2 March 1959
"All things considered, they did you a favor, sir," Sir Patrick was saying. Lucien could not help but stare at the man incredulously; he had never before thought that being shot at might qualify as a favor. "Public sentiment is firmly on your side. Those pictures of you directing the crowds, helping to carry that lad into the hospital, all those news stories about your work during the war and your training as a doctor, it's made people love you. Even your cousins aren't foolish enough to attempt another assassination any time soon. The whole kingdom is on your side, now. Really, they did more good than harm."
"Tell that to Charlie Davis," Lucien grumbled; he'd patched the lad up as well as he was able, but it would be months before Charlie was back in fighting form, and no matter what Sir Patrick had to say on the subject he would not ever reckon that poor Charlie taking the bullet that had been meant for him qualified as good.
"Yes, well, on to other matters, then," Sir Patrick said, grimacing at his king's displeased tone.
They were sitting together in the counsel room; it had been King Thomas's habit to meet with his Prime Minister in this place, and Lucien had carried on the tradition. He would have preferred a meeting in his private study, with a glass of whiskey close to hand, but he understood that it was required of him to keep up appearances, and so he did. The room was grand but cozy by castle standards, with only ten chairs gathered around the polished wooden table. A portrait of his father, commissioned at the time of his death, had recently been hung on the far wall, featuring the old king wearing a dour expression and a military uniform Lucien was certain his father had never once worn in life. Thomas had not been a soldier, and though his role as king gave him command of the army during war time he had never been a master strategist, choosing instead to rely upon the counsel of his generals.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news, sir," Patrick told him then, and Lucien leaned forward in his chair. He felt his heart drop straight through his chest at those words; he had been waiting nearly four months now for word of his family, and each time he met with Sir Patrick he had folded his hands and wished with his whole heart for some news. Would this be it, he asked himself, the moment when all his hoped were shattered, when with a few platitudes and a shrug Sir Patrick tore his whole word to pieces? Bad news, he'd said, and Lucien couldn't imagine, even for a moment, that it had anything to do with the National Health Service or the miner's union. No, Patrick's face was grave, his mouth set in a thin line, and there were no reports to accompany what he was about to say, no trace of this information written down where it could be easily picked up by the wrong hands.
"As you know, the intelligence services have been looking for your family for some time now," Patrick said slowly.
There was a bitter, angry piece of Lucien's heart that wanted to protest, to say no, I don't know that, because you haven't told me a bloody thing, and I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. It was perhaps unkind of him, to be so suspicious of the Prime Minister, to doubt whether the man would keep his word, but Lucien had so far been presented with no evidence to the contrary, and in the absence of evidence mistrust festered.
"We sent a detachment of agents to Hong Kong, and they were able to find records regarding the ship where your wife and child were last seen. I'm sorry to tell you, sir, that the ship never reached the port. It was sunk during the battle of Hong Kong. There were no adult survivors, but several small children were rescued, and our people are in the process of tracking them now."
There were no adult survivors. Those words rang through the vaults of his mind like some ghastly bell; Lucien lurched to his feet, unsteady, poised as if to flee, but his legs would not hold him and he collapsed once more into his chair. His whole body was trembling, from head to foot; he drew in one ragged breath, and then buried his face in his hands as the tears overcame him. His shoulders shook with great, wracking sobs but no sound escaped him; everything that he was, every piece of himself, had focused inward, an implosion of grief that shattered him and left his heart crumbled and wrecked. His wife was gone, and Derek, too; Lucien had put the three people he loved most in the world on that ship, had sent them across the sea with prayers and hope and then turned to the grim business of surviving the horror of Singapore after the arrival of the Japanese. He had done this, had set their feet upon this path, pleaded with his wife until at last she agreed, and sealed her fate. She was gone, his beautiful wife, that woman whose face had haunted him for the last seventeen years. She was gone, and every prayer he had ever uttered, every hope he had ever harbored in his heart, had all been for naught, for the sea had taken her, and Derek with her. In that moment there was no thought in his head save for her; he could almost hear her gentle voice, chiding him playfully, could almost see the shine of her dark hair tumbling down the elegant curve of her back, her pale skin, her determined gaze. Oh, my love, he thought, oh, what have I done?
In the wake of his tears Sir Patrick sat silent for a time, though Lucien kept his face in his hands and so could not see whether the man was shifting uncomfortably at such a display, or if he was watching his sovereign with pitying eyes, and Lucien could not have cared less which it was. Mei Lin was gone, and he had done nothing to save her, had been left helpless and hopeless and wrecked.
At last, however, his shoulders stopped shaking, and, perhaps noticing this, Sir Patrick spoke.
"I can't begin to imagine what you must be feeling," he said slowly, "but I would like to remind you, sir, that there is still a chance your child lives. It will take some time, but we have the list of orphanages the children were sent to, and they will have records of where the children were sent afterward. I should think we'll know for certain in the next month or so. Don't give up hope, sir."
Lucien scrubbed his palms across his cheeks and cleared his throat, gave his head a little shake and tried to compose himself. It was too much for him to process, the loss of his wife, the chance that his child might yet be found; it was a slim chance, and he did not trust it for there had been dozens of children on that ship, and there was no guarantee that Li might have been among those who had been plucked from the sea. He had thought, before now, that surely his family must still be living for in his heart he felt them still, and some small piece of him clung to the mysticism of his Catholic upbringing, convinced that there were forces at work he could not understand, convinced that if they had gone he would surely have felt their passing in his very bones. Now, he could no longer trust his own heart, and so steeled himself. He would say all the right things to Sir Patrick, and wait for news, but he could not allow himself to believe that Li would be found alive, not for one moment. The chance was too small, and his heart could not survive another disappointment like this one. No, he would proceed as if Li had perished in the arms of her mother, and wrap himself in that grief as if it were armor.
"I can't thank you for this now," Lucien said, his voice a ragged, pitiful thing, "but I suppose I ought to say I'm grateful to you for your service." The words were bitter, and he could not hide his pain.
"I will leave you in peace, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said, rising slowly from his chair. Lucien remained right where he was, stricken and hardly able to even contemplate moving. "You have my sincerest condolences, sir."
And then he left in silence, Lucien holding his tongue though he longed, more than anything, to tell Sir Patrick exactly where he could shove his condolences. It was not the Prime Minister's kindness Lucien wanted now, was not platitudes or a reminder of his responsibilities; what he wanted in that moment, if he were being honest with himself, was Jean, two soft arms to hold him and a gentle voice to soothe him, and in the absence of such comfort he supposed whiskey would have to do.
It was still far too cold to go for her customary evening stroll along the battlements, and so Jean made her way down to the kitchen after everyone else had gone to sleep. She intended to fix herself a cup of tea, and then to carry it back up to her little room, to turn on the wireless by her bed and let the music drift over her while she read her book and tried to relax at the end of another long day. Easter was not far off, and that would be the next grand celebration for the castle. She'd spent most of the morning on the phone, ringing round to the other royal estates and trying to ensure that everything was in order. It had been the old King's custom to spend Easter in one of his country estates, in the somewhat more modest manor where he had been born, so that he could take communion in the same cathedral where he had been christened. Jean did not know if the new king intended to hold to that tradition, but she had a meeting with the Earl Marshal scheduled for the next day, and she supposed she'd find out soon enough. Strangely, she rather hoped he wouldn't; Jean was not a member of the retinue that traveled with the king when he ventured to his other properties, and she did not relish the thought of having him far from her side. He was, after all, her very dear friend.
As she slipped into the silent, gleaming kitchen, she was quite surprised to find the lights were already on, and even more surprised to discover that someone was banging about in the pantry. There came a particularly mighty thump, and then a low muffled curse, and she realized at once who the intruder was, and smiled.
"Your Majesty?" she called softly as she approached the open pantry door. He swore again, soft and low, but stepped out into the light before she could enter.
"Good evening, Jean," he said.
For a moment she simply studied him, fear beginning to gnaw at her; he had abandoned most of his clothes, his jacket and waistcoat and tie, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned, his hair terribly mussed, his eyes bloodshot. He looked a proper mess, but she did not think he was drunk; he was steady on his feet, and though his eyes were red-rimmed and perhaps a bit puffy his gaze was focused and clear. Not whiskey, then, she thought, but then the only other explanation she could think of was weeping, and the very idea of it tore at her heartstrings. What could wound him so, that he should weep until the ravages of his grief showed upon his face?
"I was looking for the whiskey," he confessed before she even had a chance to ask him what on earth he was doing rummaging through the pantry. "Peter's a good lad but I'm afraid I've run out upstairs."
That was Jean's fault; she had taken Peter aside some weeks before, and given him a stern talking to. The young valet had been restocking the bottles in the king's drinks cart the moment they got a bit low, and with a steady supply of whiskey on hand the king had burned through the bottles like wildfire. Jean had put her foot down, and instituted a new rule, that the whiskey was to be restocked every Friday, and no more often. Now did not seem the moment to chide him for his drinking, however, not now when he seemed so low, so very sad.
"I was just about to make myself a cup of tea," she told him gently. "Why don't I make two?"
The king's answering smile was soft, grateful, and Jean knew then she had done the right thing. It would be better for him, she thought, to have tea rather than whiskey before bed, and perhaps they might do as they sometimes did of an evening, and share their tea together, over a plate of biscuits and a quiet conversation. It would be a pleasant way to pass the time, and perhaps it might be distraction enough to help him forget whatever grieved him.
"I tell you what, Jean," he said, "why don't you go and have a seat, and I'll make it?"
"Oh, really, sir, it's no trouble," she started to protest, shocked - and more than a little pleased - by his offer. It was such a gentlemanly thing to do, but it was not his place to make tea for her; he was the one who sat about while others fetched and carried, and such a reversal of roles was not quite in keeping with their new-made truce. Then again, she supposed, the offer was a very kind one, and he looked desperately in need of occupation -
"Please, Jean," he said, and to her great relief he was still smiling. "It's not an order, but I can make it one. Rest your feet, and let me worry about this."
"All right," she agreed then, and made her way over to the two little stools that stood sentinel at the end of the counter. Before she sat, however, she turned on the wireless, and the soft sound of strings plucking out a gentle tune filled the empty kitchen. She turned the volume down until she was satisfied, and then sat to watch her king at his work.
To her surprise he seemed to know just where everything was kept, the kettle and the loose tea and the cups and the sugar; she had made tea often enough for him in this place, and perhaps, she thought, he had been watching more closely then she realized, taken note of her movements and the proper place of things. His hands were steady, his movements methodical, and as she sat she found she was quite grateful for the respite. She'd cleaned his rooms that afternoon, as she did each day, and then her work had carried her from end of the grounds to the other and back again, her steps never slowing, her hands never idle. That was the way of things, she knew, given that she lived and worked in the same place, that every moment must be given over to occupation, and the knowledge that her king had taken it upon himself to give her a bit of a break and put his own hands to work warmed her heart.
At last he turned to her, two cups of tea in hand - both well sugared - and she could not help but smile at the picture he presented. In some ways he was less formidable like this, without his fine clothes or robes of state, just a rumpled man walking across the kitchen late in the evening. In some ways, however, his disheveled appearance made her stomach flutter, for she could see clearly the corded muscles of his forearms where he'd rolled back his sleeves, the thick column of his neck calling out to her in ways she did not wish to contemplate.
"For the lady," he said winsomely, offering her a cup.
"Thank you, sir," she answered, and as she took a sip of tea he settled on the stool beside her, leaning back against the wall and stretching his long legs out in front of him.
There was silence, for a time, as they both enjoyed their tea and the presence of a friend close to hand, but clearly he had not forgotten his troubles for beside her he began to grow restless, and then at last he spoke.
"You told me once," he said, "that it took the army six months to inform you of your husband's death."
That rather put a damper on her good humor. Jean frowned, and took another sip of tea before she answered.
"Yes," she said, wondering where he was going, pointing their conversation along this particular path.
"Did it...did it help you, to know that he was gone? Was knowing for certain any easier than wondering?"
Carefully Jean set her teacup on the counter, and turned to look at him, to really look at him, and found his gaze locked on her face, his expression deeply troubled. Is this to do with her? Jean wondered; that girl he'd loved, the girl he'd lost, Jean had thought she was dead, but was not that case? Was she merely gone, as Christopher had been gone, and her beloved left with nothing but questions? Or was it something else entirely? She did not know, but the question had been asked gently and in good faith by a heart in need of comfort, and so she chose to answer him with kindness.
"It was not easier," she said, "but it helped. Those six months...I was frozen. I could do nothing but wait. Wait for a letter, for a call, for some sign of what had happened. I could not plan for our future. I couldn't think any further ahead than the next delivery of the post. I couldn't tell the boys what had happened to their father, or what might happen to us. That waiting...that wasn't living. And I felt -" sometimes do, still, she added in her mind- "as if a piece of me died with him, when they came to tell me he was gone. I felt as if I'd never truly be alive again. But I could move, then. I wasn't stuck, I wasn't waiting. They told me the truth, and I didn't have to wonder any more, and I could focus on the boys and their future. I didn't think of it this way at the time, but it was a gift. It hurt, but it put an end to that unbearable waiting."
"And now you can live your again?" He asked quietly.
The answer to that question was rather more complicated than Jean wanted to consider at present. When news of Christopher's death had reached her she'd been plunged into a period of furious activity, arranging a memorial service, settling accounts with the bank, making plans to sell the farm. And then she'd moved to the city, and been focused so completely on her job and raising the boys, and each day had been so full of activity she hardly had a moment to breathe. Christopher had died in 1942, but word had not reached her until the following year. And every moment since she had been busy, but whether that activity constituted living she wasn't sure. All the things she'd once planned for herself, the travel, the grand adventures, had never come to be. She was friendly with the other members of staff but she did not join them when they ventured out for a bit of fun, and she had rejected each of the paltry few offers she'd received from a gentleman for a night out to dinner or a stroll through the park. Her feet had carried her forward, but her heart had remained frozen, until -
Until he'd gone and kissed her, this rumpled, wonderful man who sat beside her now.
It was a confession she could not bear to make, and so she only told him gently, "yes."
He nodded, and dropped his gaze back to his teacup, and Jean was left wondering what exactly it was he was trying to ask her, and what exactly it was she had been trying to tell him.