24 December 1959

"Oh, I'm not so sure about this," Jean murmured anxiously as she stared at herself in the mirror.

"Come now, Mrs. Beazley," Howard said, giving her an encouraging smile, "take courage! We both know this is the one. This dress deserves its chance to shine, and so do you."

What a dear man he was; Howard was a quietly renowned fashion designer in his own right, but the business he'd established for himself was now trucking along quite well without him, and he had jumped at the chance to take charge of the wardrobe for his queen-to-be. They'd spent rather a lot of time together over the last few weeks, discussing the image Jean wanted to present to the world and how Howard might make that image a reality. It had been an exciting but terribly strange sort of venture; in her youth Jean had made all her own clothes herself, and after the war she'd lived in the plain navy dresses that made up the uniform of a castle housekeeper. Though she had always taken pains with her hair, always taken the time to make sure the red polish on her nails was pristine and unchipped, she had not ever been the sort to concern herself overmuch with her clothing. Whatever she wore she liked for it to be pretty, and to fit her well, and beyond that she was not particular. But she was to be queen, now, and that required a wildly different approach to costuming.

Howard had been a godsend, in that regard. He had produced a bevy of smart tailored suits and demure cocktail dresses, had sent off to a couturier for all manner of lacy, silky things to go underneath them, and had procured a truly astounding number of beautiful, impractical shoes. But this dress she wore now remained his crowning achievement, and he cooed over it as a mother would her own child.

"It fits you beautifully," he reminded her, coming to stand beside her so that she could see his face in the mirror. "And it will stand out. There will not be a single woman in attendance who will be your equal, and that is as it should be."

Jean wasn't entirely sure that was true; no doubt there would be many ladies younger, taller, bouncier, more beautiful than she, but none of them would spend this evening on their king's arm, and so she supposed in that regard at least she would have no rival.

"It will certainly be the finest dress in the room," she told him.

And it would; oh, but it would. The king had announced his engagement, and had chosen this night to host a ball in celebration. It was Christmas Eve, and the castle ballroom would be crowded with men in tuxedos, the women beside them dripping in diamonds. The champagne would flow, and the food would be fine, the music lovely, as befitted a celebration in honor of a king of the realm and his lady love. It would mark Jean's first official appearance as the king's fiance, would serve as her introduction to a world of high society she had previously only observed from the shadows. They had all read the papers, heard the official statements read out on the wireless, but this would be the first time they would truly see her, and so Howard had created this beautiful, glorious dress, so that when every eye turned to her they would have no cause to look away.

It was a long, flowing affair of crimson organza, the red so deep and vibrant Jean's pale skin glowed against it. It was tightly fitted from the waist to the neckline, the bodice encrusted with a pattern of beads that twinkled like stars when the light hit them. The sweetheart neck showed rather more of Jean's skin than she was accustomed to displaying, the cap sleeves of soft red lace barely covering her shoulders. Below the waist it flowed out beautifully, the skirt wide but not heavy; the way it would move when she danced, she was certain it would look like something from a dream. It was a dress fit for a queen, and Lucien had told her she could have all the queenly jewels she wished to go with it, but between them Jean and Howard had decided to allow the dress to speak for itself. She wore almost no jewelry, only the ring that Lucien had given her and a pair of diamond cluster earrings. Attendants had come and styled her dark hair, had helped to apply her makeup - and pouted when she told them she did not want anything too dramatic. My face is my face, that's what she'd always told herself, and I won't try to hide it, or cover it up. The persons in charge of her appearance did not seem to agree, but there were some advantages to her new elevated station, and they could not ignore her wishes.

"The time has come, Mrs. Beazley," Howard told her with a glance at his watch. "Are you ready?"

Was she ready? Ready to make her way out of this room, to meet Lucien upon the stairs, to take his arm and let him lead her to a ballroom filled with people all craning to get a look at her? Was she ready for the whispers, the politicking, the petty gossip of the elite, the expectations she feared she'd struggle to fulfill? Was she ready to step into her new role, to get her first taste of what life as queen would be like? She wasn't entirely sure, but she knew that waiting would not serve to help her in any way.

"I am," she said, taking one last look at her reflection, hardly recognizing herself. Her dark hair had never been styled quite like this, softly curling around her face instead of gathered behind her head. And she had never owned a pair of earrings quite this fine, and she had never, ever worn a dress like this. The curve of her hip, the gentle slope of her décolletage, the sharp points of her collarbones; the dress displayed every line and curve of her body to its fullest effect in a way that was as jarring to her mind as it was beautiful. Having lived so long in the shadows Jean was unaccustomed to the spotlight, but this dress would put her there, and no going back. But it was beautiful, and she felt beautiful in it, and she knew that it had been made just for her by someone who only wanted to see her shine.

"And thank you, Howard."

She turned to him, reached out to shake his hand, but he took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissed it once as he bowed his head in reverence.

"No," he said, "thank you, Mrs. Beazley. It has been an honor, and a privilege. Just between us," he added as they made their way out of her little suite, holding the door open for her so she could pass through it, "you are by far the best customer I've ever had. And after everyone gets a look at you tonight, my business is going to go through the roof."

"I wish you all the best," Jean told him, laughing. No doubt that was true; the dress was beautiful, and the woman who wore it would be queen; all the ladies of the court would be salivating over the chance to wear something made by the same designer.

Their journey down the corridor to the stairs was brief, and Lucien was already there, waiting for her. No doubt his own preparations had taken significantly less time, but he had lingered, for he had decided already that they should enter the party together. This one, and every one after, they would always be together, move together, a united front; the very thought made Jean's heart begin to glow with happiness. After so much time spent trying to put distance between them she could now be as close to him as she wished, and that was a beautiful thing.

And oh, how handsome he looked, in his fine black tuxedo. It emphasized the span of his broad chest, the strength of his shoulders, every inch of him regal and sophisticated. But when he finally saw Jean in her deep red dress his mouth dropped open, for a moment, his eyes going wide as if he were bowled over by the very sight of her. Howard hung back, at that point, knowing he was surplus to requirements but no doubt taking advantage of the chance to gloat on the effect his dress was having on the king. Let him, Jean thought, smiling as she made her way to Lucien's side; he's worked so hard.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said to Lucien, his reaction to her appearance bolstering some of her flagging confidence. If Lucien liked this dress, that was enough for her.

"My God, Jean," he said in a low, reverent voice as he reached for her hand, "you look stunning." He was casting an appreciative eye over her, no doubt impressed by what the dress revealed, and Jean was glad to see it, the evidence of his desire for her written all over his face.

"So do you," she answered, and then on impulse she went up onto her toes, and kissed his cheek. She was still getting used to that, being able to kiss him if she wished, but indulging her love of him was growing easier by the day. In response Lucien slid his arm around her waist, and drew her in close to his side.

"They're going to eat themselves alive with envy when they see you," he told her, and with those words he began to lead her down the stairs.

"Only because I'm going to walk in with you," she answered. A good many noble ladies had been hopeful where their king was concerned, had done their best to draw his attention, vying for the chance to be queen, but he had gone and squandered his heart on the housekeeper, and no doubt all those fine ladies would spend the evening gnawing on their own livers.

"No," he disagreed, smiling. "Because you'll be the most beautiful woman in the room, and I'm the lucky sod who gets to marry you."

Jean would have kissed him again, but they had reached the doors to the ballroom, and a butler stood by, ready to swing those doors wide and herald the arrival of his king.

"Ready, sir?" the butler asked.

"Ready, my darling?" Lucien asked Jean in turn, watching her somewhat apprehensively.

Jean stood on the very precipice of a world so foreign to her she could hardly comprehend it. Her whole life had changed the moment she first met King Lucien, she knew that now. And it was changing still, by the minute. She'd spent weeks learning protocol, the duties expected of her, being introduced to an army of servants and attendants, learning how to be served with grace, rather than to serve in quiet dignity. The moment they stepped through those doors she would be plunged into a life of publicity hitherto unknown to her, her face on the front page of the newspapers, people everywhere talking about every word she said, everything she did, every dress she wore. She would be queen, and everything that went with it, starting in truth tonight, for all the rest of her days.

"Ready," she answered firmly.

"Might I steal the lady for a dance?" Sir Patrick asked.

They'd been lingering on the edge of the dancefloor for a moment, all of them trying to catch their breath. Lucien and Jean had opened the party together, dancing alone in the center of the room while Jean's crimson dress flowed like water all around them, while the guests watched in rapt attention. Whether they liked what they saw remained to be seen, but it didn't matter to Lucien; she had been every inch the queen, his beautiful love, had been kind and dignified, had been warm and charming. Her every smile was genuine, her laugh a delightful sound that encouraged mirth in others. And she had watched him, as they made the rounds, had smoothly intervened when some noble or other made a cagey remark that might otherwise have left Lucien cross; she knew how to read his mood, and she had saved them both from several moments that could have been quite awkward, if she had been any other woman. But she wasn't any other woman; she was Jean, and Lucien loved her with his whole heart.

"Only if the lady agrees," Lucien answered. Another man might have exercised more control over his fiancé's dancecard, but Lucien had no intention of keeping Jean to himself. She was her own woman, and that would not stop now that she was queen; whatever freedom he could offer her from within the walls of the castle he intended to give it, and gladly.

"She does," Jean said winsomely. Once more she kissed his cheek - the champagne had been flowing, and though Jean had been reserved in her consumption her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, and she had been reaching for him more often, and Lucien was glad of it. Let her hold his hand, kiss his cheek, let her smile when he wrapped his arm around her and not pull away for propriety's sake; his heart was topfull with affection for her, and he relished the chance to show it.

And so Sir Patrick carted Jean off for a dance, and Lucien counted himself lucky for a brief moment alone. A moment to watch, and consider all that lay before him. The partygoers were still watching Jean closely, but there were more smiles than frowns. The servants who drifted through the party carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne were smiling at her, too; he had worried, at first, that some of them might be a bit sullen about waiting on a woman who had once been counted among their number, but those fears were proved unfounded. Everyone in the castle loved Jean, and they respected her, and seemed genuinely happy for her.

"She's lovely, Your Majesty," a quiet voice murmured in his ear, and he turned to find himself face to face with Joy, wearing a pale lavender dress of close-fitting satin and a strangely sad little smile.

"She is lovely," Lucien answered her carefully. He did not know what Joy wanted from him in this moment, and he was not eager to find out.

"You seem happy," she told him. "I didn't think you knew how to be happy."

"I don't," he said with a shrug. "Not without her."

"I wonder what that's like," she said, a faraway expression taking over her features as she stared out at the party. "To love someone that much."

"You'll find out one day, Joy." He was not entirely sure that was true, but it seemed the only thing he could say, and he wanted to offer her some solace, if he could. After all, he was fond of her, in her own way; Joy was not a bad woman, and he liked to think that one day she would find the right man for her. One who would understand her, and not hold her back, one who would share her outlook on the world and not exasperate her at every turn, as he was sure he had done.

"What do you say, Your Majesty?" she asked him then. "One more dance, for old time's sake?"

"Of course," he told her, smiling, and it did not occur to him until they reached the dancefloor and she slid into his arms just how it would look, the king dancing with an old flame at his own engagement party. Worry lodged itself into the back of his mind but it was too late to retreat; he would look like a cad, if he abandoned her immediately after taking her hand in front of all the assembled notables. And she did not deserve such treatment; she was a strong woman, self-centered but not cruel, and he could not believe her purposes in asking him to dance had been nefarious. Perhaps people would whisper, as he danced with Joy, perhaps they would wonder which woman their king truly preferred, but Lucien knew the truth, and so did Joy, and so did Jean, and he resolved himself not to worry about it.