31 December 1958
"It's just a party, Your Majesty," Matthew said gruffly as they made their way down the corridor, towards the stairs, towards the foyer, towards the ball in the glittering grand hall, the last place on earth Lucien wanted to be at the moment.
"Some party," he grumbled back. Yes, technically, it was just a party, just music and flowing champagne and a hall full of important people in their finest clothes, everything in that room glittering and expensive and faintly nauseating. Lucien couldn't recall when last he'd rung in the New Year with any sort of fervor, let alone with the grandiosity the castle festivities promised. Lucien was hardly in the mood for such celebrations; it was cold and dark in the bleak midwinter, and he was now firmly ensconced in his new role, inundated with paperwork and public remarks and the trivialities of running his kingdom, and still no word of his family. What exactly did he have to celebrate, at present? The ending of a year that had stolen his father and his freedom, returned him to his home in golden chains? The promise of a new year that would only bring him more of the same?
Sir Patrick had hinted quite strongly that there would be several young, single ladies of notable houses present at the ball this evening, and while Lucien had been adamant that he would not even contemplate discussing a new wife when he did not know yet what had become of the first his Prime Minister had blithely informed him that the young ladies would be expecting a dance, and that to disappoint them would be to make enemies of their powerful families, a poor choice so early in his reign. Lucien thought that surely the man had more important things to do than oversee his King's dance card and yet Patrick remained stubbornly meddlesome, and Lucien had no idea how to put him off. He had resigned himself to one dance; he had decided that at the end of the evening he would find the quietest young lady in the room, and make one turn around the hall, and after that he would determine whether or not to repeat the performance. He had not danced since Singapore, and though he knew his feet would remember the steps he was still not looking forward to making such a display of himself, to holding another woman close.
At least Matthew would be with him; the castle was fairly crawling with security, but as Head of the Palace Guard - and an old friend - Matthew had taken it upon himself to stand watch over his King's person for the evening. Lucien thought they must have made a quite sight, the pair of them, as they slowly descended the stairs; Matthew's dress uniform glittered with ribbons and medals and his cane made an eerie sound each time it tapped the stairs, and Lucien walked beside him in a finely cut tuxedo, both of them going a bit grey at the temples, both of them old soldiers, weary and proud. Their descent went unremarked upon for the guests had all been herded into the grand hall, but the swish of a skirt around a doorway to the left caught Lucien's attention, and he was afforded the briefest glimpse of a green, floral-patterned dress and perfectly pressed curls. He did not need to see her face to know that it was her, that she was there, watching over him, that she had seen him. And though he did not wish to examine his own feelings too closely, he could not deny that the thought was a comforting one. If he could not speak to her, at least he knew that she was near, his touchstone in this uncertain life that had been thrust upon him.
"Here we go," Lucien breathed as they reached the vast doors of the hall, flung open to reveal the opulent party before them. A herald had been standing watch by the door, announcing all the various notables as they arrived, and the man jumped to attention when he caught sight of his King. As Lucien reached the threshold a great fanfare sounded; he scowled and beside him Matthew grinned tightly, recognizing and understanding his discomfort at once. And then the herald introduced him in a great booming voice, and there came the whisper of five hundred bodies bowing in perfect unison.
He stepped into that hallowed silence, waiters and nobles alike waiting breathlessly for his permission to continue in their revelry.
"My friends," Lucien called, the words bitter in his mouth, "thank you for joining us for this celebration. Please, don't let me stop you." He waved to the band; they hesitated for a moment, somewhat thrown by his plain words, but his gesture was unmistakable and as soon as they'd regained their composure they struck up a tune. The gathered notables righted themselves, whispers turning to a roar of conversation in a moment, those who had previously been engaged in dancing sliding back into the place, and just like that the party was in full swing, and no one was paying him any mind. Which was just how he wanted it, after all.
There had been an incident in the corridor; one of the lads tasked with drifting through the party carrying a tray of champagne flutes had spilled the whole bloody thing, wine and glass spilling across the marble, and Jean had seen to it at once, tidied it away quickly, before anyone who mattered took notice. No harm had been done but the young man was clearly shaken, and Jean had sent him back to the kitchen to collect himself - and another tray of champagne - before returning to his duties. She lingered, even after her task was through, hiding in an out-of-the-way corner of the hall, watching the party before her.
There were more than a dozen doors leading from the vast, cavernous hall; some opened onto the foyer, some opened on corridors leading to loo, and the pair at the back of the hall looked out onto the exquisitely manicured gardens. The doors had all been thrown open, save for the one behind her; this one was reserved for staff scurrying to and from the kitchens, and it was partially hidden from view by a large crimson tapestry. Jean stood behind that tapestry now, looking out at the guests and the music and the dancing and the fine food, a strange sort of heaviness in her heart. She wore one of her favorite dresses; green and covered in a pattern of flowers, it hugged the curve of her waist and flared out into a beautiful skirt that swirled around her calves as she moved, the cap sleeves and the neckline demure but not prudish. She loved the dress, and the way it made her feel when she wore it, but she could not deny that compared to the evening gowns of the ladies in that hall she looked quite plain indeed. They belonged to different worlds, Jean and the people she served. She would never be granted such beauty, such grandeur. But she could stand for a moment and bask in the loveliness of it all, and so she did. She had always held a deep appreciation for beautiful things.
Her eyes sought him out quite without her realizing it; strange, she thought, how quickly that had become a habit. He was easy to spot, tall and broad and handsome in his tuxedo, standing in quiet conversation with Sir Patrick and the daughter of one of the kingdom's most influential Dukes. The Lady Ann Whitcombe was perhaps thirty years old, and a great beauty. She had married the second son of a lesser house and had by all accounts been quite content in her marriage, but her husband had been killed in automobile accident two years before. Jean had never heard a single ill word spoken about Lady Ann, but watching the woman talking to the King now left Jean uneasy. It was said that her father was eager to see her married off again, and that she herself was not opposed to the notion. She was young, still, and as Jean watched the King said something that made Lady Ann smile, a pretty, beguiling smile that made Jean clench her hands together at her sides. Lady Ann's honey brown hair tumbled around her shoulders, her features delicate and unmarred by strain, her dress a rich, brilliant shade of purple and cut in the latest style. Wealth and education had given her a proud, self-confident bearing, and she presented the perfect picture of dignified elegance. Everything that Jean wasn't, Lady Ann was, and as Jean watched the King held out his hand to her, and the Lady took it, and they walked together towards the dance floor.
The other partygoers made space for them immediately; it would be all over the society pages the following morning, Jean knew. A photographer for the newspaper was flitting through the crowd, and he would no doubt obtain several snaps of the King dancing with the most eligible noble lady in the kingdom. They made a fine pair, graceful and demure, he so proud and she so lovely. And why shouldn't they? The King was as yet unmarried and Jean knew that Parliament were having fits over his lack of an heir. Perhaps he now held the answer to his dilemma in his arms. Lady Ann would be the perfect match for him, Jean was sure, and the moment he produced a child the whole kingdom would breathe a sigh of relief.
It was perfectly proper, what he was doing, and yet Jean turned away and slipped back toward the kitchens with her heart heavy in her chest. She had no claim over him, could never hope to, and yet still, she lamented. That lament troubled her, more than words could say.
"I want to thank you, Lady Ann," Lucien said softly as they danced together. "You've saved me from a deeply unpleasant conversation."
Lady Ann's smiles were lovely and frequent but they did not quite reach her eyes, and no laughter passed her lips. She offered him such a smile now, following his lead in perfect time across the polished floor, her hand soft in his own. "I might say the same to you, Your Majesty," she answered him. "My father has been salivating over the prospect of our meeting just as much as Sir Patrick has, and this little dance will quiet him, for a bit."
Lucien spun her deftly in time to the music and then pulled her in close once more. "But you've no interest at all in marrying me, do you, Lady Ann?" he asked shrewdly. Oh, she had been nothing but kind, saying all the right words in all the right places, but her heart had not been in it, and in fact he sensed a reticence about her that set his own fretful heart at rest.
"No more than you have in marrying me, Your Majesty."
Her forthrightness surprised him; as he had spoken to Lady Ann and Sir Patrick together he had rather got the sense that she kept her opinions to herself - if she had any of her own at all - but it seemed the relative privacy of this conversation had made her bold.
"Sir Patrick wants to see you married, sir. My father wants the same for me. And what we want doesn't factor into the bargain, does it?"
He stared at her, somewhat aghast, troubled by how easily she had read him, the whole situation, by how gracefully she had resigned herself to her lack of control over her own future.
"I would not presume to press a lady who was not interested," he said carefully.
"No, I'm sure you wouldn't. But you must marry someone, and I must do as my father wishes. If we are forced together, I think you and I might be friends in time, Your Majesty. Perhaps that would be enough."
"Perhaps it would, Lady Ann." Yes, if he was given no choice, if he had to marry again, he would at least like to marry an agreeable woman, a woman he could have a conversation with, and Lady Ann was the least offensive of the options that had so far been presented to him. Perhaps it would not ever be love, but perhaps he could make do.
Still they danced, though the song was drawing to a close, and she leaned a little closer to him, then. "My friends call me Joy, Your Majesty."
"All right, then," he said, smiling for the first time all evening. "Thank you for this dance, Joy."
She gave a little curtsy and then turned away, and his eyes followed her progress, his heart full of questions.