10 February 1959
It was perhaps a bit cowardly of him, to lie in wait for her rather than seek her out or write her a letter or otherwise engage with her directly, but Lucien wasn't sure, really, what else to do when Jean seemed so determined to avoid him, so convinced that what he wanted - what she wanted, what they wanted - could never be. She had not gone up to the roof again, and in truth he had begun to suspect that she had left the castle altogether, so complete was her absence. A few polite inquiries had set his mind to rest on that score; Jean was still in the castle, and he knew then that she must have devised some way to keep herself out of sight.
That simply wouldn't do.
Patience had never been Lucien's strong suit, and when he did pause to reflect on his actions he did so after the fact, over a bottle of scotch, usually in the darkness. When a problem arose he confronted it head on or not at all, and he was determined in this particular instance not to sit idly by. It was not only stubbornness or selfish desire that drove him to to this point, was not only a need easily sated by another more willing woman. Having tasted Jean's kiss, felt her arms wrap around his neck, felt the press of her thigh insistent at the curve of his hip, he knew now, without a doubt, that what he wanted, she wanted as well. Jean remained convinced that the obstacles between them were too great to overcome, but Lucien did not share her reservations.
That was why he needed to speak to her. To speak to her plainly, to hear from her lips the reasons why she thought they could never be and work through those challenges with her, together, so that in the end they might both be happy, might both be able to claim that which they wanted most of all. They had known one another for about four months; not a very long time, he knew, but long enough for him to grow terribly fond of her, long enough for him to learn that she was brave and strong and kind, to learn that he wanted, more than anything else, to spend more time with her. It was not within his power, just now, to make any grand promises, to give her the sort of commitment a good Catholic woman might want from a man, but surely this much they could do, talk to one another, continue to see one another, to treat one another gently, to nurture the fragile hope that had begun to bloom within his chest. Some part of him, less rational than he cared to admit, loved her already, and in a few months' time, when he had at last learned what had become of his family, perhaps he could…
Well. There were all sorts of things he hoped he would one day be able to do, but for now he was caught in this strange sort of limbo, and he wanted, very much, for Jean to be caught along with him.
To that end, then, he had retreated to the study in his private suite without a word to anyone just before lunch. He had learned, quite by accident, that it was Jean who cleaned his rooms each afternoon, and so he was determined to wait there for her. If she would not come to him, then he must go to her.
It was somewhat touching, the knowledge that it was Jean who tidied his things each day, that she did not entrust that task to anyone else. He liked the thought of it, Jean floating through his rooms, smoothing her hand over the coverlet on his bed, tucking his shirts into the wardrobe. If he were being honest with himself, however, the reminder that she was an employee, that she did these things because she must, because it was her duty, put a damper on those gentle feelings. He did not want her in his suite because she had to be there, because she had to clean up after him, because he had created work for her; he wanted her to be there because she wanted to be, wanted her to want to be there with him.
The main door opened and closed again, and though Lucien could not hear her footsteps on the plush carpet he could hear her sigh softly as she set about her work. The moment had come and he could tarry no longer, and so he took a deep breath, rose from his chair, and went out to meet her.
She was not in the sitting room but he could hear her moving around in the bedroom, and so he made his way there at once. She had left the door open behind her, and so he leaned against the frame, watching for a moment as she stripped the sheets from his bed. As always during the day she was wearing the soft navy dress and white half-apron that formed her uniform, dark curls bouncing gently as she moved, and as he looked at her he could think only how lovely she was, even in such simple clothes, how he loved that she could be so beautiful with neither vanity nor adornments to bolster her natural charms. Oh, she was not as young as some women he had met since coming to this place, but then he was not so very young himself, and youth did not charm him as it once might have done. That she was closer to his own age, that she had experienced more of life, that those experiences had been so similar to his own, those things he loved about her.
"Jean," he called softly, not wanting her to catch him in the act of staring. At the sound of his voice she spun on her heel, a pillowcase clutched in her hands and the color high in her cheeks.
"Your Majesty," she murmured, but her greeting was short and her mouth was set in a thin line; she does not approve, he thought glumly.
"I was hoping we could talk." It was not the most poetic of opening lines, but he knew that he must start somewhere, and Jean was not the sort of woman who would appreciate him beating around the bush. If this conversation was to be successful, he would have to be direct.
"I have work to do," she answered, turning her back on him, and he felt a flicker of annoyance deep within his chest. Not for her, never for her; he was frustrated, irritated, bedeviled by his circumstances. He did not want to be a king, did not want people bowing and scraping and falling all over themselves to follow his commands. He wanted to be a man, no better or worse than she, not the office that she served or the title she gave deference to but a man she could speak to, plainly and honestly. He wanted to hear her call him Lucien again, wanted to remember, if only for a few moments, who he was when he was not wearing the crown.
"Leave it for another day," he said then. "Come and sit with me. Please," he added when he realized he'd just given her two orders in a row.
There was silence for a moment, as if she were debating with herself, but she must have realized in the end that he was not going to simply let matters lie for she sighed and let the pillowcase flutter from her hand before turning to face him. Absently she smoothed her apron down over her thighs and he tried not to follow the movement of her hands with hungry eyes.
"Please," he said again, holding his arm out in a gesture of welcome, and with her chin held high Jean approached him, followed him into the sitting room and folded herself primly into a chair at his prompting.
"May I get you something to drink?"
"Please, sir, I haven't much time," she answered, her tone hardly welcoming.
Lucien frowned. "Very well." He sat, then, and braced his palms on his knees, feeling suddenly rather awkward. He knew what he wanted to say but he did not quite know how to say it, and Jean was watching him with eyes hard and wary, her delicate hands folded in her lap. Get on with it, old son, he told himself. There was nothing else for it but to put aside his dignity and dive right in, and so he did.
"I kissed you," he said, and she opened her mouth at once to protest, but he held his hand up, asking for silence. "Please, Jean," he said softly. Perhaps she could hear the desperation in his voice for she gave him a little nod, and relaxed somewhat in her chair, as if she had decided to hear him out. "I kissed you, Jean. I have been...I think you know...oh, bugger it. Jean, I'm terribly fond of you. And I know that you think there can't be anything between us, and I have to tell you I don't believe that. I know that you have concerns but I was hoping we might talk through them together and reach a solution that would be acceptable for both of us. Because I can't accept this, Jean. I can't bear to go for days without speaking to you. So please, just...please help me."
Jean felt rather as if she had wandered into a strange and terrible dream. She held her hands clasped firmly together into her lap, and she dug her nails into her palm until the sting of it convinced her that this was, in fact, very real. He sat across from her, earnest as a schoolboy, asking for her help. Asking for her help as if he did not already know very well just why she had been avoiding him, why they could never be; could he really be so unaware of their precarious circumstances? For a moment she watched him, wondering if he was a fool or a manipulator or both. It did not seem possible, she thought, that he should be so blind to the obstacles between them, but then again he was a king, had been a prince before that; perhaps he become so accustomed to getting his own way that he no longer remembered what is was to be disappointed.
Or perhaps it was unkind of her to even think such a thing; he had been a doctor and a soldier, had thrown himself into the chaos when Charlie was shot and performed surgery on the boy himself, rather than cower beneath the protection of his guards. Perhaps he genuinely believed that they could find some way to be together.
His father did marry a commoner, she reminded herself; perhaps her King no longer believed that such restrictions applied to him, given that his father had already broken through that particular barrier.
"All right," she said slowly. "I don't think you've considered my position, sir. The castle is my home. It has been for fifteen years. If I was to allow myself to...well. You've only been here a very short time. If it became common knowledge that things between us were less than proper, or if you were to decide at some point in the future that you were no longer quite so fond of me, I would lose my home and my job. I have no husband to support me, I have to make my own way." And I hardly think you're proposing marriage, and I would laugh in your face if you did. He had only been home a bare four months, and Jean knew that was not long for either of them to settle on such a permanent course of action. The very thought of it was ridiculous, and Jean was not at all interested in becoming a queen. In fact, though she would never dare tell him so lest she sound overly-ambitious, the notion that she could possibly be made queen should things continue in such a manner between them frankly terrified her. She did not want the jewels and the gowns and the press and the power and the responsibility; she wanted her little room on the second floor and her seat on the hard pew in the modest castle chapel and the pride of knowing that she had done an honest day's work, without the whole kingdom looking on. But such thoughts were, to her mind, putting the cart before the horse, and she kept them to herself. He had only kissed her once, and then in a moment when tensions were high, and she saw no reason in worrying herself over things that could never be.
"I see," he said, and in the heaviness of his tone she could hear that he did, in fact, see, that her explanation had driven home a point he had not yet considered. "I would not want to jeopardize your livelihood, Jean. I would hope that you know that. I would never dream of sending you away-"
"The choice may not be up to you, if we're found out. And I will not have people gossiping about you. You may not care about your reputation, sir, or mine for that matter, but other people do. You cannot be seen as the sort of man who...who...is improper, with his servants. That would be a disaster."
"I think we've done a fine job of keeping it just between us so far," he told her, and though she was somewhat relieved to see the mischievous glint return to his eyes there was also a part of her that wanted to shake him, in that moment. How could he joke about such things? What an impossible man he was, this king of hers.
"Lucien," she sighed his name exasperatedly, the word sliding past her lips before she could stop it, and oh, his smile was so lovely, even if it was just a touch smug. Jean rose to her feet then, cheeks flaming; this was exactly the sort of thing she had promised herself she would not do, and she felt a sudden, rather powerful urge to flee, from this room, from this man, from the contradictory emotions swirling through her heart. As she stood so did he, his smile fading, and he stepped towards her, his hand outstretched as if he meant to reach for her, though he did not quite make the attempt.
"Jean," he said softly. "If you do not want me to kiss you again then I won't. You have my word. But please, can't we at least be friends? You're one of the only people in this castle - in the whole bloody world - that I trust, and I can't bear this distance between us."
Oh, that bloody impossible man! Friends? It was not Jean's place to be friends with her king, to call him by his name, to speak to him softly in the darkness. But he looked so terribly lost, so terribly afraid, and though a part of her knew that the best course of action would be to march straight out of that room and right into town to go in search of employment elsewhere the realization crashed into her then that she did not want to go. She wanted to talk to him, to see him smile, to hand him cups of tea and plates of biscuits and watch him grow into his role as king. She wanted to be there for him, to speak to him, to hear his voice, to listen to his troubles and help him through them. And yes, she bloody well wanted him to kiss her again, but she supposed in time that particular want might fade.
"I suppose that would be all right," she said carefully.
He smiled, relieved, and held his hand out to her once more, though this time she realized he meant for her to shake it.
"Friends?" he asked her.
"Friends," she agreed, and took his hand.
At that very moment there came a knock on the door, and then it opened and Matthew Lawson stepped inside. Jean dropped the king's hand at once, blushing,but Matthew was an old friend and knew her well, and Jean knew that he would not tell anyone what he had seen, or even find anything untoward in it. After all, he had only caught them standing together, shaking hands; it was hardly the passionate clinch they'd shared on the roof-
Don't think about that now, she chided herself.
"If there's nothing else, sir, I'll leave you to it," she said primly, and when the king did not respond she turned and marched from the room with all the dignity she could muster. It was, she thought, quite the strangest afternoon she'd had for quite some time, but on the whole her heart felt lighter for having spoken to him.
As the door closed behind her Matthew turned to stare at him incredulously, and Lucien could not do nothing but shrug.
"What?" he asked, as if he had done nothing at all wrong, as if his heart was not even at that very moment singing in his chest, for Jean had agreed not to leave him, not to hold herself apart from him as she had done before.
"With all due respect, sir," Matthew said grimly, "that is the best woman in the entire kingdom, and if you hurt her, king or not I'll break your bloody kneecaps."
And what could Lucien say to that? He could explain to Matthew what had just transpired in this place? It was not exactly the resolution he'd been hoping for - he wanted, very much, to kiss Jean again, and often - but he was beginning to see that it was the best possible outcome, for the moment. Jean was not leaving him, and he would be able to speak to her again, as often as he liked, so long as he kept his hands to himself. And for now, for this time when he did not know if his wife yet lived, when he was not free to give his heart as he wished, he knew that this arrangement was for the best, though it had taken Jean's careful wisdom to help him see it. Surely Sir Patrick would have news for him sometime soon, and then when he knew for a fact whether he was widowed or not, then he could reconsider his position. it was a strange sort of war that took place in his chest, in that moment, as he realized that he wanted two very different things, and both of them quite badly. There was, and always would be, a part of his heart that desperately wanted Mei Lin back. To have his wife returned to him, to hold her in his arms once more, would be the greatest of joys, he thought. And so long as Jean remained his friend, should such a thing come to pass he was certain his affections would fade, replaced by the depth of love he felt for his wife. On the other side of that furious battle was his longing for Jean; if word reached him that Mei Lin was dead he would be bound by his promise to Sir Patrick to marry again. And if he were forced to make such a commitment, he knew now which woman he would choose, and that was all for the good. Yes, he reckoned the afternoon had gone quite well indeed, and he was resolved to give Matthew no reason to make good on his threat.