14 May 1959
Once more Lucien had chosen to lie in wait for Jean, hiding out in his suite and counting down the minutes until she would come to tidy the rooms, the way she did most every afternoon. He could have chosen a different approach, could have gone to the kitchen at suppertime in search of her or waited for her on the battlements once darkness fell, or even been so bold as to come knocking on her door in the still of the night once more, but he did not want to wait, did not want to leave the strangeness of the morning to fester all day long. Likewise he was certain Jean would not want to risk anyone else overhearing their conversation, and there was no place safer, he thought, than his own suite of rooms.
The clock ticked past 2:00, and Lucien began to grow nervous; what if she did not come at all? What if she were truly cross with him, what if the unpleasant way their beautiful night together had ended had turned her heart against any future liaison? It didn't bear thinking about; having had a taste of her he found himself ravenous for more, for all of her, eager and hopeful when he cast his thoughts to the future. Their conversation just before Matthew arrived that morning gave him cause for concern, however, for while his thoughts had been pleasant and full of love it seemed that Jean remained, as ever, pragmatic and convinced that they could never be. Lucien wanted, very much, to change her mind, and he hoped that this afternoon he might be allowed the time he had been denied in the morning, time enough to speak to her honestly, openly, and to woo her in his own way.
The door opened at quarter past and he breathed a sigh of relief, downing the last of his whiskey in one gulp before rising from the chair in his office and making his way out into the sitting room.
"Jean?" he called, not seeing her in the sitting room, and then he heard a soft gasp coming from his bedroom.
"Here," she answered, that one word too brief to allow him any sense of what she was thinking, what she was feeling now that she knew he was there, waiting for her.
As quick as he could he ducked into the bedroom, and there he found her, his beautiful love, her arms full of bedsheets and a look of terror on her face. When she saw him she bowed her head, bent her knees in a vague attempt at a curtsy.
"Your Majesty," she said, her voice strained and distant, her eyes not meeting his gaze.
This was exactly what he'd been afraid of; she must have decided, then, that any further contact between them must be restrained and professional, but that was the last thing Lucien wanted. She had such a beautiful smile, his Jean, and such a gentle laugh, and he valued her keen insight more than words could say. She was everything to him, and he could not bear to be kept apart from her.
"Oh, Jean," he sighed, crossing the room to stand before her at once. Carefully he reached out and tried to take her burden from her, but Jean clung to the discarded bedclothes, still refusing to meet his gaze.
"I have work to do," she said, and Lucien hated it, hated how sad she seemed, how small she looked, hated that reminder of their separate roles within the castle. Jean deserved better, he thought, than to believe herself no more than a servant.
"Please," he said, and this time when he reached for the sheets he let his palms brush over her hands. The contact startled her, and Lucien seized upon his momentary advantage, tugging her burden away and casting it to the side. "Can we talk, Jean?"
At last she looked at him, but her eyes were dark and troubled. Would she deny him? He wondered. Could she? Could her heart have changed course so dramatically in just a few hours? He had woken to the soft touch of her fingers drifting through his hair, the sweet taste of her kisses, the warmth of her naked skin against his own, but now she looked at him as if he were a stranger, and an unwelcome one at that.
"I suppose we must," she sighed.
"Please," he said, gesturing towards the naked bed, intending for them to sit there together and spell out their troubles plainly, but Jean shook her head, aghast at the very idea.
"The sitting room, please," she told him.
"Very well," he answered, and together they left the bedroom and all its insinuation behind them, retreating instead to the sun-drenched opulence of the sitting room. Jean chose the armchair for herself, and the significance of that was not lost on Lucien; she had chosen to sit where he could not join her, chosen to keep this distance between them. Fear began to gnaw at Lucien's heart; he had been so certain, before now, that he could win her over, but if she remained determined not to give in to his advances then all his hopes were dashed. How terrible it would be, he thought, to carry on in this place without her gentle kindness to guide him; how much it would wound him, to see her and not be allowed to touch her, to share the closeness they had cultivated over the last seven months.
As Lucien settled himself onto the sofa Jean cleared her throat, and then began to speak.
"You should know I've made up my mind, Your Majesty," she said.
"Have you?" he asked, rubbing his palms over his thighs, his thoughts awhirl with questions. Made up her mind about what? He wondered. Whatever decision she had come to, on whatever matter it might be, she did not seem to be particularly happy with it, and he tried to tell himself that surely that meant she must care for him, must hate this manufactured civility as much as did he.
"I'm leaving," she said simply. "I'll resign officially tomorrow but-"
"You can't, Jean," he gasped, and, suddenly terrified, he leaned forward, towards her, one of his hands reaching out as if to touch her, but she was too far away for him to reach.
"Is that an order, Your Majesty?" she asked him coolly, one delicate eyebrow arching as if in accusation, and he realized at once the gravity of his error. His position was one of power, and to wield that power over her, to force her hand in anyway, would be the height of cruelty. Though Lucien himself often forgot this imbalance between them, Jean never seemed to.
"No, of course not," he corrected himself quickly. "You're free to do as you like. I just...please, Jean, don't be hasty."
"Hasty?" she repeated incredulously. "Have you forgotten already? You're the one who came to my door last night, you're the one who asked me to…" her voice faded out, and the anger that had flashed in her eyes was replaced at once by doubt as her lips pressed together and her brow furrowed. "Oh," she said. "I've only just realized. You didn't mean it all, did you?"
Many years before when Lucien left England behind to sail to Singapore, there had been a terrible night when the ship was beset by a storm. The deck had pitched and rolled beneath his feet, and the short trip from his bunk to the head had been fraught with peril. In the darkness he'd stumbled, lost his footing and gone careening to the floor, and the wild swaying of the ship had made it almost impossible to rise. He'd eventually scrambled up, using the bulkhead to brace himself, but his stomach had roiled and he'd closed his eyes against the dizzying sensation. He'd never felt its like before, but he felt it now, felt himself lost and tossed about by the sudden change in her and his own confusion.
"Of course I meant it," he said. "I love you, Jean, and I want to marry you."
"You can't possibly-"
"Are you quite certain about that, my darling? I'm the king, aren't I? Who is to say what I can and cannot do?" It was Jean who had taught him that, reminded him that he answered to no one, but it looked to him as if she was regretting that conversation just now.
She was clearly growing frustrated with him. "It would be a disaster," she said firmly. "I'm not...I can't...women like me don't marry men like you, Lucien." She had forgotten herself, and called him by his name; surely, he thought, if she meant to part from him she would not have allowed the word to pass her lips. Surely he had cause to hope, if she could still call him by his name.
"There are no women like you, my darling." He smiled as he said it, for even now when they were arguing, when his very heart was on the line, he was overcome by the thought of how wonderful she was, how he loved her.
"Lucien-"
"Did you not enjoy it, then?" he asked pointedly. Though he supposed there was a small chance he was wrong on that score he rather thought she had enjoyed the time she'd spent in his arms immensely. The memory of her stifled cries, her breathless voice whispering I want you inside me made him believe that she had wanted him, needed him, loved him as much as he did her. Jean's cheeks flushed scarlet at his most improper question, and he held his breath, hoping.
"That's hardly-" she began to protest meekly, but he cut her off at once.
"Do you really not care for me at all?"
Her eyes flashed. "Do you think I would have opened my door to you last night if I didn't?" It was almost a challenge, the way she threw the words at him, and Lucien grinned, elated.
"Well, then," he said, somewhat smugly. "I love you, Jean, and you care for me, and we are evidently quite...compatible, and I see no reason why, then, as two grown people who care for one another, we can't be quite happy together."
"Why are you so determined that you know best?" she sighed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest, exasperated but unable to fault his logic.
"You like that about me," he told her. "You find me charming."
"Insufferable, more like," Jean grumbled, but there was the faintest hint of a smile playing around the corner of her mouth.
Encouraged Lucien rose from the sofa then, and knelt down beside her, taking one of her hands in both of his own, gazing up into her beautiful face. Her full lips parted as if she were preparing herself to admonish him, and so Lucien spoke quickly, wanting only to tell her the truth that was in his heart.
"If you really believe that there is no way we could be happy together, Jean, then I will defer to you. I will not force myself where I'm not wanted. But I love you, my darling, and I think we both deserve the chance to be happy. I want to make you happy, more than anything. You don't have to make any decisions just now. It's all right if you aren't ready. But please, please, if there is any hope, any chance at all, that you might want to be my wife, then give us this chance. Take all the time you need, but please don't leave me."
"Time won't change who we are, Lucien," she told him sadly, but she did not pull her hand away from him.
"No," he agreed. "But in time you may come to see, as I do, that every obstacle between us can be overcome. I want us to sort this out, together. I want you, Jean, and no one else."
"You really believe it's that simple, don't you?" her voice was soft, and as she spoke she reached out, ran her palm over his hair, her touch a benediction to his weary soul.
"I do," he answered, and in those words he made a silent vow, a promise to cherish her, to love her, to help her in all things, to make her as happy as she made him. Her hand drifted down to press against his cheek, and so he turned his head, and kissed her palm. Beneath him Jean sighed, and he could almost feel her heart rising victorious over the desperate objections of her rational mind.
"All right," she said quietly. "All right. I won't leave. I can't promise you more than that, not now."
"That's all I'm asking for," he told her earnestly.
And then she smiled at him, albeit a bit tremulously. "What have you done to me, Lucien?" she asked him, but he rather thought she did not expect an answer, for she leaned in then, and kissed him sweetly. It was a brief kiss, but one full of hope, and when it ended she did not pull away from him entirely, only rested her forehead against his own.
"My impossible man," she said, and kissed him again before pushing him gently away.
Lucien could not stop grinning, for Jean had promised not to leave him, had in her own way claimed him for her own, and there was nothing he wanted more. He had time, now, time to help her see that the only thing that mattered was the love they'd cultivated between them, that their love could be strong enough to see them through whatever lay ahead.
"Now," she said, rising from the chair and brushing her skirt down fussily. "I have work to do." The words stung less, this time, than they had done before, for she was smiling as she said them.
"Let me help you," he suggested.
Jean raised a single eyebrow at him, incredulous, but Lucien leaned in, and kissed the tip of her nose.
"I was a soldier, Mrs. Beazley," he reminded her winsomely. "I do know how to make a bed."
"We'll see about that," she answered primly, and he laughed, and together they went back to the bedroom, both of their hearts lighter now than they had been before. We'll find a way, he told himself. We must. We will.