24 May 1959
It was a Sunday evening, and the weather was fine for the end of spring; Jean was comfortable enough with her white shawl around her shoulders. There was no universal day of rest for the servants who kept the castle pristine and operational, but there was a rota of sorts, and as one of the devout Jean had elected to take Sundays for herself. Sundays were quiet, and beautiful, a day of contemplation, a day of peace when Jean could spend her time however she chose. This particular Sunday had been fine in that regard; she'd spent the morning in the little chapel on the castle grounds, gathered together with what remained of the faithful, and she'd spent the afternoon in the garden, reading a book beneath a cheery sun. Now that night had fallen she had made her way, as was her habit, to the battlements, to gaze out at the stars and order her thoughts for the week ahead.
This little ritual had begun when Jean first arrived at the castle some sixteen years before, and it had sustained her through countless triumphs and heartbreaks down though the years. There was little for a housekeeper to do after hours, and though the younger servants gathered in one another's quarters for a nightcap or a game of cards Jean had never dared insert herself there. At first it was because she had children to look after - she was hardly the only servant who'd come to this place with little ones, though these days there were hardly any children about at all - and by the time the boys had grown up and gone out into the world she'd been elevated to a management position, and though she'd never pressed the issue she imagined that her coworkers would not appreciate socializing with her outside of their work. Not that she minded, really; Jean enjoyed the company of her friends but solitude had its benefits as well, and she was content.
It was the king - the old king - who'd told her that no quarter of the castle was forbidden to her, and with his permission she had explored the whole place, every nook and cranny, every crumbling wall and dusty room. The gardens she liked best, but the rooftop was a close second. When she made her way up the battlements in the evening, breathing the fresh air, high above and far removed from the bustle of the city, she could gaze up at the sky, and imagine the stars she could not see, the stars that had been her constant companions in childhood, though now they were hidden by the shine of the castle lights. Whether she could see them or not it made no matter; the stars remained unchanging, and that comforted her somewhat, when her own life had been full of so many sudden disturbances.
King Lucien was one such disturbance, and the focus of her meandering thoughts this evening. Though she had resolved herself to leave he had with gentle words and the devil's own charm coaxed her into staying, and she could not say for certain yet whether that choice had been the right one. She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that if they approached the matter in the right way, if they were circumspect and thoughtful, perhaps in time they might find their way together. After all, the king's own mother had been a commoner, as Lucien himself had reminded Jean. Their circumstances were different now, of course, but perhaps…
Oh, Lucien, Jean thought, leaning against the low stone wall. Their circumstances were very different indeed. Perhaps if the subject were broached in the right way Jean's closest acquaintances would not be bothered; Matthew knew already that something was brewing between them, and Mattie would probably think it wonderfully romantic, and Alice would not bat an eye. Danny and Charlie wouldn't feel strongly one way or another; they were young men, and not over-concerned with status or propriety. The other servants, though, the maids and the cooks and the butlers - what would they say? What would happen, should the king's own servants grow unruly and petulant over the elevation of one of their own?
They might be happy for me, Jean tried to tell herself. But that only brought to mind thoughts of her sister, and the people she had known before she'd come to this place. Would those old friends, those far-flung family members, be happy for her? Or would they be quick to speak to the newspapermen who would swarm the village of her birth looking for stories of their queen-to-be? The stories those people could tell...a shiver ran down Jean's spine at the very thought. There had not been much fuss about it, at the time of her marriage to Christopher, but surely every woman in the village had known that her belly had grown too big too quickly, that her first pregnancy could hardly have been a wedding night surprise. But she'd lost that child, and it had all happened so long ago; perhaps, she told herself, no one would remember at all.
Perhaps, but she could not say for certain. She would have to tell Lucien, she knew, would have to warn him what sort of secrets might come to light, should they move forward with this scheme of his. But Jean had not yet accepted his proposal, and so she had not yet chosen to divulge the darkness that lay hidden in her past. It had not even been a year since she'd met him, this beautiful, impossible man who had bowled her over so completely, and Jean was a practical woman at heart. Marriage was not to be entered into lightly, and she was in no particular rush to sign her life away once more. To be subsumed by him, consumed by the role that would be thrust upon her should she take his hand, was a terrifying prospect.
Being queen would not be all ballgowns and jewels, Jean knew. There had been no queen in residence during all the many years Jean had spent in the castle, but she had seen up close the responsibilities and restraints placed upon the king, and she knew his wife would be equally beholden. To be constantly at the center of everyone's attention, to have one's every move, every word, poured over, to carry the weight of the kingdom upon one's shoulders, was a heavy burden, and one she would not pick up without much thought.
But you would stay here, in your home, she thought, and you could still walk here every evening, if you wished, and you would have him, always.
As if her thoughts had conjured him upon the spot he came to her, his arrival announced by a heavy, familiar footfall. Jean did not turn her head, but she smiled into the darkness as he came to stand beside her, warm and strong in his accustomed blue suit. His jacket was unbuttoned and his tie had been discarded, but there was no scent of whiskey wafting off him, and for that she was grateful.
"Hello, Jean," he said softly.
"Good evening, Your Majesty," she answered, still smiling. Beside her Lucien laughed and slung one arm around her waist, leaning in to press his lips against her temple. Perhaps she ought to scold him for such easy affection, but she yearned for his embrace, and could not find the strength to put a stop to it. If things were to continue between them she would have to decide on a boundary, of sorts; by unspoken agreement they did not converse with one another when there were witnesses about, and he had not found his way back to her room in the still of the night. That was something they would almost certainly have to discuss, she was sure, for when he touched her she shivered with want, and she knew his own passion simmered just beneath the surface. Best get that straight now, she thought, and avoid any trouble in the future.
"How was your day, my darling?" he asked her then.
It had been almost a fortnight since she'd fallen asleep in his arms, since she'd nearly left him and he had won her round. In that time he had engineered an excuse to see her at least once a day; lingered in the counsel room after his ministers had left and spoken to her while together they cleared away the tea things, or caught her in his rooms in the afternoon, or met her as he had now on the battlements in the evening. And each time he asked her how she was faring, what she was doing with her time, and seemed to want to hear the answer.
"It was lovely," she sighed, leaning against him, grateful for the solitude afforded them here, and the comfort of him beside her.
"I saw you in the garden," he told her then. "I am thinking of building you that glasshouse, Jean. Perhaps it could be a birthday present."
"January is hardly the time for building glasshouses," she chided him gently. In truth his words troubled her; he had cast his thoughts to the future already, was making grand plans, but Jean had not yet come to a decision. It would not do for him to take her acceptance for granted; they had so many troubles to sort out between them, and she was determined to make no choice until she could see for herself that it was the right one.
"I'll find some occasion my lady thinks more suitable, then," he answered winsomely.
That answer did nothing to assuage her doubts; my lady, he had called her, my darling, and though she likewise had called him mine still the thought was unsettling. Could she really be his lady, his queen? Could she really accept such an elevation? She had been a farmer's daughter, a farmer's wife, a cook, a housekeeper, and she had never dreamed of being something so fine as a queen. The idea was daunting; though she had learned a great deal about genteel society during her many years of service she had never been one of them, and she feared that no matter what happened next, she would never be. The titled nobles would look down on her, surely, and the servants would not know how to speak to her, and -
"You're thinking very loudly," he told her, a note of worry in his voice.
"I haven't decided anything, Lucien."
"I know," he said, sighing. "And you don't have to. Not now, at any rate. It's your choice, Jean. I only want you to be happy."
She turned to look at him and his arms encircled her, her hands coming up to rest against his chest while his own settled low on her back. Standing like this, so close to him, looking up into his handsome face, his pleading blue eyes, the thought of rejecting him seemed impossible.
"How was your day?" she asked him then. If he could do her this courtesy then she supposed she owed him the same, and besides learning more about his daily life might help to ease some of her concerns about the expectations placed on royalty.
"Quiet," he answered, reaching out to brush back a lock of her hair. "Newspapers at breakfast, then the letters, then lunch, and the red box after that. Nothing terribly noteworthy today, and for that I'm truly grateful."
He had spent most of the day at his desk, then, though that was hardly a surprise. When she first came to the castle Jean had no notion of how a king spent his day, but she had quickly learned. The king received several hundred letters every day, and though he did not answer all of them himself instructions had been given to Alice regarding the sort of letters that required his personal attention, and she delivered them to him every morning. After that came the red box, the endless litany of Cabinet documents, telegrams and state papers the king was required to review, approve, and sign each day. Someone had told her once that the box had not always been red - it was in fact not so much a box as it was a briefcase - but the British queen received her documents in a red box, and King Thomas had taken a shine to the idea of it, treating the delivery of the documents with its own sort of ritual. Perhaps if Jean were queen, she would have letters of her own to answer; she would certainly be expected to give her patronage to worthy causes, and surely that would keep her busy, when she had someone else to change her bedclothes and manage her laundry.
If, she told herself.
"That's good, then," she said.
And it was. They stood together for quite some time after that, simply holding on to one another. The questions swirling through Jean's mind remained unanswered, but she could not find the words to give them voice, and Lucien did not seem to be in any hurry to solve the problems they faced. It would be enough for now, she told herself, simply to hold him, and leave the future for another day.