The sunlight streaming through the south-facing window of her bedroom woke Clarisse early. Still jet-lagged, her body was convinced it was at least mid-afternoon but, as she noted with a grimace, it was only just half-past five in the morning. She yawned, and rubbed her eyes, turning as she did so, to snuggle into Joseph's chest. He sighed a little, and sleepily pulled her closer. From his regular breathing she could tell he was still fast asleep, and she had absolutely no intention of waking him. Carefully, she shifted up the bed, to lay her head on the soft pillow. He groaned, and she couldn't help but smile, placing a hand tenderly on his chest where her head had been. Propping herself up on an elbow, she leisurely stroked his chest, studying his face, tracing the contours with her eyes.

She knew this face so well, almost like her own. He always looked the same when he was asleep. The lines smoothed out and he was as he had always been. She wondered how many of the worry lines on his forehead had been caused by her. She already knew how many of the laughter lines around her own eyes had been thanks to him. More than anything, it had been this that she had missed during those years of silence. These moments of proximity, when she could simply look at him, drown in him… not just snatch mere glimpses when no one was looking. He smiled in his sleep and, ever so carefully, she pressed a kiss to his lips. He didn't stir, but turned in to her, unconsciously drawing her nearer.

Lying back down, she realised that sleep would not come soon. She didn't want to read, and getting up definitely did not appeal. And so she decided, in the warmth of his embrace, to think through, to process for herself, those most painful memories. To face them, safe in the knowledge that they were memories past, and to decide how she would, how they would move on from here….

She couldn't remember when it had all started to fall apart. At the time, she had felt torn between the sense that it was over in a single rash moment, and the deeper cut, that it had always been falling apart. She realised now that both had been true.

Rupert had been ill for some time. For a while the doctors had been hopeful for his full recovery but, as the various possible treatments began to run out, and the brain tumour continued to grow, his prospects had dwindled. Eighteen months after the initial diagnosis, they told him that nothing more could be done, and that he should start to put his affairs in order. They had given him less than three weeks.

Clarisse had only discovered this by accident. Rupert had intended to keep the knowledge to himself, not wanting to burden her, not wanting the mass panic that he had known would ensue, but she had overheard him speaking to his legal advisor about funeral arrangements.

She had stood there, her hand grasping the door handle desperately in an attempt to retain her composure. He had sounded so cold, so…formal. Talking about his own death as if he were planning a state procession. Which of course, he was. Her throat felt tight, and she knew that tears threatened to fall. Closing her eyes tightly, she willed them away, swallowing her grief. In spite of his failings, Rupert was her oldest companion. He was not warm, or loving, but he was her guide and mentor. He was the constant who structured her daily life, the father of her children, her husband. And he was dying.

But she was not supposed to know. He did not want her to know. And so she turned, smoothed out her jacket, and, the queenly mask slipping perfectly into place, walked out into the gardens. She did not know.

But, of course, she did know. She watched Rupert one evening later that week as he made an attempt at eating dinner. His medication affected his appetite and she knew how much he now dreaded eating in company. Glancing round the room, at the servants in attendance, she wondered how many of them knew. She decided that it didn't matter, and speaking discreetly to the head butler, dismissed them all. Rupert looked up from his plate and, for a second, caught her gaze, seeing in her eyes the knowledge he'd been so desperate to hide,

"Thank you, Clarisse." He tried to smile, in that half-hearted, stiff way of his.

She nodded, smiling back. She stood up and, for the first time in their marriage, came to sit next to her husband, at his end of the dinner table. Up close, she noticed that his left hand shook a little as he tried to use his fork. Eventually he gave up, placing his hand on the table. Without a word, she covered it with her own.

That night she had not seen Joseph at all. Nor the night after. Then, Rupert's condition had worsened, and he had become confined to his bed. Clarisse could not bring herself to leave him, knowing how little time he had left, how soon he would be gone. She had felt so cold, so numb. And for the first time in her adult life, entirely powerless. The servants were dismissed from the King's suite, and only Clarisse, his manservant, Arthur and the doctor were admitted. To Joseph she sent a brief note explaining her absence, only to subsequently tear it up. He would understand. Rupert was drifting in and out of consciousness now, and could hardly speak. She slept badly, hunched in one of the chairs in his bedroom, leaving him only briefly to wash and change her clothes. She lost her appetite.

As Rupert drifted into a coma, the doctor advised her to retire to her own rooms for the night, to prepare herself for the now inevitable, to rest for the trials that would surely be ahead. Reluctantly, she had acceded, and, dazedly, she had made her way to her suite. In contrast to Rupert's darkened bedroom, heavy with the smell of medicine, her room was warm and welcoming. A fire had been lit in the sitting room, and tea laid out on the table. For the first time in nearly two weeks, she smiled. A shadow in the corner of the room caught her eye. He stepped forward and, moving towards her held out his arms. In a second she was in front of him, and she sunk into his warm embrace.

"Oh my darling…I've missed you so much." His voice was low and soothing.

"He needs me Joseph." It was a statement, an explanation and a plea all at the same time.

He took a deep breath, and sighed, stroking the back of her head. His voice was concerned and serious,

"Clarisse…you mustn't forget yourself…you…you've been making yourself ill. I've been so worried…I've not seen you for days."

She stepped back, and, placing her hands on his chest, looked at him, not understanding his concern.

"Joseph, he's dying. He needs me. I have to be there for him"

She spoke clearly, her tone clipped and formal, suddenly tired at his misplaced anxiety.

"I know he's dying…but it's killing me to see you do this to yourself." He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but two weeks of exasperation and worry were wearing his nerves thin.

"For God's sake Joseph, this is not about you. And it's not about me." She pushed him away, crossing her arms in front of her, rubbing her upper arms in irritation. "He needs me now, and so I will be here for him. Until the end."

"You must rest Clarisse. Please, eat with me this evening and then rest. From what the doctor told me, he does not even know where he is anymore." His tone was softer now, desperately trying to soothe her. Still, she kept her arm crossed defensively.

"No."

"No?"

"You heard me." She was becoming increasingly angry, how could he not see this? She backed away, moving across the room to her desk. "He is my husband Joseph, and he deserves this at least….at the very least." She turned and stared out of the window into the blackness. "Last night I looked into his eyes and he was scared, terribly scared… I could see it. The man who I have never know to be scared of anything looked as terrified as a small boy." She was wringing her hands, her voice raised, "He will not die believing that I left him alone."

"Clarisse, you cannot do this to yourself." Again, his voice raised against his will.

"For Christ's sake, Joseph, this is not about me!"

She heard him swear, and move towards the door, but still she didn't turn to look at him. She was right, she knew that. Rupert needed her now, and Joseph, Joseph she could speak with later. There was no time for his childish jealousy and misguided concerns.

He reached the door and paused, turning back to look at her, stood so defiantly, so bloody composed again, so arrogantly sure of herself, and, in spite of everything his mind screamed, his heart roared louder,

"For God's sake Clarisse, he knows! He knows everything…I think he always has…"

Her head snapped round, and she fixed him with a glare that chilled him to the bone.

"Get out"

As the door slammed, she felt her knees collapse beneath her and she half-fell, half-sat on the plush couch behind her. For a moment she couldn't comprehend his words, couldn't process their implication. Her heart felt like it had been torn from her and held up for all to see. How many of them had known? How long had Joseph lied? Had it all been a lie? She curled up into a ball, rocking gently to try and soothe herself. What had he reduced her to? She felt sick with guilt and anger, ashamed and broken. She couldn't cry, but was shaking all over, her body living the torment running through her mind. Oh God, Rupert…her heart grew cold at the very thought…what had she done…oh God, what had she done?

A/N Well, I did warn you that it's not very cheery. Will update soon, I promise, with the other part of the break up. Then, all we have to do is put them back together again…