2 June 1959

The night proved to be a sleepless one for Lucien. Though he knew it was folly he made his way up to the roof as soon as the sun fell, and wasted two fruitless hours there, pacing and waiting with no sign of his beloved. In that time he encountered several of the guards, patrolling the battlements with rifles propped against their shoulders, and though each lad in turn had been polite and deferential Lucien could not help but wonder as he passed them whether this was the lad who had spotted him up here with Jean, whether that was the one who had started the malicious rumors that now threatened his happiness and all his plans for the future. No answer was forthcoming, at least not without the king directly questioning his guardsmen, and Lucien could not quite bring himself to do such a thing; they were young men for the most part, and he was sure that however the gossip had begun it had not been done with the intention of deliberately undermining his authority and ruining Jean's reputation forever.

When it became apparent that Jean would not be putting in an appearance he retired to his suite, and stayed up most of the night, pacing and drinking and trying to work his way through the problem at hand. He wanted to believe that the solution was a simple one, that he would ask Jean to marry him, and she would accept him, and he would tell Sir Patrick, and that would be that. Though his heart clung desperately to such hopes his head knew better; Jean had so far been reticent to agree to marriage for a variety of reasons, and though Lucien believed marrying Jean would satisfy his end of the bargain he'd struck with the PM he was certain Sir Patrick would not see it that way. Patrick wanted him to marry a nice, noble girl and fill the castle's nursery with babies, and Jean was no more than a housekeeper, on the wrong side of forty to boot. Nevermind that Lucien loved her; she was not what the PM had in mind for a queen, and without Sir Patrick's support…

I won't give him any bloody choice, Lucien told himself as he paced. If Prince Rainier can marry a movie star, surely I can marry Jean.

As the hours slipped away from him a plan formed in his mind. Jean would come to his rooms in the afternoon, the way she did every day, and he would meet her there, would speak to her quietly, earnestly of their predicament. Perhaps, he thought, if he could only convince her of the depth of his regard for her, surely she could be swayed. And when that was done, he would meet with Sir Patrick, and tell the man in no uncertain terms that unless he was allowed to marry Jean he would abdicate the throne. Of course, he had no idea of following through on such a threat - the very idea of having to choose between his love of Jean and his duty to his people turned his stomach - but perhaps it would be enough to cow Sir Patrick into submission.

If Jean would not accept him, though, if she decided it was altogether more than she could bear, if she asked to leave him...he would let her go, but he was not sure how he could possibly survive, without her warm smiles, her gentle counsel, the touch of her hand. A world without Jean would be to his mind like a world without sunlight. He had walked through the lonesome darkness of the world without love once before, and the very thought of doing so again left his hands trembling.

It will be all right, he told himself as the sun rose, as he poured another measure of whiskey and waited for Peter to come to him with his breakfast. It has to be.

The hours before lunch were given over to documents, to the newspapers and the red box and the endless ream of paperwork that seemed to come with being king. Lucien spent a good deal of time at the small desk in his study; though he might perhaps have been more comfortable in his official office downstairs he had no desire to leave his suite, even for a moment, if it might mean missing Jean in the process. Alice sat with him for a while, discussing his next scheduled speaking engagement and dropping off the day's assortment of letters, but otherwise the minutes passed in quiet solitude for Lucien, until just after 1:00 that afternoon, by which time Peter had cleared away the crumbs of the king's lunch and the king himself was seriously considering a nap. The door to his suite opened and closed again, and Lucien, knowing he was expecting no further visitors, leapt to his feet at once, his heart racing.

"Jean!" he called out urgently as he strode from his study. She was not waiting for him in the parlor; perplexed, he called out to her a second time. "Jean?"

"I'm sorry, sir," came the answer. A timid little maid, hardly more than twenty, emerged from the bedroom clutching a crumpled pile of sheets, her eyes a bit wild as she gave a clumsy attempt at a curtsy. "Mrs. Beazley said I'm to clean your rooms now, sir, if it please you," the girl stammered.

For a moment Lucien could only stare at her, confused and concerned by turns. Always before Jean had insisted on being the only one to clean his rooms; that fact was as constant, as certain as the rising and the setting of the sun. It had always warmed his heart, to think of how she showed her affection for him in this way, how she shielded him from view of others who might not understand him, how she seemed to take pleasure in being near to him, in being privy to his secrets in a way no one else ever could. Why then, he wondered, would she make such a change now? Had the terrible whispers made their way to Jean already, was she even now trying to pull herself back from him? And how much damage had he done, lying in wait for her, calling out her name and revealing his own affections so plainly to this girl whose name he did not even know?

"I do beg your pardon," he said, breaking the terrible, awkward silence at last. "I was expecting someone else."

"Yes, sir," the girl said, staring resolutely at the carpet and refusing to meet his gaze. "I know, sir."

Damn, Lucien thought glumly; the maid had, with two simple words, proved the right of it. Everyone knew, then, that their king was sweet on his housekeeper, knew that she spent most every afternoon in his rooms, and if this girl was the talkative sort they would know far more, come suppertime. He could only imagine the way those facts could be interpreted; though Lucien had never once taken Jean to his bed during her afternoons in his suite the insinuation would be there, just the same. They'll call her the king's whore, that's what Matthew had said, and Lucien's blood ran cold at the very thought, He could not abide people saying such things about Jean, but he was certain that any attempt on his part to combat the rumors would only add fuel to the fire.

"I should get back to work, sir," the girl ventured timidly when Lucien did not respond. "But, if Your Majesty still wishes to speak to Mrs. Beazley, I believe you'll find her in the Great Hall." Without another word the maid turned and fled, and a wry smile tugged at the corner of Lucien's lips. Yes, no doubt the maid knew full well that her king was besotted with Mrs. Beazley, but her words had been kind, and she had seen at once what it was Lucien wanted, and sought to aid him on his quest. Perhaps it was not all doom and damnation, the fact that the servants knew what was afoot; perhaps, he thought as he strode out into the corridor, they would be happy for their king and his beloved.

All is not lost, he told himself, not yet.

The begonia festival was coming, and Jean had never in her life been so grateful for the distraction it afforded. Bright, festive blooms would be shipped in from all over the kingdom to decorate every inch of the castle, and the parade grounds would be given over to the festival itself, booths set up for the competition and for craftsmen to sell their wares, vendors strolling among the crowds and children running to and fro, laughing. The king himself would declare the winner of the competition, and invite them along with their family back to the castle for the annual feast. Though the festival itself was not Jean's purview the decoration of the castle was, and so she had decided to spend this afternoon in the Great Hall, planning the arrangements so that the orders could be finalized before week's end. It would be a pleasant way to pass the time, would keep her thoughts and her hands busy, and would, she hoped, keep the sorrow at bay.

It had cost her dearly to send young Tilly upstairs to clean the king's suite, but as far as Jean could see there was no other choice. She could not continue as she had done, not while everyone was watching her. Appearances mattered rather more than truth, and she knew she must appear to be impartial, no more fond of this king than the last. Tilly was a timid girl, and quiet, and asked no questions when she received her marching orders. Any of the other girls might have seen Jean's decision as a confession of sorts, but not Tilly; or at least, if Tilly did realize what was afoot, she had the good sense to keep her opinions to herself, and for that Jean was grateful. Still, though, the care and keeping of the king had until now been Jean's responsibility, and she did not like the thought of sending someone else to his room. What if the bin was full of empty bottles, or what if he'd broken another glass in the night? What if there were pieces of stationary littered around the place, the desperate words of an eager heart spilled across them? What if Jean's trust in Tilly was misplaced, and she did not keep her king's secrets?

It didn't bear thinking about, but to Jean's mind there was no other way. He might have been waiting for her, if she'd gone up to his room, and she had no idea what she'd say to him if she found him there. How could she possibly explain any of this, her shame, her fear, the gnawing sense that she ought not marry him coupled with the desperate desire to do exactly that?

Lack of love was not her problem; if she did not love him, she could have easily turned away from him, and thought of him no more. She could have stepped lightly from the castle for the sake of her own future, and been content. But oh, she loved him - damn him - loved him in a quite hopeless, desperate sort of way. She wanted his arms around her, wanted to soft touch of his lips, wanted to curl herself against him and hear his rich, warm laughter, wanted to believe that they could be happy together. She wanted him, but to take him, she would have to take the crown, too, the attention, the responsibility, the politicians and the obligations, and she was still not entirely certain that such a union would be permitted, when it came right down to it.

You're still just a farmgirl, a terrible voice whispered in the back of her mind, and you were not meant to have this man, this life.

"Jean?"

The breath caught in her throat; somehow, despite all her best efforts, he had found his way to her, drawn to her as if by the sheer force of gravity. The great hall was vast and cavernous but empty at present, and the sound of his footsteps marching smartly across the marble echoed like the boom of some great, terrible drum. There was nowhere to hide, no excuse to send her far from his side; where she went, he was sure to follow, and she hated him and loved him for it in almost equal measure. With no other choice, then, she turned to meet her fate, curtsying shortly as he drew near.

"Your Majesty," she said coolly. His brow furrowed, hurt swirling in his deep blue eyes, and her heart clenched within her chest; he was Lucien, her Lucien, handsome and impulsive and more dear to her than any other, and though she could not bear to hurt him she felt as if she must, as if she had no other choice. He would not change his mind of his own accord, and so she would be forced to change it for him. We must put an end to this, she thought as she looked at him then, sorrow welling up within her. We cannot go on.

"Jean," he said again, softly now that he stood close enough to touch her. "Please."

"This can't go on," she answered him, trying to find some way to soften the blow, though she knew she must deliver it. "You and I both know it. You're the king, and you must act like one. Whatever we wanted...it was only a dream, Lucien. Surely you know that."

A beautiful dream, she thought, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. A dream I wanted more than any other, but a dream nonetheless. Oh, Lucien, my love, forgive me. I'm sorry I can't be what you need.

"Jean, please-" he reached out as if to take hold of her hand, but she drew back from him, a tear spilling down her cheek despite her best efforts to hold her weeping in check. This beautiful, hopeless man; why can't he see we have no other choice? She could not allow his love of her to threaten his reputation, to drive a wedge between him and the government; they could destroy him, could with the press turn his legacy to ashes. And if anyone ever got wind of her own history, if the truth of her life before she'd come to the castle ever came to light, they'd ruin her, too. Though she had held him once the joy and the hope she'd felt then had turned to dust in her hands, and she found herself alone and abandoned, cursing her fate.

"Everyone knows, now, and you know what they're saying. A man like you can't marry someone like me." No matter how much we both want it, no matter how wonderful it might have been.

"Why not? Look at me, Jean." When she did not he stepped closer, and some of her resolve wavered. Her heart longed for him so fiercely, against all reason, and he was so close she could not find the strength to pull away. Sensing his advantage he moved at once, reached out to cradle her cheek in his palm and lift her gaze to his face. His touch was so tender, his skin so warm against her own, and oh, but she ached for the warmth, the reassurance of him. The tears were flowing freely now, and she could not stop them; the pleading expression in his eyes only added to her agony, only made this moment that much harder to bear. "Tell me you don't love me," he said desperately.

"Lucien," she choked out his name, but he carried on, heedless.

"If you don't love me, Jean, then I will let you go and never speak of this again. But please, Jean, if you feel anything for me at all, please, don't leave me."

Just say it. If a lie is the only way to set him free, say it and let him go. It was right there, on the tip of her tongue, the words that could put an end to this thing between them at last, and set him on the path to greatness, set him on the path to another woman's arms and a second chance at love and family. She knew that all she had to do was speak those words, and this terrible calamity would resolve itself at last, and yet when he was standing so close to her, gazing at her so earnestly, everything she wanted just within her grasp, her heart would not allow her to lie.

"I love you," she whispered desolately. "God help me, Lucien, but I do love you."

In an instant his arms were around her, and she collapsed against his chest, weeping. He held her close, held her tight, her head tucked beneath his chin, and though she was no more certain of their future than she had been when he entered the room so long as he held her she felt safe, and comforted. He was warm, and solid, and so bloody certain; if he is so sure, she thought then, perhaps he is not wrong.

"I know what people are saying, Jean," he told her then, still holding her so tightly, thick arms wrapped around her as if he intended to never let her go. "I know that you're afraid. But I love you, Jean, and I mean to marry you, if you'll have me."

"But what if-"

"You let me worry about Sir Patrick and the rest," he interrupted her at once. "I have a plan, my darling."

She lifted her head then, and found him looking down at her, smiling. "How can you be so sure?" she asked him in a tremulous voice. "There are so many things that could go wrong."

"I'm the king, remember?" he said gently. "They cannot stop me, and if they want peace they will accept my decision. I have dreamt of you, Jean, and dreams are what this world is built on. Look around you," he wrapped his arm low around her waist and pulled her in beside him, turning them both to gaze out upon the echoing vastness of the hall. The high-vaulted ceilings, ornately carved and inlaid with gold, disappeared into shadow above their heads, and the tall, glittering windows cast shafts of golden sunlight across the pristine white marble floor. The walls were hung with priceless tapestries and paintings, and every inch of the room spoke of elegance, and grandeur, and hope. It remained one of the most beautiful things Jean had ever seen, but as she looked at it now she felt almost as if she were seeing it for the first time.

"This place is a dream, Jean, built by those who hoped for the future. It can be our dream, too, my darling, if you want it."

For a moment Jean simply stood, holding onto him, gazing out across the room, her thoughts racing. There was some truth to what he said; Sir Patrick and the rest had been relieved when Lucien came home, she knew, and they were desperate to see that he kept the crown, to ensure it did not pass to one of his undesirable cousins. Perhaps, with the right sort of persuasion - and she had never met anyone more persuasive than Lucien - they would accept it in time. In a year, or two, or five, perhaps it would not matter where she had begun; perhaps, in the end, they would look at her, and see only their queen.

"I don't care about all of this," she told him then, turning to wrap her arms around his neck. "I only want you." And she did, oh, but she did. The dresses and the parties and the jewels held no appeal for her; in fact, the very idea of being queen turned her blood to ice in her veins. But it would be a small price to pay, she thought, if in the end he kept his arms around her for all the rest of his days. "Promise me, Lucien. Promise me we'll be all right."

"I swear it," he said, and then he bowed his head, and kissed her sweetly. Only for a moment, and then he was pulling away, smiling his boyish smile. "So will you marry me, my darling?"

"If you can convince Sir Patrick," she said slowly. "If he will agree, if Parliament will not stand in our way, then...then yes, Lucien, I will marry you."

A laugh escaped him then, a quick, booming sound of delight, and he caught her in his arms and lifted her clean off the ground, his lips finding hers once more. With her arms around his neck she kissed him back, messily, tears still painting her cheeks. Yes, if he could bring Sir Patrick and the rest of the cabinet on board, if they had the support of the government and the people they loved best, yes, they could have this dream, this sweet hope for the future that had so consumed them both. Accepting his proposal was quite the most reckless thing Jean had ever done in her life, but it was hard to stand in the way of her king's determination, his confidence. If Lucien believed they could find a way to be together, Jean would not stand in his way, not now. After all, he had told her he had a plan, and she believed him.

"Dance with me," he whispered breathlessly as he set her feet upon the ground.

"There's no music," she answered, smiling as he rested his forehead against hers, knowing what he was going to do before he did it and yet finding herself utterly delighted when he began to hum. It was the same song he had sung to her as they danced in the glasshouse what seemed a lifetime before, and her heart was filled with joy as they began to sway softly together.

"When I fall in love," he sang, spinning her slowly around the floor in the vast emptiness of the great hall, "it will be forever..."

Forever and for always, she thought, her arms still clasped around his neck. The way before them was still cloaked in shadow, but she loved him, and he loved her, and for now that would be enough.