29 March 1959
"They aren't even trying to be subtle about it, are they?" Lucien grumbled in a low voice designed not to carry beyond his companion's ears. Beside him the Lady Ann Whitcombe, née McDonald, sometimes known as Joy, sat prim and proper and smiling in a way that gave no evidence of her true feelings.
"They're politicians, sir," she told him lightly. "They prefer grand gestures to subtlety. All politicians are frustrated actors, deep down."
That earned her a genuine laugh from him, and her answering smile was almost victorious.
It was Easter, and after an interminable mass the King and his retinue had decamped to the Grand Hall of his country estate for a luncheon feast. The long table seated only fifty, and so paled in comparison to the one situated in the formal dining room of his castle; in fact, it seemed almost cozy. They'd been lodging in this fine manor house for nearly a week, Lucien and the army of servants and bodyguards who followed him everywhere he went, along with a revolving door of nobility and politicians tramping through the halls of the sprawling manor. It was not the king who invited the guests, nor was it the king who had decided upon the seating arrangements; someone else had taken it upon themselves to make sure that the Lady Ann was in residence for the entire week, and that she should be seated at the King's right hand for this most auspicious occasion. It was Patrick, Lucien thought grimly, or I'll eat my hat.
"I hope you won't find my company too troublesome, sir," she told him, her pale eyes sparkling with mirth.
Somehow, Lucien didn't think he would. She was not a particularly troublesome lady. Though she was a good many years younger than he the Lady Ann had experienced more than her fair share of life, and she had developed an ironclad sense of independence and a razor sharp wit. They had entertained one another more than once in the months since they'd first met, and Lucien found he rather enjoyed her company. It was nice, he thought, to spend time with someone who shared his distaste for the nobility and their milieu, someone who was in a position to make that distaste known, and not simply swallow it down with a polite yes, sir. She was funny, and clever, and beautiful, but Lucien knew better than to let his guard down entirely in her presence. The Prime Minister knew for a certainty now that Lucien's wife was dead, and though a bare three weeks had passed since that revelation Lucien knew that no doubt the PM's thoughts had turned to the bargain they'd struck. Sir Patrick wanted the deal done, and quickly, and had no doubt chosen this particular moment with matchmaking in mind. Resentment festered deep in the king's heart at the very thought, for though his wife had been dead for seventeen years his grief was still very fresh, and he could not even begin to consider tying himself to another so soon, not now when he did not know if Li still lived, when Mei Lin's face taunted him each time he closed his eyes - when Jean's soft voice echoed in the vaults of his mind, offering him comfort even when she was not beside him.
"Everything all right?" Lady Ann asked. He had been silent too long, he realized, lost in brooding thoughts of Sir Patrick and their bargain and his wife and his housekeeper.
"Perfectly," he answered, somewhat stiffly. "I just feel a headache coming on. It must be the fresh country air."
"Yes," Lady Ann laughed, "all this green. It's almost enough to turn one's stomach."
Actually, Lucien was terribly fond of this particular manor. It sat on an island in the midst of a vast lake, far to the north of the city. The whole of the island was given over to the manor grounds, all the trees and meadows and rippling streams; there were herds of placidly grazing deer, imported here for sport by some monarch in the foggy recesses of the distant past, multiplied to almost outrageous numbers in the more than a century since last a king's hunting party had come storming after them. There were manicured lawns for cricket and polo and bocce, wandering hedge mazes and softly tinkling fountains, gardens and glasshouses, and not a car or a railway or an airplane in sight. To get about the island one walked or rode a horse, and there was something rather calming about all that pastoral green, the sense of having stepped out of the flow of time and into a gentler era.
"It's quite nice, actually," he said softly. "I've been wondering if we might ought to open it up to tourists. Build a suspension bridge, let people come for the day to see the gardens. We could hold a fair, in the spring."
"Oh, but they'd ruin it!" Lady Ann protested at once, sounding almost outraged by the very idea. "All those trampling feet, and the trash they'd leave behind; your poor groundskeepers wouldn't be able to keep up. You can't let the rabble in. It'd be no better than an amusement park, and you'd never find a moment's peace here again."
Some of Lucien's good will towards his companion faded as she spoke, and to keep from giving voice to some of his more uncharitable thoughts he chose instead to dive into his meal. It had seemed to him a very good idea; a family with a car could make the journey from the capital city to this place in a morning, spend the afternoon milling about the gardens, and be home in time for supper. It could provide a much needed respite from the endless grey fog rolling in off the river, from the smog that belched from the factory towers, from the grim facades of concrete and buildings. For a family who lived in the midst of the modern industrial age Lucien rather thought such an escape might be a necessity, and perhaps in time small hotels or B&B's would spring up around it, and revive the shrinking rural villages that dotted the lakeside. Lady Ann did not agree with this vision, but somehow he rather thought that Jean might.
"Our Father, who art in heaven," the old priest intoned softly, "hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
"Amen," the other voices rumbled from around the table, and then Jean lifted her head, and smiled as around her everyone began to tuck in to their meal, their voices rising in cheerful conversation to echo throughout the little kitchen.
It was not exactly the way she'd imagined spending her Easter, and yet she found she did not mind it in the least. Ordinarily Jean's place would have been at home, in the castle, even when the King was not in residence, but she had been ordered to pack her bags and make the trip up to the country, and she had done so without protest. She was surrounded by friends; Matthew and Alice and Danny had made the trip as well, though Charlie had of necessity been left behind, with Mattie to tend to his slowly healing wounds. It was many long years since last Jean had come to this place, and she was so delighted at the prospect of spending her evenings walking through the breathtaking gardens that she chose not to examine the decision too closely. Someone had decided she ought to come along, and she thought it was all for the best if she did not know just who that someone was.
"I've never seen anything like it," Danny was saying. Her nephew was seated across from her, and Jean herself was sandwiched between Matthew and Alice. It was Matthew Danny had engaged in conversation; they were discussing the strange situation of the manor house.
"Apparently the whole bloody place is sinking," Matthew told him gruffly. "But's been sinking for six hundred years, and it's still standing."
Almost as if it were meant to be here, Jean thought. The manor itself was not particularly impressive; yes it was a hulking stone behemoth from the fourteenth century that remained well-tended and could house hundreds, full of art both ancient and modern, all gilt and marble and opulence, but it was hardly the only such manor in the kingdom, and it was dwarfed by the castle she called home. What made this place truly special was its location, and its immaculately tended gardens. Jean had often thought it was a shame that such beauty remained locked away, mostly seen only by gardeners and stablehands, enjoyed no more than one or two times a year, and then only by the upper echelons of society. Such beauty, she thought, ought to be appreciated by everyone, and yet it remained one of the kingdom's best kept secrets.
"I'm glad we got the chance to see it," Alice said, wiping discreetly at her nose with a handkerchief, "but I for one am looking forward to going home."
Poor Alice had come down with hayfever almost the moment they'd arrived; spring had come early, and the gardens were in full, ethereal bloom.
"What about you, Auntie Jean?" Danny asked her.
"Oh, I'd stay here forever, if they let me," she told him, smiling.
He escaped the Lady Ann's clutches somewhere around 8:00 p.m. that evening. He had rather hoped to do so earlier, but when he announced his intention to stroll around the grounds she had surprised him by volunteering at once to join him. There had been no polite way to reject her, and he had been forced to walk from the parlor with the lady on his arm, leaving Sir Patrick to smirk around the end of the cigar he held clenched between his teeth. Danny and Matthew had followed them at a discreet distance, and he had smiled and nodded and made all the right noises as she chattered away at him. At last, however, it seemed she'd had enough; he'd made to enter yet another of the glasshouses, and she had stopped in her tracks right there.
"You don't really seem in need of company, Your Majesty," she'd said, the faintest bite to her tone, "and I think if I see one more begonia I'll pass out from boredom. By your leave, sir?"
"Of course," he'd said, trying not to sound too eager. "Enjoy the rest of your evening. Young Danny here can escort you back to the house."
And he had, and Lucien had breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the glasshouse, alone but for the ever present tap tap tap of Matthew's cane behind him. Perhaps it was strange, to rely so heavily on a crippled guard who could not have run if his life depended upon it, but Lucien trusted Matthew, and he rather doubted he was in any immediate danger, anyway. His most recent brush with death had endeared him to his people, and only a madman would try to kill him just now. It would have to be an enterprising madman, indeed, given that there were boats patrolling every cove and inlet of the island while the king was in residence.
There wasn't a single begonia in sight, Lucien was pleased to see; he never would have admitted it, but he didn't give a fig for the flowers. He had wanted only peace, and sought to achieve it by any means necessary. He would wait a quarter of an hour or so, and then he and Matthew could slip back into the house - hopefully undetected - and he could retreat to his private suite with a bottle of whiskey. But first he would need to wait, to be sure that Lady Ann was clear of his path, and so he meandered through the rows of flowers, the air strangely close and humid, studying the array of blooms and blossoms and slowly crawling vines that grew in that place. There was a sense of activity there, the kinetic energy of hundreds of growing things all gathered together beneath one roof, roots expanding, stalks growing, blooms bursting with verve and enthusiasm. They must have been, he thought, the most lovingly tended flowers in the whole of the kingdom.
He reached the end of a row and turned, and stalled in his tracks, grinning at the sight before him.
I should have known, he thought.
"Nice night out?" he said instead.
At the sound of his voice she spun on her heel, and had she been a less formidable woman he would have sworn she was blushing.
"Your Majesty," Jean said, giving a curtsy. Or the semblance of one, at least; she wore a lightweight white blouse, neatly buttoned, but it was primly tucked into a pair of dark navy trousers. Lucien had never seen her in trousers before, almost never saw her outside of her uniform of navy dress and white apron, and the sight of her fine legs in those close-fitting trousers, the way her outfit highlighted the smoothness of her belly, the flare of her hips, left him at a loss for words. The humidity was playing havoc with her dark curls, and a tendril of hair fell charmingly across her forehead. His hands twitched at his sides, itched to reach out and brush it back, but she took care of it herself before he had the chance.
"Are you enjoying the gardens?" he asked, finding his voice at the same moment his feet began to carry him forward. Matthew had, somewhat prudently, faded out of sight, and for the moment it felt as if he and Jean were the only two people in the world.
"I am," she said simply. "I was a farmer's wife, once. I miss the business of growing things, sometimes." Her fingertips trailed idly against one of the benches and Lucien followed their progress with hungry eyes.
Perhaps it had been foolish of him, to ask that she be brought along. There was no logical reason for it, but he had not been asked to provide one, and the thing was done. He'd hardly seen her at all over the course of the previous week, but somehow just knowing she was close had soothed him, and he was beyond delighted to see her now. His heart had been heavy and full of lament since the luncheon earlier in the day, but standing in the quiet with Jean, dark sky and twinkling stars visible through the arching glass panes of the roof over their heads, helped him to find some sense of equilibrium.
"Do you tend to any plants back home?" he asked her. It seemed a silly question, but in the moment he very much wanted to know, and he very much wanted the answer to be yes.
But Jean only shook her head and sighed, somewhat sadly. "I don't get enough light in my room for it, and you have gardeners and groundskeepers to look after the flowers at home."
Strange he thought then, that the castle had hated for so long now had become home, and not just his home but theirs, together. A place where they belonged. A place that would seem so empty, without her.
"Maybe we could build you a glasshouse, like this one," he suggested before he could stop himself.
Jean's eyes flashed at him, one eyebrow rising as if in warning. It was a misstep, he realized; they were to be friends, and nothing more, and she was to call him Your Majesty and not Lucien, never Lucien, and a King did not build a glasshouse for the amusement of his housekeeper, no matter how much he adored her.
"I don't think the Lady Ann would approve of that, sir," she told him. There was no heat in her voice, only resignation, and his heart sank.
"I suppose you've seen us together," he said, smoothing his hand over his hair in a gesture that was more nervous tick than anything else. For some reason, hearing Lady Ann's name in Jean's mouth made him very nervous indeed. It had not occurred to him before now to wonder if Jean knew that there were forces at work, throwing Ann into his path, but it was clear now that she knew, and that she understood what it meant, and that she had accepted it. That thought was intolerable; it was not Lady Ann he wanted, and he did not want Jean to be forced to accept anything of the sort, to hold back her own feelings and desire and submit to the will of those in power above her. She deserved better, he thought.
"It's only right that you should spend time with her, sir," Jean said, and he could hear in her voice that she was trying to convince herself as much as him. "I'm sure she's...lovely."
She's something, Lucien thought bleakly.
"It isn't by choice, you know."
"It's really none of my business," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me-"
She started to move past him and he reached out at once, stopped her with a gentle hand her arm. "Please, Jean, let me explain."
The touch of his hand made her pause, and he seized upon her momentary stillness, the silence that hung heavy between them, and filled it at once with the truth of his heart. That truth had been bursting at the seams of his very soul for weeks now, and he could not bear to hold it in a moment longer. Matthew knew already, but if there was any one other person in all the world who deserved to know the truth, it was Jean.
"I was married," he said simply, and he heard the way her breath caught in her throat, watched the way her gaze flickered up to his face, her eyes full of questions. "In Singapore, before the war. My wife...my wife and our child left the city on a boat, just before the Japanese invaded. And then they came, and I was taken prisoner. I was held in a camp for three years."
"Oh, Lucien," she breathed, tears springing to the corners of her eyes, and the sound of his given name falling from her lips gave him the strength to continue.
"When the war was over, I tried to find them. I tried for years. I wrote letters to everyone I could think of, I traveled everywhere I could, I hired private investigators. Sir Patrick has been helping me since I returned and he finally told me, just a few weeks ago, that...that my wife died. In 1942."
"And the child?" Jean asked breathlessly.
Lucien shook his head helplessly. "I don't know, yet. But I think we're close. I think it can't be long now. I'm supposed to keep this to myself until we know for sure, Patrick is worried if the news got out it might put her in danger."
This time she reached for him, took his hand in one of hers and held on to him fiercely. It was almost as if her tears were contagious; he could feel a sob fighting its way up from the back of his throat, but he beat it back with a will.
"So you see, Jean, Lady Ann is a perfectly nice woman, but I don't care a thing about her. She's...she's just another pretty thing they want me to wear. I will smile and I will nod, but I will not, cannot do anything more. My child is missing, my wife is gone, and I don't give a damn about Lady Ann or her father or Sir Patrick or-"
He was on a roll, hysteria inching its way up the length of his spine, the words spilling out of him faster and faster, and Jean must have seen it, must have sensed it, for she reached for him then, suddenly, her free hand cupping his cheek, and at the touch of her palm he crumpled against her like a child, sobbing. To her credit Jean stood firm beneath him, wrapped her arms around him and held him close while he buried his face in the crook of her neck and wept. And all the while she soothed him, ran her hand over his hair and spoke to him in a soft voice. At least he thought she was speaking; as the storm of his weeping began to subside and he regained some control of himself he realized she was humming, softly, a song he could not quite place.
Regretfully he pulled away, scrubbed at his cheeks with his palms and then smoothed his hand over his hair.
"I'm so sorry, Lucien," she told him earnestly, having apparently forgotten entirely their conversation about propriety in favor of offering him comfort. "No one should have to suffer so much."
"You did, Jean," he pointed out softly, but she shook her head.
"No. I lost my Christopher, but I always had a home and I always had my boys. What you've been through...it's terrible. And not being able to tell anyone must have been awful."
"Yes, well," he muttered, the faintest sensation of shame creeping in now that he had got hold of himself once more. He couldn't believe he'd gone to pieces on her like that, but Jean had borne up well beneath the strain of him, and did not seem to think any less of him now that she had seen him weep.
"What's her name?" Jean asked him gently. "Your daughter."
"Li," he said, another little sob rising up from somewhere deep in his chest. It did not escape; his tears were spent. "Her name is Li."
"I will pray for her," Jean told him, and he knew then that she would.