5 December 1959

The pub always did good trade on Saturdays. It was a respectable sort of place, and thanks to Jean's indefatigable spirit their kitchen enjoyed a good reputation in the village. Single men came early on Saturdays, to sip pints and talk about the ponies. Married men came in the afternoons, to talk about their wives over whiskey sours. And at lunchtime every table was full; some of the customers for Saturday lunch were women, gaggles of them with parcels at their feet, sipping water and nibbling on the good clean food Jean provided for them. The pub was loud, on Saturdays, full of laughter and friendly conversation; John had recently installed a jukebox, and it played almost nonstop the whole day through, coin after coin clinking merrily down the slot, heralding the beginning of another familiar tune. Jean's hands were never idle, but she was not without help; there were three girls John employed as waitresses on Saturdays, who ran plates of food and helped Jean in the kitchen, and their smiles and cheerful chatter always helped the time to pass quickly.

This Saturday was no different than any other; there were racks of bread going in the oven as fast as they came out, and a big pot of stew simmering on the stove, and the last of the chicken and roast potatoes was warming next to a fresh batch of mince pies. Jean was happy, in the only way she could be happy these days; it was not an overwhelming joy, not the sort of delight that came bubbling up from the very heart of her, but it was a simple kind of happiness, a serene sort of contentment in the knowledge that just now things were as good as they could be, or ever would be again. If there were other things that would have made her happier, other dreams she had once harbored in her heart, Jean was learning to let them go, and make do with what happiness she could find here in this place.

She was just crimping the edges of another row of mince pies when the door banged open behind her. Jean did not immediately turn; it was either John or one of the girls, and they'd let her know what they needed. If it was John he'd call out an order and Jean would call back, already turning to make up another plate. If it was one of the girls, she'd point her towards the nearest plate, hot and ready for Mr. McGuiness at table six.

But no shouted words came from behind her, nor did she hear the sound of footfalls or the tinkling laugh of the waitresses. Concerned, then, Jean did turn, and found John staring at her, pale-faced and wild-eyed.

"Everything all right?" she asked him, fear beginning to chip away at the bubble of contentment she'd drawn around herself. Everything had been going so well, and the lunch rush was nearly over, and the pub was a warm place, a safe place, a place where bad things did not happen, but something had put that look on John's face, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what that something was. Not a brawl, she didn't think; she'd heard none of the shouting or thumping of bodies bouncing off furniture she'd expect from a brawl, and besides it was too early in the day for such theatrics. This was something else, something that had shocked John, a lifelong publican and thoroughly unflappable sort of man.

"There's someone here to see you," he said, and his voice was hoarse and strained. "I think you'd best come on out, Jeannie."

The fear that had just begun to simmer within her grew into a blaze, then; who could have come for her? Not Eadie; John would not have looked at her that way if it was only her sister. Nor Matthew, she thought; John liked to tease her when he came round. He was hopeful for her, where Matthew was concerned, no matter how many times Jean told him that Matthew was no more than a friend. So who, then? She had very few friends in town, and John knew them all, and they would give him no cause for alarm. What could frighten him so?

Christopher, she thought then, and terror set her hands to shaking. Jean's oldest boy was in Korea, and she'd not had a letter from him for two weeks now. Soldiers had come for her once, had pulled their shiny car to a stop on her dusty drive, and walked up to her front door with their hats in their hands. Soldiers like that, in pristine uniforms with their heads bowed, had struck terror in the hearts of many a woman in those days, and Jean had not forgotten the way her very soul had shattered with their arrival. Had they come for her again, come to tell her that her boy wasn't coming home? Her Christopher, her beautiful boy, the son most like her in appearance and demeanor, the son dearest to her heart by virtue of his steadfast goodness?

Oh God, no, she thought, even as she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried across the kitchen. John fell into step behind her unspeaking, such silence frightening in a man who was usually so full of chatter. Did he know what waited for her, out there in the dining room? Did he know the grief that hung just over her head?

The dining room was quiet, as she stepped out from the kitchen. There were three men standing together in the middle of the pub, and every eye seemed to be on them, watching them in apprehensive silence. Two of them wore the navy uniforms of soldiers, and while that alone might have convinced Jean that her terrible suspicions were correct, the face of the third man had her fear fleeing in favor of confusion in a moment.

"Prime Minister?" she said as she approached Sir Patrick, utterly bemused.

What on earth? She thought as she made her way towards him. This was most unusual; though they had grown rather accustomed to one another during her years in the castle the Prime Minister was hardly an acquaintance, and Jean could not reckon why he had done this thing, come here to see her. There was no service she could provide for him, and no words she wished to say to him; the last time she'd heard his voice he'd broken her heart clean in two, shattered her every dream and left her bereft and lonesome, though he had not known at the time that she was listening. Why then should he be here, now? Oh, she wished he hadn't come; everyone was watching her, thirty people at least staring at her appraisingly, as if all of them were wondering what sort of woman she was, that the Prime Minister himself should visit a somewhat ramshackle pub in a tiny village just to ask for her by name. Oh, the whispers would be unbearable after this; how am I going to explain this to John? She wondered. Jean had not told her employer where she'd come from, and he had not asked, but she realized that now she would have no choice but to tell him, he wouldn't rest until he'd had the truth from her.

"Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick said, reaching out to shake her hand. "You're looking well."

Oh, Jean wished he hadn't said that; they'd all be talking about this for months, how the Prime Minister and their Mrs. Beazley were so well acquainted with one another.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?" Jean asked the man politely.

John was watching her, hardly daring to breathe. The Prime bloody Minister, here, in his pub, asking for his cook! It made no sense, and a thousand questions were swirling through his mind. He had known, the moment he met her, that Jean Beazley was running from something; she'd had something of the look of a frightened deer about her, her eyes cast over her shoulder and her mouth full of excuses, if not outright lies. Before now he'd assumed it was a lover's quarrel, a man who had treated her harshly whose clutches she'd longed to escape. Jean had seemed sad enough, he'd thought, and so he had asked no questions. She was a fine cook, and a fine woman, and it didn't matter, he'd thought, where she'd come from.

Only it mattered now because Sir Patrick Tyneman was standing in his pub with two armed guards. Is she in trouble? He wondered. How the bloody hell does she know him? Could it be, he asked himself, that perhaps Jean was more special than she'd ever let on, that she had enjoyed a life of privilege and status in the capitol and left it behind for the anonymity of the village after some sort of calamity? And if that were true, what the bloody hell had she done?

"Actually, Mrs. Beazley, there's something I'd like to do for you," Sir Patrick said.

As John watched Jean's face went pale, and her hands twisted anxiously in her apron. What on earth?

"I'm sure you've been keeping up with the news," Sir Patrick continued, and Jean nodded, silently.

What news? John wondered. Was it Korea? Or the miner's strike? Or the expansion of the national health service? What could possibly have been happening in the news that would have any sort of bearing on a woman like Jean, a simple, quiet woman who kept to herself and did not interfere with the affairs of her neighbors?

"Circumstances have changed," Sir Patrick said.

Jean's mouth fell open as if she meant to ask him a question, but she promptly closed it again, and still John watched her, along with every patron of the pub, each of them hanging on every word that passed between those two people in the center of the room.

"I've come here to tell you, Mrs. Beazley, that I'll not stand in your way."

A small, hitching gasp escaped her, and Jean lifted her hand to her lips, her eyes round and just beginning to shine with unshed tears. Stand in your way? John wondered. What sort of business was she in, that the Prime Minister would take an interest? And why did she look as if she were about to faint dead away on the spot?

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" Sir Patrick asked her, not unkindly.

"Yes," Jean breathed in response.

"If you still wish to...well. You have my support, and the support of Parliament. You can do as you wish."

John was not a man easily shocked. He'd seen all sorts, during his many years of work in this place. Blood and sex and whiskey and food and fights and kisses and petty council politicians, the pub had played host to all of it, and he had taken everything in his stride. This, though, this was a bridge too far. Jean, bloody Jean, that beautiful woman who'd served in his kitchen for all these months, who John counted a friend, was tangled up in something John could not even begin to understand, and he liked it not one bit. What could Jean possibly want, possibly hope to do, that would require the approval of Parliament? Just who had John opened his doors to?

"Thank you, Prime Minister," Jean said, a bit wetly, and strange but she seemed almost miserable, as if the unquestioning support of the whole of Parliament itself was not enough to make her happy. "I'm afraid it's too late-"

"There's someone outside who wants to speak with you, Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick told her with a gentle smile. "I think you'll find it's not too late at all."

"He's...he's here?" she asked him faintly, swaying slightly on the spot. There was such naked hope on her face, such desperate longing in her eyes, and still John watched her, unblinking, eager to see how this would all unfold. Who could possibly be outside? John had always enjoyed a good story, and he had a feeling that once the sense of betrayal left him this would be the best one he'd ever heard.

"He is. Shall I send him in?"

There was a moment of silence, then. Every soul in that pub seemed to be whispering yes, yes, let us see him, let us learn what this is all about. The energy of the room was focused entirely, overwhelmingly, on Jean's delicate shoulders. Something monumental was in the offing, of that there could be no doubt, but what was it? What would make her tremble so, what could she long for so completely, what could be significant enough to require the Prime Minister himself to make it happen?

"I think you know what he means to say, if I do," Sir Patrick said when Jean did not immediately answer him. "And I think you and I both want to spare him any sort of public embarrassment. Shall I send him in, Mrs. Beazley, or shall I take my leave?"

"He still...truly, he still wants…" Jean was staring up at the Prime Minister beseechingly, unable to finish her question, though it seemed there was no need. Sir Patrick reached out and took her hand, and gave it a gentle sort of pat.

This will be all anyone talks about for the next year, John thought. Such things did not happen in this quiet little village; he had believed, before now, that those politicians in the capitol had quite forgotten this village existed. And yet there the Prime Minister stood, in John's own pub, talking to his cook.

"He does," Sir Patrick answered. "Do you?"

"Do you?"

The world was spinning beneath Jean's feet, her heart racing in her chest. Do you?

She knew what it was Sir Patrick was telling her. The king was outside, waiting, waiting for some sign from her, waiting to walk into this place and ask her to marry him, with Parliament's blessing. Somehow he had found a way, brought those surly old men on board and secured a future for them both. Lucien, and here; he had come all this way just to see her, had sent Sir Patrick to her first knowing he could not secure her acceptance until she knew for certain that there was a way ahead for them. He had come to her, that man she adored, that man she loved, that man she longed for with every piece of her heart, had come to this humble place despite the dignity of his station, had come to her, as if she were the royalty and he the lowly servant. Even now he was outside, waiting for her, waiting, and not rushing, giving her the opportunity to make this choice for herself. If he walked through those doors now he meant to propose to her, here, in front of all of these people, meant to make his love of her public, meant to declare, for all to hear, that she was the one for him, and no other.

But only if she would have him, only if it was what she wanted. Jean hung there, suspended in this moment so full of possibility. She could have him now, truly, could take his hand and kiss him, could be his wife, his queen, could see her whole life change in the blinking of an eye. Everything that she had been would pass away, and a new dawn would break, a new life stretching out before her. Though it was courteous of Lucien to give her the chance to send him away, the gesture still spoke of his reckless impulsivity; she would have to make a choice, right now, this very instant, a choice that would thrust her and her family into the public eye, a choice that would change her in a moment from a widowed cook to royalty. Part of her hated him for it, for forcing her hand in such a way, but it was only a very small part. The larger part of her heart cried out with love of him, relieved and overjoyed to think that he still loved her, still cared for her, still wanted her badly enough to take such a risk. He had promised her, once, that he had a plan, that all would work out for the good. Now it seemed he meant to keep his promise.

Do you?

Did she wish to marry him? To hold him, to love him, to stand by him, forever, no matter the trials ahead? Did she want this life for herself, could she embrace these changes, was she brave enough to take the hand he offered her?

"Yes," she gasped before she could think better of it, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. "Yes, please."

Nevermind that there were people watching. Nevermind that she had not seen him for months. Nevermind that she still worried what might happen when Jack's troubled past came to light, nevermind that she was not certain she could comport herself with the sophistication required of a queen, nevermind the machinations of the politicians and everything else that threatened her happiness. Lucien was here, and he wanted her; Lucien had come for her, against all reason, and she could not, would not send him away, not now. There would not be another chance for her to feel this love, this joy, this hope, and she would not turn away from it now.

"Good girl," Sir Patrick said, beaming at her broadly. He snapped his fingers and one of the soldiers dashed out the door, gone to fetch their king, to bring Jean's man back to her arms at last.

A murmur went through the dining room, as the soldier went marching out the door, gone to fetch this mysterious man who had come for Jean. Though John could not even begin to imagine who this man might have been - this man who sent the Prime Minister to run errands for him, this man who brought tears to Jean's eyes, this man who set her hands to trembling - he fancied he had a fair idea what the man meant to ask her. The hitch in her breath, the way the PM spoke of avoiding embarrassment, the way Jean's voice had shaken when she said he still wants...when that man came walking through the doors, John had a fair idea what question would be asked, and what answer would be given, and he knew his kegs were about to run dry.

And he was pleased for her, truly. Jean was the best of women, kind and clever, gentle and strong; he had come to know her, and to treasure her friendship. And though another man, working in close proximity with such a woman, might have felt more than friendship for her, John never did, and she had seemed relieved by his lack of romantic inclination. Jean was the best of women, but John had already had his love, and lost her. They'd shared that in common, John and Jean, the ache of widowhood, the ever-present sting of grief; it had formed common ground between them, enabled them to get on quite well with one another. There would never be another woman for John to love as he had loved his late wife, but it seemed that Jean had found a man for herself, and if she was happy to accept him, then John would be happy for her.

The door swung wide and the soldier came marching back through accompanied by several other men. A gasp rippled through the pub then, the sudden scraping of chairs and rushing of feet as patrons rose from their seats, craning their heads and whispering furiously to one another. The cause for the commotion was not immediately apparent to John; the soldier leading the little group was the same one who'd dashed out only a moment before, an inconspicuous, unremarkable lad. Behind him there limped another soldier, a man that John recognized with a start. The man with the cane, that was Matthew, the fella who had come to visit Jean so many times. For a moment John wondered if perhaps it was this Matthew who had come to claim her hand - he was a good bloke, as far as John could see, and the only person who had ever come to see Jean at the pub - but in the next moment he saw who walked behind Matthew, and realized his mistake.

"Bloody hell."

The whispered words slipped past his lips, unheard by anyone else. It did not matter; everyone in that room shared his shock, his confusion in that instant. For there, just behind Matthew, tall and proud, there walked the king.

The bloody king! He was handsome and straight-backed, his greying beard neatly trimmed, his navy suit finely tailored, his eyes fixed wholly, completely, on Jean. His face was undeniable; he'd been all over the telly for the last few months, giving speeches, talking about the arrival of his daughter and her reinstatement as princess. In truth he was the most recognizable man in the kingdom; the wives liked to talk about how handsome he was, and the men liked to talk about how they appreciated having a soldier for a king. There was no living person in their country who would not know that man on sight, and yet his appearance in such a place as this was most unheard of. To see him venture from the castle, guarded only by a handful of soldiers, walking through a pub crowded with people, was to John's mind rather like seeing a dragon walking along the high street.

The bloody king! Is in my bloody pub!

Nothing like this had ever happened in the village before, and never would again.

The king was walking straight towards Jean, as if he did not see that there was a room full of people around him, on their feet and craning their necks for a better view of him. There were perhaps eight guards gathered around him, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd, but the king was focused solely on John's cook. The Prime Minister stepped aside, grinning, and Jean was left alone in the center of the dining room, an island in a sea of faces. She had never looked more beautiful, John thought, than she did in that moment; she wore a pale pink blouse, and a tight brown skirt under her white half-apron, her chestnut hair perfectly curled, though greying at the temples. Her hands were caught together in front of her, winding anxiously around one another, but her face; oh, her face was a picture of loveliness, her grey eyes bright and fixed on the king, silver tears spilling down her pale cheeks. Her lip did not tremble, nor did her shoulders shake with sobs, but still those tears flowed, until at last the king came to a stop before her.

"Hello, my darling," he said softly.

A gasp seemed to echo through the pub, the sound of thirty people taking a deep breath as one, all of them holding it, listening with every fiber of their being, watching these two people with eyes unblinking. My darling, he had called her, and with those two words revealed the truth of his intentions, the depth of his connection to her. How a woman like Jean, a simple woman, a widow and a farmwife by her own admission, had come to know the king John could not say, though he imagined there was a good story there. What a picture they made, the noble king, the mighty soldier, the man who had rejected his life of privilege in order to serve others, and returned home at last to care for his people, this man who become a legend in their eyes, he stood before them now, facing a woman they counted as one of their own, a beautiful woman, and as he loved her so did they, for his sake.

"Lucien," Jean breathed, and tension crackled through the room like electricity. She had called him by his name, and in so doing cemented her place in all their hearts as the heroine of the romance, collecting her reward at last.

And John held his breath with the rest of them, waiting.

Lucien smiled, when she spoke his name, and that smile fell upon her like a strike of lightning, fierce and blinding and beautiful. She had not seen him for months, had believed him to beyond her grasp, had almost reconciled herself to the terrible loss of him, and yet he was here, now, smiling at her, and her heart was so full of joy she feared it must surely shatter in her chest.

"There's something I need to ask you," he told her then.

A small laugh escaped her, a ragged, choking thing; he looked so anxious, so apprehensive, as if he were afraid of her, and she could not help but laugh, to think that this titan of a man could be afraid of her, to imagine that he could believe, even for a moment, that she might reject him, when she had told Sir Patrick to send him in, when she was watching him now with eyes full of love. She could not help but laugh to think that when the opportunity presented itself he had jumped in with both feet, eager as a schoolboy; that was her Lucien, her reckless man, and she loved him more than her own life.

"Ask me, then," she told him, giving him an encouraging little nod, and he grinned at her, bright-eyed and relieved.

"Right," he said. "I'll try to do this properly."

And then, right there, in full view of all and sundry, he hitched up his trouser legs and dropped to one knee. Right there, on the dusty floor of the pub, with all those people looking on, Jean's king did what no king had done before, or ever would again; he knelt before a woman with no title to her name, no land, no money, no status. He knelt, and in the kneeling Jean saw more than just a man committed to tradition; he was offering all of himself to her, humbly, and she loved him for it. Whispers flitted through the room like little birds on glittering wings, but Jean paid them no mind, for as he knelt Lucien reached into the pocket of his jacket, and withdrew a small black box.

"Jean," he said, opening the box and holding it up for her to see. "This was my mother's ring."

The tears fell harder, as she looked at him, her dear, sweet man, kneeling before her, offering her the ring that had belonged to his mother. His beloved mother, a queen who had, like Jean, been born without title, who had married a king for love; that ring was precious for more reasons than Jean could count, and Lucien offered it to her without reservation, along with his own beating heart.

"There is nothing I want more than for you to be my wife," he said, choking up just a little as he spoke that word wife. Jean heard the unshed tears in his voice and understood him; this was not the first time Lucien had asked for a woman's hand in marriage, and it would not be the first time Jean accepted a proposal. They both knew the risk they were taking, the heartbreak that might one day come for them, but they had both decided that the beauty of their love would be worth any price of grief. "Please, come home to me, my darling. Let me love you. Marry me, Jean."

Come home, he'd said, and those two words moved her more than any others ever could. Home, to the place where they'd met, the gardens and the battlements and the kitchen where they'd held one another, the place where they could be whole, and happy, together.

"Yes," Jean answered, though in truth he had not asked a question. She meant to tease him for it later, but they were both of them too raw, too hungry for one another in this moment, too vulnerable, too exposed, too desperate to be together for her to delay the moment of their joining for another second. Lucien reached for her trembling hand, and she gave it to him, watched as he gently kissed her palm, and then carefully pulled the ring from the box, sliding it on her finger. It settled into place like a key sliding into a lock, sealing their futures, joining their lives forever, til death do us part. For a moment Lucien knelt, staring up at her in awe and wonder, her hand held tight in his own, and in his face she saw reflected the light of love that swelled and burst within her own heart.

"You see, my darling?" he said softly. "Some dreams do come true."

It was only a dream, she had told him once, and that he had remembered those words and echoed them back to her now, that he had taken her dreams and made them a reality, each and every one, overwhelmed her most completely. it was a dream, that he should love her, that a king should come for her, in his finery, surrounded by his guards, and prostrate himself at her feet. It was a dream, that Lucien could love her as she loved him, that they could be together, and happy. It was the most beautiful dream, and Jean never wanted to wake.

"I love you, Lucien," she whispered, and in the next moment he was on his feet, and she was in his arms.

A raucous roar burst forth as the king vaulted to his feet and wrapped Jean in his arms. It was like something from a film, John thought, the way her arms slid round his neck, the way his lips crashed into hers, the way the pub patrons clapped their hands and stomped their feet and cheered. They were beautiful together, the handsome king and his lovely lady, clinging to one another, kissing one another fiercely, full of love and overjoyed by their new engagement, and the crowd delighted in their happiness. John's voice was the loudest of all; though he was not a man much given to sentiment he enjoyed a good story as much as the next man, and this was, he thought, the best story he'd ever heard. For a moment the king kissed his lady love passionately, desperately, but then he broke from her lips with a laugh, and lifted her clean off her feet, spun her in a circle while she held him tight and the crowd roared their applause.

What a sight they made, the handsome king and his beautiful lady. The soldier and the widow, two hearts who had known grief and yet found joy once again, with one another. The king's display of exuberance had won the hearts of the crowd, John knew, but it was what happened next that would stay with him forever, for as the king set Jean back on her feet she reached up and cradled his cheek in her palm. Their eyes locked on one another, and in their gaze John could see their hope, their relief, their genuine love of one another. Yes, Jean had been running when she came to this place, John understood that now, but she no longer needed to hide; she had everything she wanted, and her happiness warmed his heart.

"Drinks all around!" He roared, and the cheers of the crowd, which had faded, redoubled in an instant. The waitresses were wiping tears from their cheeks and the men who still had beer in their glasses raised them in toast to the king. The king leaned down and brushed his lips against Jean's blushing cheek, before slinging his arm low around her waist and turning to face the crowd. He raised his hand for quiet, and a hush fell as everyone watched him, standing there with his arm around Jean, his ring on her finger.

She's going to be the bloody queen, John thought faintly. Good on her.

"My friends!" the king called in a great booming voice. "This is a wonderful day. Thank you all for sharing in this moment with us." He looked down at Jean, and her answering smile was brighter than the sun itself. "Your offer was a kind one, sir," he said then, turning to catch John's eye. "But I must insist - the drinks are on me!"

Jean laughed, and the assembled crowd cheered their approval, and the very walls of the pub seemed to swell and sway as they struggled to contain the sea of joy that swept through every heart gathered in that place. John was behind the bar in a moment, pulling pints as fast as his hands would go, and someone dropped a coin in the jukebox, and while the guards formed a ring around them the king took his lady once more in his arms, and began to dance, gently, softly, a dance they no doubt had undertaken many times before, and would again on nights beyond counting, down through the years.