31 December 1958
She heard him before she saw him. The distinct thump of a body banging off the edge of a perfectly polished worktop, the muttered curses, the steady clap of two very shiny shoes bearing him ever nearer to her. Jean's heart dropped; the last thing she wanted, in this moment, was to speak to him.
It was well past 1:00 in the morning, and all the guests had been sent home and all her tasks had been completed for the evening, but she could not yet face her bed. She likewise had not been willing to make her way up to the roof; it was bitterly cold, and she had not wanted to see him, had not wanted to risk finding herself alone with him and her grief. She had been, up to that point, sitting alone on a stool in an out of the way corner of the kitchen, sipping a tepid cup of tea while the wireless played softly beside her. The cooks liked to have a bit of music while they worked, and Jean had enjoyed listening to it for a few moments, letting the words wash over her, and ease some of her discontent.
It was well and good, she had decided, that the King should take an interest in Lady Ann. He could marry, and spend his attentions on someone who was appropriate, someone who could match him, who befitted his elevated station. And in time perhaps the castle would filled with the sound of children's voices. In time, perhaps, he would forget all about her, and she would walk along the battlements in the darkness unimpeded, as she was meant to. What was not well and good, however, was her King's behavior earlier in the evening.
Jean had witnessed the entire bloody affair from start to finish, and her hands were still shaking. Near the end of the evening Sir Patrick had introduced the King to the British Ambassador, a polished man named Sir Richard Lambeth. Jean had been overseeing the serving of the last of the champagne in the hall when she heard Sir Patrick explain that Sir Richard had been in Singapore, just like the King. She had watched - discreetly, of course - as Sir Richard waxed lyrical about the tremendous work the Brits had been doing in Singapore in the years after the war, watched as her King's face grew redder and redder with each word, a vein jumping out in his neck as anger began to build within him. Sir Patrick, perhaps noticing the warning signs, had attempted to steer the King away, but it was too late, and the vitriol had spilled out of him in waves.
"Let him finish!" the King had said, his tone dripping with disdain, and around them partygoers had turned to watch in avid fascination. "He was talking about the terrific work the Poms are doing in Singapore since the war. Of course, that depends on how you define famine, neglect and revenge killing, really, but none of that, none of that is Dick's fault." His voice was bitter, biting off each word, the sheer rage in his tone chilling Jean to the core. Everyone within twenty of feet of them was listening and others, sensing trouble, had begun to drift closer while an eerie silence descended upon them, but the King was just beginning to warm to the subject.
"Of course, Singapore is just one in a long line of complete stuff-ups. What about the complete bloody balls-up at Gallipoli? If your lot hadn't been such cowards-"
Sir Patrick had successfully separated them, then, and the ambassador had left in a huff, and the King had gone straight to the nearest waiter, and downed a glass of champagne in a single gulp. Jean had turned away, her stomach roiling with shame. How could he have done such a thing, she asked herself. How could he have spoken to the man in such a way, conducted himself so boorishly and threatened his country's relationship with their strongest ally? He had only just been crowned King and now here he was, drunk and picking fights. At least she assumed he was drunk; he appeared to be, and perhaps the appearance alone was damning enough.
And now, now he was stumbling into the kitchen, and disappointment surged within her as she took in the sight of him. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, and he was cursing as he struggled with his bowtie. He finally managed to wrench it free at almost the exact same moment he caught sight of her; carelessly he threw his tie aside, and came to a stop just in front of her. Jean slid to her feet and gave him the shortest curtsy she could manage, reaching at once for his tie; it wouldn't do to just leave it there, no matter how little he seemed to care for appearances.
"I can tell by your frown that you heard what happened earlier," he said, his voice heavy and yet somehow still defensive.
"Nevermind that," she answered him tightly. "I suppose you want something to eat?"
"I just came to see if there were any of those lovely little canapes left. I can fetch them myself, Jean." He called her by her name; he had been doing that more and more of late, and while sometimes it made her glad to hear it, now it only brought on a fresh wave of displeasure. He was not meant to be so familiar; he was not meant to do a lot of things, and yet he seemed determined to make every possible mistake.
"Sit," she said, pointing the stool she had so recently vacated, only adding, "please," when she realized that the tone she'd used with her King was the same one she'd previously reserved for Jack when he'd been particularly naughty. "I'll get them."
He heaved a great sigh but did as he was bid, settling onto the stool while she went to fetch him down a plate.
He could not bear it, her obvious displeasure. In the moment he had felt righteous, full of a great, towering fury, but then the fog of rage had lifted and he found himself alone in a sea of strangers, watching him warily as if he were some sort of rabid dog, poised to attack any of them at any given moment. They did not know him, did not understand him, could never hope to do so, and he had felt so frightfully lonesome, so hideously empty. Mercifully his little outburst had come near the end of the party and so he was able to avoid conversation in the aftermath, but he had felt their eyes upon him, had felt the weight of his missteps. He had forgotten himself, in the moment, had forgotten his duty to his people, to his crown, had forgotten his responsibilities and the future of his nation, had forgotten everything except his own grief.
And now, to make matters worse, it was plain that Jean was cross with him. That was what he found most unbearable. Jean, who had until now been nothing but lovely, a piece of comfort to him, Jean who looked so beautiful in her flowing green dress, wrapped in a pale cardigan with the brooch he had given her pinned proudly to her chest. He had seen that brooch and his heart had leapt, to think that she treasured his gift, that she wore it willingly, but sorrow had overwhelmed him just as quickly when he saw her frown. He had fallen short of her expectations, and her disappointment compounded with his own shattered heart left him feeling petulant and out of sorts. She did not know, truly, what he had lost, and she, like all the rest, could not comprehend what a struggle it was, to wake up each day and find himself living this life he had for so long railed against.
In a moment she was back, passing him a plate with her lips still set in that firm line, and something deep within his chest shattered at the sight of her.
"Go on, then," he said, taking the plate and popping a canape into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, swallowed, and then continued. "Tell me what's on your mind. Speak plainly, Mrs. Beazley, God knows you want to."
She frowned even harder, if such a thing were possible, crossing her arms over her chest.
"That was tactless." He had told her to speak plainly and she bore in relentlessly, making it clear she intended to do just that.
"What on earth were you thinking?" she demanded.
"I embarrassed myself," he answered glumly, knowing it was true. "I embarrassed all of you. All of us." And he had, knew he had, knew that word of his outburst would be all over the society pages come morning, that word would spread throughout his kingdom and to the world beyond that he was a drunk and a brawler and utterly lacking in refinement.
"Oh, I don't care about the embarrassment," she said, and Christ, but she was lovely like this, the color high in her cheeks, the words spilling forth from her with such passion; she stood tall and proud and he was left utterly swept away by her. "It's the lecturing I don't like," she continued, "and the fact that you think you're the only one who matters. Almost everyone in that room lost someone or something in the war. You're not the only one. You embarrassed yourself. But you insulted the rest of us."
Her words landed like a bomb in the midst of his heart, left his ears ringing and his hands trembling. She was right; of course she was right. She always was. And she had, eloquently and with great heat, just put him firmly in his place in a way no one had dared to do for months. The petulant sense of self-righteousness deserted him utterly as she spoke, and he was left feeling only remorse.
"I'm sorry, Jean," he said, and he noted the flicker of surprise in her eyes, as if she hadn't imagined it would be so easy to draw an apology from him. "I certainly never meant to insult you. And you're right, I was only thinking of myself." And my wife, and my little girl, and Derek, and everyone else we lost in Singapore. "And I know I'm not the only person who lost someone."
Her eyes shone at his words, sorrow swirling in their depths, and though her arms crossed a little tighter it seemed to him that something in her face softened, just a bit, at his words.
"Where did he serve? Your husband."
It was a question Lucien had been meaning to ask her from the moment he learned that her husband had been a soldier. Had they ever been in the same place, Lucien and the man Jean loved? Had they stood shoulder to shoulder, guns blazing? Had Lucien treated the man's wounds in the dingy cabin that served as an infirmary in Changi?
"The Solomons," she said simply, and Lucien's heart sank; he had not been there himself, but he knew enough, knew how wretched that campaign had been. "He was killed during the invasion of Tulagi, in 1942. It took them six months to tell me, and by then he'd been buried there, along with the rest of his unit." Jean leaned back against the counter behind her, her eyes far away. Lucien all but held his breath as he listened to her speak, the canapes utterly forgotten, an almost hallowed silence filling the breaths between Jean's words. In that moment he was a King no longer, was utterly unconcerned with his kingdom or affairs of state, was focused, most completely, on the beautiful woman in front of him, and her grief, so like his own.
"I used to worry about him," she said, "buried there all alone, so far from home."
"Used to?" Lucien asked her softly.
"I realized, after a while, that he isn't alone. Those men he fought with, they were as good as his brothers. And they're with him. They'll look after him for me. I'm sure you felt the same way about the men you served with."
A lump rose in the back of Lucien's throat, faces of those friends he'd lost swimming through his mind for the first time in a very long while. Thirteen years since the end of the war, and yet he could recall those faces so clearly, their names, their hopes, the bitter, horrible ways they'd died. And his family, his darling girls, perished in the sea - or worse, perhaps, for he did not know yet for a certainty what had become of them - had suffered, too, and grief laid heavy upon his shoulders.
"I did," he said simply.
"And you wanted better for them than what they got."
She did not understand, he realized. When he had lashed out at Sir Richard he had been thinking only of his family, but Jean had no way to know that. She thought it was love of his brothers-in-arms that compelled him, and she had found some way to come to terms with that, and in that moment he loved her for it.
"Yes." He could not tell her the truth about his family, not now, not yet, but she was right, too, that he still grieved for his fallen friends, that their treatment during the war still bit at him, a grief that would never quite dissipate.
"These wounds will heal, Your Majesty," she told him gently. "They all do, in time. They may not set straight, they may pain you in bad weather, but they'll heal."
For a moment he stared up at her, her shining eyes, her softly parted lips, overcome by the tenderness she'd bestowed on him; she had called him to account for his bad behavior but he rather thought she had forgiven him, too, and to hear her speak to him so gently, so reassuringly now, called to his heart in a way that no one else had done for many a long year. Slowly he slid to his feet, and held out his hand to her. The wireless was playing softly beside them, and she was so beautiful, and so kind, and so good, and he could not stop himself.
"Dance with me, Jean," he said.
He took a step forward, his hand still outstretched, but she only stared at him, her eyes gone wide with some emotion he could not name, and then she shook her head.
"You shouldn't dance with me," she told him, and strange as it was, he almost thought she sounded sad as she said it. "You should dance with Lady Ann. You looked good together."
So she had seen him, then. She had seen him dancing with Joy, had seen him smile, had drawn her own conclusions. What she did not know, could not have known, was that he had only done it because he must, because he had made his promises to Sir Patrick, because he had been desperate to escape a dreadful conversation and Lady Ann had presented a convenient avenue for him to disengage. The desire he felt now could not have been more different, and he felt compelled to tell her so.
"I don't want to dance with her," he answered. "I only want to dance with you."
The moment stretched between them, a silken chord stretched taut with yearning, with doubt, but then Jean reached out and took his hand, and his heart sang in his chest. Deftly he pulled her close, one hand holding hers, one hand placed gently at the small of her back. They were close, too close, closer than he had stood with Joy during the party, and she was following his lead, step by step, as he turned them gracefully around the tiled floor in the empty kitchen. There were no waiters, no band, no glittering ballgowns; his tuxedo was in a shambles and her dress, while beautiful, was far plainer than any he had seen so far this evening, but there was such beauty in that place, in that moment, in her. As they moved her skirt swirled around her calves, and he leaned in and she met him, close, so close, and she smelled of bread and flowers, smelled of home. And wasn't that strange, he thought, for he had not felt at home anywhere, with anyone, in such a long time. In fact, he wasn't sure he ever had.
Beneath his hand she was small, delicate, as graceful as any lady. Someone had taught her how to dance, and properly, and he was grateful for it. He smiled down at her, overcome with the sheer rightness he felt in the moment, the way everything seemed to be slotting into place, and she answered with a tentative smile of her own, soft and hopeful. How did I get so lucky? He wondered as still they swayed together. How could it be that here, in this place that felt so much like a prison, he could have discovered her, this woman strong and lovely, brave enough to tell him the truth, kind enough to share her own, encouraging him, always, to do better, and yet seeming to accept him for the man that he was? Jean didn't care about his crown, or his riches, or his power; she had always, from the first, cared just for him, and he was beginning to think that care might be the only thing that could save him from himself. He would not cause such a scene again, he knew, for always in the future he would picture her face in this moment, and he knew he would do whatever he could to make her proud, and never disappoint her.
Oh, but she was close; her hair brushed against his chin and he knew that if he bowed his head he could easily press his lips against the corner of her mouth and he wanted it, Christ but he wanted it. He held himself back for her sake; he had pushed her too far already, and this moment was too beautiful, too miraculous to shatter with such reckless haste. And so he only held her, moving gently together, feeling the warmth and softness of her against him until at last the song drew to a close, and they swayed to a stop.
"Thank you, Jean," he murmured softly. She stepped back from him, blushing furiously, and he grinned, wondering if her thoughts had taken the same course as his own. He had resolved not to kiss her lips or her cheek, but he could not let the moment end without showing her in some way the depth of his regard for her, and so he took her hand, the hand he still held, and lifted it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against her skin.
But it seemed this was not the right thing to do; Jean drew in a sharp breath and recoiled from him as if she'd been burned by the touch of his lips, crossing her arms tightly around herself once more.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said, grief and doubt shining in her eyes.
"No," he agreed, somewhat heavily. "But I wanted to, Jean."
She stared at him, aghast, and he felt all the joy of a moment before slowly suffocate beneath the weight of his crown. It had been an indulgence, to dance with her, to imagine, even for a moment, that he could be allowed to hold her. He had placed her in a terrible position, he knew, but he could not quite bring himself to regret it, even now when she had remembered the difference in their stations and he was himself so desperate to forget it.
Jean sighed, and her shoulders sagged. "You should go to bed," she told him gently. She reached for his bowtie, lying in a heap on the counter, and pressed it into his hands. "I'll clean up here."
Desperately he cast about for something to say, some way to explain himself, explain his feelings, explain why he had done such a thing, but she turned away from him, and in that gesture he seemed to hear the slamming of a distant door. Jean had made her choice, made it for both of them, and he knew he must respect it.
And so he only hung his head, and departed in silence.