24 December 1958

It had been a beautiful day, she thought. The air had been chill but crisp, the sun shining brightly down on the glittering festivities, bringing out the shine of her King's hair, the shine of his medals, the shine of his crown. People had lined the pavement, kept at bay by police and soldiers, while he rode down the broad avenue to the cathedral in an open, horse-drawn carriage. He did not wave and smile like some sort of pageant queen; he stood tall and grim, and she rather thought the people loved him all the more for it. He had looked, she thought, every inch a King. Powerful, strong, distant as the sun, he had looked like the sort of man who could lead armies into battle, the sort of man who could be trusted with the fate of his nation. She had watched, crammed into the guardhouse with the rest of the staff, while he spoke the words in a clear, proud voice, while he was anointed and blessed, his rule now unquestioned and complete. She had listened, rapt with attention, when he addressed the crowd from the steps of the cathedral, after, when he spoke of peace and prosperity and a bountiful future, and the people had roared their approval so loudly she fancied for a moment she could feel the ground tremble beneath her feet, though she stood miles away from him.

And then she had returned to the castle, overseeing the last of the preparations and then hiding out in the kitchen while the coronation ball carried on in the grand hall. She had stood at the ready, all night long, while people bustled in and out carrying trays of drinks and fancy hors d'œuvres. There had been no calamity requiring her attention, but still she had been forced to wait, listening to the soft strains of the music floating in the air, thinking of that night she'd followed a different tune, and found an altogether unexpected sight. The festivities officially ended at 11:00 p.m., but Jean had lingered to dispatch a flurry of maids to begin the cleanup, and, once satisfied that everything was in hand, she had donned her veil, and made her way to the small chapel on the north side of the castle grounds to sit for midnight mass.

It was Christmas Eve, after all. She rather thought that some of her compatriots had forgotten that, in the flurry of activity surrounding the coronation. The crowd gathered this year seemed particularly small, but then it seemed so every year. The number of the faithful was shrinking, she knew. The young people in the castle did not keep with her traditions, but then she supposed their roots did not run so very deep as hers. The words, the hymns, the prayers, the benediction of the priest bound her to a life that had begun before most of the maids currently working under her direction had ever been born. They did not have her history, her grief and her lament; perhaps in time they would, but they were young and untroubled by such memories.

Jean, though, Jean knew where she'd come from, and she knew where she belonged. She sat on a hard pew in the ancient chapel and felt the serenity, the very breath of God whispering through the air around her. It was not required that she wear her widow's veil to the service; only the very old women covered their heads for mass, these days. Jean herself was only just past forty, but she remembered the old ways, and she kept to them. Small remembrances like that one made her feel closer, somehow, to the woman she had been before, the family that had scattered to the wind, and for an hour or so she had not felt alone.

But then the service had ended, and though it was terribly late Jean could not bring herself to seek her bed. She gathered her white shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders and slipped up the stairs to the battlements, to walk along the old stone parapet and gaze up at the stars. She reached her accustomed place and pressed her hands flat to the stones, her chin lifted high, her thoughts drifting on the wind; where are you tonight, my boys?

Young Christopher was far from her side, spending the holiday season in Korea while his wife went home to be with her family for Christmas. And Jack...Jack was lost to her. Where he had gone she could not say, and while she desperately wished to know she feared the answer would not set her heart at rest.

"I thought I might find you here," a soft voice called out to her. She did not turn; she did not need to. He would come to her, the way he always did, of his own choosing, in his own way. And if her heart was racing, if the thought of standing beside him sent a chill coursing down her spine that had nothing to do with the weather, she would keep such thoughts to herself. Had she been hoping to see him? She could not say. It was not a hope her mind had articulated, not a rational thought that had set her feet to climbing the stairs, but it was a hope she carried in her heart most every day, and she had grown so accustomed to its presence she hardly remarked on it anymore. It was improper, she knew, to stand alone with him now, particularly on this day, this blessed day, but she could not find the strength to turn away.

"Your Majesty," she murmured.

I thought I might find you here, he'd said, and oh, how those words filled her heart with warmth. He came to stand beside her, broad and strong in his uniform still, and she could hardly breathe beneath the strain of keeping her questions to herself. Why should he seek her out, this man who was so far above her station, this man who had the entire world laid out at his feet? Why should he think of her, when compared to him she was so unremarkable? Oh, Jean knew her own worth and would brook no discourtesy from anyone - King or otherwise - but she also knew that she was only a housekeeper, that she stood upon the parapet in a plain black dress she'd sewn herself, wrapped in a white shawl she'd knitted the winter before, with the black lace widow's veil still covering her hair. He was a King, and she was only one lonely woman, but he had been thinking of her, and she had been wishing that he would. There was a still, peaceful quality to the air that only came at Christmas, and she remained unmoving, waiting to see what other surprises this night might have in store.

"All right, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked as he settled into his usual place beside her, gazing out into the night. There was a small blue box weighing heavy in his trouser pocket, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He had hoped to find her, but he was more familiar with disappointment than satisfaction, and now that she was here he found some of his confidence dwindling. It had seemed like such a good idea, earlier in the evening. He had stopped a passing maid and casually inquired as to Mrs. Beazley's whereabouts, as if he had some matter of linens or accommodations to discuss, and the maid had told him in a trembling voice that Mrs. Beazley had gone to mass. The timing of it suited him just fine; he had raced up the stairs to his suite and slipped the box in his pocket, downed a glass of whiskey for good measure and waited for the clock to strike 1:00 a.m. before mounting the stairs. If she had not been there he would have found her the following day, but there was something rather...special, he thought, about presenting her with his gift here, now, in this place where they had met, when all the world was asleep, and no on around to see.

"I'm very well, thank you," she told him, though there was a note of sadness in her tone that left him wishing he possessed the skill to make her smile. No doubt she was missing her children; there was nothing more sorrowful, he thought, than a mother without her children at Christmas. Perhaps they would come to visit her, before the holiday season was through. He rather hoped that they would, and he was resolved to ask her about it later, but there was something he needed to do first.

"I have something for you," he said quickly, reaching into his pocket and drawing out the little box with trembling hands.

She turned to him sharply, her expression agonized as she caught sight of the box.

"Oh, no, sir, I can't accept it," she said, raising one of her hands in a gesture of refusal, rather than acceptance.

"Is there some rule I'm not aware of?" He tried to make the question sound light, but his heart was troubled. He had thought that perhaps his gift might make her glad, but she seemed so distressed. If there was in fact some sort of proscription against the King bestowing personal gifts upon members of staff he had just committed a grievous error, and he did not even know how to begin making amends.

"No," she answered after a moment. "Technically, no, but I can't imagine that you've bought gifts for all the staff, and...well...it wouldn't look right, would it?"

Strange, but he had never seen her hesitate before. She had always been so sure of herself, so sure of what to do, what to say, where to be. She carried that certainty like a badge of honor, but now her voice was small, and full of doubt. Of course she was right; if word got out that he had singled her out to receive a gift it would cause quite a stir. It would not do, to favor one member of staff above the others - particularly not one so pretty as she - and yet he did, and he knew it, and if the fear in her eyes was anything to go by, she knew it as well. Still, though, he had settled upon this course, and he would not be deterred.

"Well," he said, making a show of glancing around as if checking to see if anyone were standing nearby. They were quite alone, which was just how he wanted it to be. "There's no one here to see. And I didn't buy it, technically. I mean I did, but it was a very, very long time ago. Please, Mrs. Beazley, I...I want you to have this."

And he did. The thought had come to him days before, when he had been digging through the trunk he'd brought with him when he returned home, and stumbled across this bauble. It was beautiful, a relic from another time. He had been thinking how unfair it was, that it should lie forgotten and unloved in the depths of his trunk, and not be worn, not be treasured. And then he had thought about her, this lovely woman who so occupied his thoughts of late, who seemed to have so little in the way of personal adornment, who he so desperately wanted to thank for her kindness and compassion. It had clicked together in his mind like the pieces of a puzzle slotting into place, and he had become quite convinced that it was meant to be hers.

"Please," he said again. She watched him for a moment, grey eyes sharp and beseeching. It was plain that she was torn between conviction and curiosity, between duty and want, but it was Christmas Eve, after all, and Christmas was a time for the giving of gifts, and the receiving of them.

"I have nothing to give you in return," she said softly.

He sucked in a sharp breath, hoping she didn't notice. There was a weight to her words, a deeper meaning he understood all too well. The giving of gifts, the warmth and the familiarity of it, was an act of affection. It was the sort of thing a man might do for a woman he was courting, to find her in a special place and present her with a beautiful bauble. It was the sort of thing that was most often done with reciprocity in mind. Mrs. Beazley had no physical gift to give him, and there was nothing else she could offer him instead. She could not be his sweetheart, could not hold his hand, could not let his lips brush against her cheek, or hers against the corner of his mouth. She could not give him promises or devotion, could give him nothing more than she had done already. Her service was her gift, and he accepted it gladly, but he could take no more from her.

"That's all right," he said earnestly. "I'm not expecting anything."

And he wasn't. He knew the lines that had been drawn between them, the boundaries they must respect. But still he held out his hand to her, the little box balanced on his palm, and all his hopes with it.

"All right," she said finally, and his heart sang as she reached out and took the box from him.

"Go on," he said, suddenly eager to watch her face as his gift was revealed to her.

She flashed a smile at him and then began to carefully unfasten the ribbon that held the box closed; he reached out his hand to her and she placed the ribbon in his palm, and then he tucked it in his pocket. And then she opened the box, and the breath caught in her throat.

"Oh," she gasped, and for the briefest of moments he wished most fervently that she'd felt free enough to use his name.

It was a jade brooch in the shape of a lotus flower, inset with diamonds. He'd purchased it for Mei Lin before the invasion, intending to give it to her for her birthday. But the bombs had come before that day, and the little brooch had been stowed in his bag, saved for better days. Through the long years in the interment camp and the endless wandering that had come after Lucien had carried it with him, thinking only of returning it to his wife, that woman he had once loved so well. When he had discovered the brooch in his trunk, however, when he had pulled it out from beneath his folded trunks and the sheaf of drawings on loose paper, it had occurred to him that perhaps it was meant for Mei Lin no longer.

Though no word had come he was still waiting for some sign of his family. If they were found, if Mei Lin were returned to him, he realized he did not want to give the brooch to her, after all. Wherever she had been for the last sixteen years she would have seen her share of horror, would have had her life changed as irreversibly as Lucien's own. This brooch would only open an old wound, he thought, would only serve as a reminder of the past they could never recapture. If Mei Lin was returned to him, then he wanted them to try to turn over a new leaf, together, not to linger in the haze of blood-soaked memories. And if Mei Lin were truly dead, lost to him forever, he knew he could not keep it. Sir Patrick had exacted a promise from him, a vow he could not break. All the jewels Lucien had inherited upon his father's death would pass to his new wife, but this one was too important, too precious, to be given over to her, for however lovely she might be Lucien knew already he would not love her, and to give this symbol of enduring love to her would be, he thought, an insult to Mei Lin's memory.

Still, though, the brooch deserved a home, and he could think of no one he trusted more than Mrs. Beazley. She would treasure it, and treat it gently, and it would shine when she wore it. And perhaps she would look at it and hear the words he could not say, feel the depth of his regard, his gratitude for her.

"It's beautiful," she said, tracing her fingertips along the edges of the flower almost reverently. "Was it...was it hers?"

Lucien frowned; he was quite certain he'd never told Mrs. Beazley about his wife, and he could not imagine that Patrick or Matthew would have broken his confidence.

"You told me once," she added, seeing the confusion on his face, "that you fell in love with the wrong girl and you lost her. Was this meant for her?"

A gentle smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was not treachery, then, or a loose tongue that had told her of his wife. She had only listened to him, and taken every word he spoke to her to heart, and he felt a great swell of affection rise up in his chest at the thought.

"It was," he answered truthfully. "But I never had the chance to give it to her. I should like for it to have a good home, now. To be looked after, and kept safe."

"Well," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

You aren't the only one who lost someone, he wanted to tell her then. Perhaps we can find a way forward, you and I. Perhaps we can lay the past to rest.

"No, thank you, Jean," he answered softly.