19 September 1959
"She looks a treat, don't she?" John asked, leaning over Jean's shoulder as they watched the flickering picture on the television he'd drug out of his office and into the dining room of the pub. Apparently this was a habit of his, when exciting events were broadcast across the kingdom; brings 'em in, Mrs. Beazley, he'd told her. You should've seen the crowd we had in here for the king's coronation. Ran my kegs dry! There had been very little Jean could say in response, for she remembered full well where she'd been during that particular event, remembered the pride she'd felt, watching her king stride out of the cathedral, seeing his straight back, his broad shoulders on the little television in the corner of Matthew's office. But she could hardly share her own stories with John; he was a nice man, a good man, had been nothing but kind to her, but he did not know where she'd come from, and she had no intention of telling him.
On this particular Saturday afternoon the story of the day was the Rose Parade. The town had celebrated their own festivities in the morning, and Jean and John had stood together on the pavement, watching the Rose Queen sitting on the back of a horse-drawn wagon, waving to the crowd in her homemade dress with a smile bright as sunlight upon her face. The morning had been a cheerful one, full of merriment, the calling voices of friends and neighbors, children skipping through the streets, and though some degree of excitement still simmered through the pub's patrons Jean found her own delight had fled, now that John had roped her into watch the royal celebration unfolding on the television.
This was the first year the castle's celebration had been broadcast to the masses; Jean had to wonder whether Lucien had played in hand in that change. King or not he was an egalitarian sort of man, and he had spoken to her, more than once, of wanting to open up royal land to the common folk, wanting to share some of the beauty he'd inherited with the people who were under his rule. But then, he did not naturally seek the spotlight, did not particularly enjoy putting himself on display; maybe it hadn't been his choice at all. Maybe it had been hers.
For there, on the little television screen, Jean saw the Lady Ann, smiling in a beautiful, well-cut dress - though the black-and-white screen gave Jean no indication of its color, she would have bet anything it was blue, and that Lucien's suit was navy - standing on a platform in the middle of the castle gardens, placing a crown of roses on a young lady's head while Lucien looked on, smiling.
There was no denying the symbolism of the moment, what it was intended to convey. For centuries, the true queen had taken that responsibility for herself, had stepped forward and crowned the Rose Queen. It was a tradition, ingrained in the collective consciousness of the kingdom's memory; though only a select few were ever granted access to the castle festivities, even the most common man on the streets of the capital knew what was what. Of course it had been forty years since Queen Genevieve had died, since last there had been a queen to sit beside the king, but the insinuation remained the same. There is the king, that's what this image was meant to convey; see him there, virile and handsome and unmarried. And here comes a young lady of noble birth, beautiful and unmarried herself, to stand beside him and act in the place of the Queen.
"I'm running a book," John told her in a conspiratorial whisper. "If you want to place a bet, odds are good they announce an engagement by Christmas."
"I'm not a betting woman," Jean told him, and with those words she turned and left him, swept out of the dining room and into the blessed silence of the kitchen. The guests gathered in the pub were mostly interested in drinks at the moment, and there was precious little for her to do, but she could not bear the thought of spending another moment in the same room with that television, with Lady Ann's flickering face mocking her in black and white, surrounded by people who only wanted to conjecture about how soon their king would wed his lovely lady. She did not trust her heart, did not trust that she could keep her grief to herself, if she were forced to remain surrounded by people for another second.
The sight of Lucien's face had lanced through her like a physical ache; Matthew had said he'd been drinking too much, but it had been three months since last she'd seen him, and perhaps in that time the king might have sorted himself out. Perhaps Lady Ann had helped him on that score; he had always enjoyed her company.
I don't want to dance with her. I only want to dance with you.
How long ago that seemed now, that beautiful night when Lucien had come to her in his finery, held out his hand and twirled her slowly round the kitchen to the scratchy sound of the wireless. How warm her heart had been, then, how full of hope her thoughts. At the time she had believed him; he had come to her, wrapped her in his arms, and stolen all her love for himself. He had told her how Sir Patrick threw Lady Ann into his path, how he did not care one bit for her, but Jean had been gone from the castle for months now. She had closed the door firmly on what could have been, and was this not why she had left him, so that he might be free to pursue another, more worthy woman? So that he might secure his kingdom's future, and leave all thoughts of her behind?
It would seem, she thought, that her plan was working splendidly, but she had not realized, before now, just how much it would hurt. To see him with another, to hear others toasting his good fortune, to know that one day, one day very soon, she would seem him standing once more on the steps of the great cathedral, only this time he would have the Lady Ann on his arm, dressed all in white. She had not realized, not until this moment, how much it would grieve her to keep her silence, to stand in a room full of people and not give voice to the ache that wound its way through her chest. He was mine, once, she wanted to scream; it was me he danced with, me he kissed, me he loved, and I let him go, so that you might have your queen, your royal wedding, your happy future. He was mine, and is no longer, and I am lost without him.
A tear slipped past her tight-closed eyes, and then another, there in the silence of the kitchen. He was mine, once, she thought, but I have woken from that dream.
"Well, all in all, I think that was a marvelous afternoon," Joy declared, pouring herself a measure of whiskey from his decanter and raising her glass to him in salute. Lucien smiled wanly, and clinked his glass against hers in toast.
"I didn't fall flat on my face and no one took a shot at me, so yes, I'd say it was a success."
Joy laughed, a strange, throaty laugh that was not at all like Jean's, and settled herself on the sofa beside him. They were enjoying a nightcap in his private parlor, as they did every now and again; it was rather nice having someone to talk to, someone to spend his evening hours with, though if Lucien were being honest he would rather share his whiskey with Matthew than with Joy. But it was not Matthew he intended to wed, was not Matthew's finger the royal jeweler had measured to fit a sparkling diamond ring. The wheels were turning; an engagement at Christmas, a wedding the following year, and there was nothing Lucien could do to stop it now. Though he remained rather passive while the machinery of castle life rolled on he had put his foot down on one single matter; he would not give his mother's ring to Joy. She was a fashionable girl, and would no doubt want something more modern, with a bigger stone. That was the reason he'd given the jeweler, at least; the truth was, he had intended to give his mother's ring to Jean, and he could not bear to see it sparkling on Joy's finger instead.
"Oh, you don't give yourself enough credit. You always do a wonderful job with your public appearances."
Lucien lifted his glass to her in a gesture of thanks. "You're too kind."
"And you're too quiet. What on earth are you thinking about?"
She was leaning against his arm, looking up at him with wide, coquettish eyes, and he knew in that moment she wanted him to kiss her, and he knew in that moment that he should. Jean was not ever coming back, and Joy was to be his wife, and there was no reason, really, why he should not enjoy himself with her, why he should not try to build some sort of rapport with her. She could be snobbish and condescending, when the mood struck, could be a bit too preoccupied with status, but she was not such a bad woman, would not make such a bad wife. She would keep separate quarters, once they were wed, and they would live their lives in parallel, if not in harmony. He did not need to love her; he only needed to bed her on occasion, and surely, he thought, that would not be so very difficult.
And yet he did not lean in, did not press his lips to her pretty pout. He did not answer her question, either, for in truth his thoughts were full of Jean. Where was she now, he asked himself; had she participated in a Rose Parade, in some village whose name he'd never heard? Had she chanced by a television, and seen him standing next to Joy, and known at once what it meant? Was she pleased, to know her sacrifice was not in vain, was she troubled, to know that he would soon be promised to another, was she thinking of him at all?
"Your Majesty?" Joy asked him softly when he'd been quiet too long, but he was spared the need to answer by a sudden banging upon the door to his suite.
"Do excuse me," he said, all but vaulting from the sofa, all but running away from Joy and her curious stare. He flung the door open, and on the other side he found Danny, dressed in his uniform and pale-faced as if he'd just had the shock of his life.
"Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty," Danny told him breathlessly. "Only...only you're needed downstairs, at once."
"Of course," Lucien answered. He placed his whiskey glass on a table by the door and followed Danny out into the corridor. Behind him he could hear the soft sound of Joy's footfalls trailing after him, but he paid her no mind. Whatever surprise waited for him downstairs it would likely have nothing at all to do with her, and she would make her way to her own room for the night, to do whatever it was she did when she was not with him.
Danny was not running, as he led the way down the corridor, down the stairs, but he was moving at a fair pace, and Lucien had to hustle to keep up with him. He wanted to ask what was afoot, what had startled Danny so, what was worth interrupting his quiet Saturday evening, but he did not; at the rate they were going, they would be downstairs in a moment, and all would be revealed. Lucien could only hope that it was nothing too devastating, but matters requiring a king's attention after dark were rarely pleasant. Perhaps it was something to do with Korea; Patrick had been making noises about the troubles there in recent days. Or perhaps it was something else; there was a great deal of tension between the Soviets and the Americans, and closer to home there was talk of a miner's strike, but there was always talk of a miner's strike. Whatever it is, he thought, please let it be something that can be dealt with quickly.
As they made their way down the final staircase Lucien caught sight of a strange scene in the castle foyer. Several guards were standing there, hands resting on their sidearms, forming a half-circle around a woman who stood with her back to him. Lucien could see nothing at all of the woman herself, save that she was slender, that she wore a dark coat and her long hair spilled black as night down her back. Matthew was standing with her, talking to her softly, but perhaps he had heard the heavy sound of Lucien's feet upon the stairs; he was no more than halfway down when Matthew said something to the woman and she turned, and Lucien's heart nearly exploded in his chest.
"Li!" he cried out, shocked and overjoyed and terrified all at once. At the sight of her face he began to run, giving no thought to Danny, or to Joy behind him, no thought to the guards or any of the curious eyes that might be watching him. There were precious few people in the world who knew that Li even existed, and of them only Matthew and Lucien were gathered in that place. No doubt it seemed strange to all the people watching, the way he bolted down the stairs and straight towards her, the way she began to weep, one hand resting on the swell of her belly, huge now with child. They could look, and wonder, and think whatever they wished; in that moment Lucien only cared that his daughter was here, waiting for him. He had not ever thought to receive such a gift, and though he did not know what it meant that she should come to him he was so full of love for her that he did not hesitate.
"Papa," she managed to say, her voice choked with tears, but in the next second he had reached her, and wrapped his arms around her. As he crushed her against his chest she began to sob, her shoulders shaking, clinging to him as if she feared her legs would not hold her, and Lucien returned the embrace just as fiercely, overwhelmed at the trust she showed him, letting him hold her like this when the last time they'd seen one another she had been so much more reserved.
"I've been so scared," she managed to whisper to him in Mandarin, and Lucien's heart broke at the sound of those words, the thought of his child afraid and alone. But she was alone no more; she was here, with him, and he would keep her safe. Whatever troubles had brought her to his door he would hear them, and he would do whatever he could to make her happy again, to make sure that she was safe, and loved, as she always should have been.
"It's all right," he answered her in her own tongue. "It's all right. You're safe, my darling. I've got you."