But why?
