London, England
February 2014
The jack and the queen
The Buckingham Palace guest room allocated to me is one of the most scrumptious rooms I've ever slept in (maybe the most scrumptious room). But gold ornaments and heavy carpets alone don't ensure a good night's sleep, so I spend the majority of the night throwing myself fitfully from side to side. It's only in the early hours of morning that I fall into a light slumber and, accordingly, already mid-morning by the time I finally get up.
I put on a brand-new dress left for me with a cheery note from Melissa (judging from the price tag, someone gave her a credit card and let her go wild with it), before following the directions of a nice liveried man to what he calls the breakfast room. (A room just for breakfast! These palaces are seriously weird sometimes.)
Entering the room, I quickly take in my surroundings. There's a set table in the middle, a breakfast buffet along one of the walls – and Ken standing next to the window.
"What are you doing here?" I blurt out.
He turns and smiles. "I came down last night. My father said you went to bed early and I didn't want to disturb you, so I didn't knock."
I blink at him, uncomprehending. "You were in Scotland."
"I was," he confirms. "The MOD dispatched a helicopter to take me down to London."
"They can do that?" I want to know. (I still haven't wrapped my head around his sudden appearance.)
"If the King requires me for urgent matters of state, yes, they can," explains Ken matter-of-factly.
I frown. "I'm not an urgent matter of state."
"No," he acknowledges, "but you're important."
Hm.
Ken studies my face for a moment, before taking a step closer and extending his arms halfway towards me. "Am I allowed to give you a kiss?" he asks.
Instinctively, I draw up my shoulders and hug my arms to myself. "I'm… I'm not sure?"
He takes a deep breath and drops his arms to dangle by his side. "You're mad at me," he states.
I hadn't considered whether I was mad at him before, but now that he's standing here, I realise that yes, I am. Silently, I nod.
Ken lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Can you explain why?" he asks.
An incredulous laugh escapes me. "You don't know?"
He raises his head to look at me. "I could guess. But at this point, I'm thinking guessing probably doesn't cut it anymore."
No. Probably not.
We hold eye contact, until he finally lowers his head and looks away. I let go of a long breath.
Here goes nothing, then.
"Where do you want me to start?" My feelings are veering so quickly between tired and sad and angry that I'm getting dizzy. "Maybe with the fact that while you're up there playing solider, I'm here all alone and utterly miserable? You can hide behind army fences and castle walls, but I'm the one who's out there and I'm the one they hunt down every bloody day!"
"You told me in September it was alright to do the training," Ken says quietly, still not looking at me.
I nod curtly. "I did. I didn't tell you it was alright to basically desert me while you're doing it. I mean, it needed your father to intervene yesterday. He shouldn't need to be the person to intervene!"
"You've not exactly been forthcoming with information," Ken points out. "Every time I asked, you said it was fine and not to worry. What was I supposed to think?"
"Maybe you could have checked for yourself?" I suggest sarcastically. "And anyway, what do you expect me to say? You're not talking to me either, but I'm supposed to share everything with you?"
"I am talking to you," he insists.
I scoff. "You're not. Nor are you allowing me to be a part of your life, not completely. I'm still at arm's length, waiting for some kind of absolution so that finally, I might be allowed to become an equal partner to you, rather than just being a part of some kind of alternative non-royal fantasy life you've built for yourself."
It's harsh, I know. But that doesn't make it any less truthful.
"That's not true," Ken counters anyway.
"It is!" I insist. "If it weren't true, why else would it need your father and your sister to introduce me to the royal side of your life?"
"I didn't stand in the way of you forging a relationship with them," Ken points out, his voice strained.
My laugh is borderline mocking. "Am I supposed to be grateful for that now?"
"No, but –" he begins.
I cut right across him. "I tried, Ken. I tried to figure out the royal aspects without your help, while making sure you wouldn't feel neglected by me spending time with your family. You were no help, but I tried my best anyway, because I wanted to be understanding. I know our relationship is some kind of escapism mechanism for you, but that doesn't cut it anymore. I can't do this anymore."
"Can't do what?" he asks tightly.
I throw my hands up. "This! I can't keep hovering on the side lines of your life, to be either accepted or ignored as it suits you. I need… I need more than the scraps you're throwing me. I suffer all the drawbacks of being your girlfriend – and yesterday was just one example of that –, but you won't let me in and I still don't know why that is!"
"Because of me."
I whirl around.
Standing in the doorway, her expression completely unreadable, is the Queen.
"Mum," comes Ken's hesitant voice from behind me.
His mother, however, is looking at me, her expression alert and a little searching.
"Your Majesty," I greet her, inclining my head slightly.
"Please. Call me Leslie," she replies immediately.
Hm.
I'm not sure I expected that.
(No, scratch that. I didn't expect it. Ages of ignoring me and then we're in first name basis just like that? Weird.)
"Mum," repeats Ken. This time, there's a note of warning in his voice.
His mother – Leslie – turns her gaze on him. "Kenneth?"
I, too, look over my shoulder and just catch him giving her a pointed look as he's trying to communicate something he doesn't want to say out loud in front of me. (Anyone detect a pattern?)
"I kept my distance for so long," the Que- Leslie remarks evenly. "Don't you think it's time?"
Time for what?
Ken swallows heavily. His jaw is set and there's that furrow between his eyebrows. But he doesn't say No. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all.
Nodding her head slightly, his mother turns back to me. "I have something I'd like to talk to you about," she tells me. "Would you be willing to listen?"
Is she kidding me? As if I'd ever refuse any information she deigns to throw my way.
"I guess so." I make sure to keep my voice neutral, even a little unimpressed. Can't be seen to be too eager and, to be honest, after how long she ignored my very existence, I'm not well-inclined to be super polite. (No matter how disappointed Grandmother Marilla would be in me if she knew.)
The Qu- Leslie points me towards two armchairs in front of an unlit fireplace. Ken remains standing by the window, his arms folded, his face stony. I'm usually quite good at reading him even when he's closing off, but right now, I'm not sure what's on his mind. I guess I'm pretty lost in general at the moment.
Sitting down in the armchair next to mine, Leslie turns to me. For a second or two, she considers me with something akin to curiosity, before stating, "One of the reasons Kenneth has been reluctant to include you more in the royal part of his – our – life, is my story."
I frown, processing her words. "I don't think I understand."
"He was – is – afraid that meeting me and learning about my past will scare you away," explains Leslie with an odd little smile. "As it rightfully should."
Quickly glancing over at Ken, I find that he has his back to us. He's turned to the window overlooking the palace garden, but somehow, I can't imagine he's seeing much of anything.
"I'm still here," I point out with a shrug.
Leslie nods slowly. "You are. A lot of people wouldn't be, which is why I think it is time we tell you the entire truth and allow you to make up your own mind." She pauses briefly, before adding, questioningly, "Kenneth?"
For a long moment, he doesn't react, but then I can see him jerk his head upwards in what is an approximation of a nod. Leslie, apparently satisfied to regard this as confirmation, turns back to me.
"Owen's mother didn't want us to marry," she begins, which might be viewed as an odd place to start, but I'm taking everything I can get. "Some people believe it was because as a widow, I wasn't the pure virgin they wanted for a future queen. Others thought it was because in seven years of marriage, I hadn't born Dick, my first husband, a living child."
I can't help but take note of the word 'living'.
"Both of those considerations certainly applied," acknowledges Leslie, "but Alexandra's biggest worry was that she considered my family to be mentally unstable. She wasn't wrong about that."
Her eyes search my face, as if looking for some sign of aversion or reluctance there. I just raise my chin a little and meet her gaze.
"When they found my brother dead in a nightclub toilet at barely twenty-one, no-one could say for sure whether he'd deliberately overdosed on heroine or whether it had been accidental." Leslie's voice, I notice, is surprisingly calm considering her words. "When, not quite two years later, my mother swallowed a package of subscription pills and chased them with a bottle of red wine, matters seemed more clear-cut, though still not beyond all doubt. By the time my father got his cancer diagnosis seven years later and immediately drove home to hang himself in one of the old barns on the furthest end of the estate, there was no doubt left that it had been deliberate."
Well…
Wow.
"You see that Alexandra wasn't wrong. Suicide runs in my family," Leslie points out almost conversationally.
I just stare at her.
For a moment or two, she seems to think about how to proceed before saying, "My parents' marriage was arranged. My mother was beautiful and as well-bred as a thoroughbred, but her family had long lost their fortune. They somehow held on to the family seat, but by the time my mother was born, it was barely more than a ruin."
Why is she telling me this?
I mean, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but… why?
"My father's family wasn't quite new money, but they could only trace their lineage back some 300 years," Leslie continues. "They did, however, get rich at a time when 'public service' still meant that those in power liberally lined their own pockets."
And that's not true these days anymore?
"When my mother was twenty and the family home crumbling around her, she set out to marry a man who could provide for her parents and siblings. As the oldest child and the most beautiful daughter, she not only felt responsible, but had the highest chance of success, too," Leslie explains.
"And then she married your father," I interject, trying to get the hang of this tale she's telling.
Leslie inclines her head. "She did, or rather, he married her – and her entire family. I never can decide whether they loved each other, but if it was an arrangement, they both got something out of it. My mother escaped the genteel squalor of her childhood, securing a comfortable future for her family as she did. My father, a mere earl, married a duke's daughter from one of the premier families of the country."
She pauses to look around the room, a wry smile playing on her lips. "My father was the ninth Earl of Holderness, but my maternal grandfather was Duke of Buckingham. I always thought the irony of that to be quite poetic."
That's one way of looking at it, I guess.
Sobering slightly, the smile slipping from her lips, Leslie returns to her story. "Even ensconced in her husband's riches, my mother never forgot the poverty of her childhood. She lived in constant terror that my father would divorce her, though oddly, that never stopped her from taking lovers. When I was eighteen, my father found out about her affairs in such a blatant way that he could no longer turn a blind eye to it. He didn't ask for a divorce, but he set up a smaller household for my mother to live in, separating from her in everything but name."
I think I know where this is heading.
"For my mother, it must have seemed as if her worst nightmares had come true. So she did what had saved her once before – she sought out a rich husband for the beautiful eldest daughter. Me." Leslie hesitates, her eyes searching out mine. "You might find it odd that I call myself beautiful, but you must understand that to me, beauty is nothing to be desired. More often than not, it is a curse."
Realising she expects me to answer, I raise my shoulders in a shrug. "Nothing wrong with saying the truth." (Only a fool would deny that she's a beautiful woman.)
"Perhaps," replies Leslie, inclining her head slightly. "As it was, beauty was my curse. Before I even realised what was happening, my mother had procured a husband for me who professed himself to be enchanted by my looks. Dick Moore had no breeding at all, but after all, I was high-born enough for both of us. More importantly though, his family was fabulously rich. I didn't learn until later how they'd gotten rich, or that half of their business deals were barely legal."
"Why did you marry him?" I ask and wrinkle my nose. (Briefly forgetting, I must admit, who I'm speaking to.)
"My grandmother Persis asked me the same question," responds Leslie, again with that wry little smile. "She was my father's mother and provided a safe haven for Kenneth – my brother Kenneth – and me whenever my father was gone and my mother just didn't care. The best answer I ever came up with is that I cared. My mother was so terrified of being flung back into poverty that she begged, cried and cajoled and in the end, I didn't know how to refuse her."
Seeing as my last question was well-received, I try another one. "Would your father really have left your mother without money?"
Leslie shakes her head. "He wouldn't have. I didn't know that then though and didn't dare ask. By the time I realised it, it was already too late. I was bound to Dick, until death do us part."
He did die though, didn't he?
"I won't bore you with the details of my first marriage. All you have to understand is that Dick was –" she hesitates and for the first time, I see emotions ripple over her face. "He was abusive, in perhaps every sense of the word. When he had his head smashed in in a drunken pub brawl seven years into our marriage, I was as relieved as I'd ever been in my life. My mother was already dead by that point, unable to get over the death of Kenneth, always her favourite child. When Dick died as well, for the first time in my life, I was free."
Leslie shakes her head at some private thought. "Many people, I think, considered me a desirable match. I was still only twenty-six, had my looks and my breeding. With my brother dead, I was set to inherit my father's estate and people must have thought that Dick, too, had left me money, not realising that I donated every last penny of it as soon as I could."
"I myself had resolved not to ever marry again, but then Owen stepped into my life." For the first time, a genuine smile appears on her lips, though it turns wistful almost immediately. "He was everything I could have hoped for and I knew he loved me – but he needed his mother's permission to marry and Alexandra didn't want me for a daughter-in-law. She did everything she could to separate us and though I blamed her then, I'm not sure I can blame her now."
Really?
That's… weirdly understanding, isn't it?
"Owen was adamant even when I wavered and in the end, Alexandra agreed to let us marry," continues Leslie. "An upstanding widow was better than a divorcee, after all. And when I explained to her that after I lost one pregnancy when Dick returned home very drunk from the pub one night, I made sure never to go through that again, she could no longer wonder about my ability to bear children."
Well… I guess that's a requirement for whoever marries a future king, right?
"There was the issue of my family's mental health, but though I know it worried her, Alexandra eventually relented." Here, Leslie laughs a short, humourless laugh that almost makes me shiver. "Little did she know that it was her own death that would prove her right."
I frown, trying to make sense of her cryptic words. "I don't think I –"
"It was alright at first," she replies, not letting me finish. "I proved all the naysayer wrong by bearing my first child within a year of getting married. My miracle baby."
She glances at Ken, who's been so quiet through the entire exchange that it would be easy to forget he's even there. He doesn't react but for a stiffening of his shoulders. Had he turned, he would have seen his mother's gaze, so fiercely and painfully loving that it's hard to bear.
"After that, however, it went downhill." Suddenly, there's a hard edge to Leslie's voice, all the gentleness gone. "I struggled with carrying another pregnancy to term and I struggled even more with the attention. You, I'm sure, understand what I mean. That feeling when…" She trails off, obviously looking for words.
"When everyone wants a piece of you and you can't help wondering if in the end, they won't tear you apart?" I supply, not quite sure where the thought came from but doing nothing to soften it either.
There's a sound from the window, but when I look at him, Ken is already turned away again.
Leslie, meanwhile, studies me with her alert, searching eyes. "Yes. Well put," she confirms. "It did tear me apart, all of it. The scrutiny, the expectation, the gilded cage. I loved my husband and my son, but as the years passed, I found myself unable to express that feeling, unable to do much of anything. I was caught in a downward spiral and I didn't know a way out. When I finally had Teddy and then Persis, I thought it would get better, that I'd be able to recreate the bliss I felt when Kenneth was small, but by that time, I was barely holding on. I had no name for it then, but I was fighting a major depression and I was losing the fight. And then, Alexandra died."
She lapses into silence, seemingly caught in her own memories. Briefly, I wonder whether to ask her, but don't. I think I know what happened.
Long moments pass, before Leslie finally raises her head again. Her voice isn't strong anymore. "It was all… too much. The thought of being queen was…more than I could bear. I couldn't see a way out, I was mad with panic and fear. Owen tried to be there for me, but he had all these demands placed on him suddenly and I felt horribly alone. So, I waited until Owen was out and the babies settled, went to take a bath and took a razor blade with me. It was," her voice catches, "it is the single biggest regret of my life."
Her gaze, unfocused before, settles back on Ken and the expression is back, that intense, scorching look. And that's when the pieces click into place. That's when I know.
"He found you," I breathe.
The silence in the room is deafening.
Leslie's face is utterly stricken, her eye burning with emotions I couldn't begin to fathom. In what I presume is instinct, she raises one of her hands, extending it partly towards Ken. Every fibre of her being seems poised to go to him – and yet, she doesn't move.
Whatever it is that is holding her back (guilt, I imagine, of a magnitude that I barely understand), it has no effect on me. Pushing my armchair back, I walk over to Ken and wrap my arms around him from behind, pressing my face into the crispness of his shirt. As I touch him, I can feel him flinch, but then he recognises me and relaxes, his shoulders almost slumping over.
We stay like that for an indiscernible amount of time. Finally, I can hear footsteps behind us, followed by a door closing as Leslie silently leaves the room. And yet still, neither Ken nor I move.
"Part of me always wanted to tell you," he finally says. "But it wasn't for me to tell and when Mum offered… I'm afraid I asked her not to talk to you. I know it was wrong, to lock you out, but…"
"You thought I'd baulk," I finish for him. I suppose I should be more irritated with him – asking his mother not to talk to me, keeping me in the dark, thinking I'd leave him – but somehow, the revelations of the last minutes have softened me.
Ken lets go of a long breath. "That, too, I guess. It's not that I doubt you, but… any sane person would leave. Selfishly, I didn't want to lose you, so I tried to make you stay – and almost seem to have lost you in the process." He laughs, but there's no humour. "I know I'm selfish when it comes to you. I tried so hard to preserve the happy, relaxed life we had, that I struggled with allowing my family to befriend you and tried to keep you away from royal life."
Yes. I noticed.
"Much more than that though…" Ken hesitates, swallowing heavily. "I thought that the less contact you had with my royal life, the less it could hurt you. It was probably foolish of me to think that, but… you heard her. You heard what it did to her. And sometimes, I still wake up at night and… God, there was so much blood…"
His voice catches, breaks, and I know instinctively he can't talk anymore. Slipping between him and the window, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his head down to rest on my shoulder. His arms come up to grip my waist.
It takes a long moment until Ken speaks again, voice muffled against the fabric of my dress. "I always knew my mother was unwell. I didn't understand it, but it was a reality I grew up with. When she was well, I was the happiest boy alive – and when she wasn't, I was miserable. For the longest time, I thought it was something I had done. That it was my fault that my mother locked herself in her room to cry and that my father was gone on yet another trip to a county with a name I couldn't pronounce."
Not knowing what to say, I simply hold him tighter and press a kiss against his hair, to try and let him know that I'm there.
"There were other adults around to look after me. I didn't have a permanent nanny, but I often stayed with my aunts, Mary and Caroline, and with Tatty's family. My grandmother took me regularly as well, or even Great-Aunt Tanya. When I couldn't reach either of them, I slipped down to the kitchen where Cook always had a treat for me," he continues. He raises his head again, but otherwise doesn't move, so I keep him close. "I wasn't alone, but I was lonely. Now I know it wasn't their fault, but my father was absent physically and my mother was absent emotionally and –"
"You couldn't rely on them," I finish the sentence he leaves hanging. I suddenly feel like I understand so much that has puzzled me for so long.
"I couldn't rely on them. I guess I learned that early on," agrees Ken. His voice is strained, but somehow, I think it does him good to get all of this out. "I think in some ways, I tried to make up for it. After Teddy and Persis were born, my mother got worse. I still remember how often I sat next to her on the bed, talking to her or reading aloud or coaxing her to eat. Then I'd go down to play with my siblings – they had a lovely nanny, but it's not the same – and finally snuck in my father's study to make sure he wouldn't work himself to death."
That sounds… too bleak for words.
"Then my grandmother died. I was taken out of school, went to check on my mother and –" he breaks off, sighing. "She got proper treatment after that. It's never been as bad, though she still has times when she's terribly sad. We try our best to help her and I think she's improved even more in recent years, but…"
But he can't rely on her. He can't trust her not to get worse again.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, hoping the words will carry everything I can't seem to say.
Ken briefly brushes his lips against my forehead. "One of the worst things to come out of that – that situation, was that my father sent me to boarding school shortly afterwards. I didn't want to be sent away. I wanted to be home, to make sure Teddy and Persis were cared for, to help out my father with his duties and to protect my Mum from these invisible demons eating her up. I cried, I begged, I raged, but he was adamant. I never hated him before, but I hated him then."
"I'm sure he meant well," I remark cautiously, hoping it won't be seen siding with his father.
But Ken, thankfully, nods. "I know he did. But meaning well isn't the same as doing well. And the boarding school… it brought other problems. I learned to like it there, though I was always terrified of what I'd find at home when I returned. What I didn't foresee, however, was that in my absence, they grew into a family of four – a family that didn't need me. I'd return, for days or a few weeks or sometimes just for an afternoon and they were a unit that I couldn't find my way into. I was… I don't think they know it, but I was terribly jealous of my siblings. It felt to me that they got to be children, which I was never allowed to be. Given our positions, I might always have felt that, but in sending me away, my father made it worse."
And right there, is the explanation for why he kept me so carefully from them, for why he won't allow them in and for why he keeps his father so firmly at arm's length. If he mistrusts Leslie, he blames Owen.
I gently rub his back, trying to comfort him. "It was only done to protect you, I'm sure. I mean, you were eight. You were a child and you were carrying too much." Thinking of the boy he must have been almost breaks my heart.
"Perhaps." His mouth twists into a wry smile. "But I didn't ask to be protected."
"Yes," I reply quietly. "Neither did I."
That seems to jolt him, because he looks down at me questioningly, trying to understand what I mean.
"I'm not your mother, Ken," I tell him carefully. "I don't have her past and I don't have her… temperament. I struggled with the outside realities of being your girlfriend and I'm sure I will struggle with them again, but I won't… I won't. I'm grateful for you trying to protect me, but that's not what I need from you."
"What, then?" he asks, voice raspy.
I take a deep breath. "I need your support. I need you to be there for me. I need to know that I can rely on you to have my back. I've been fighting those battles alone for a few months now, but on my own, I'm losing them. I need to know we're doing this together."
"We are," he quickly assures, looking almost stricken. "I know I bungled it, but please don't doubt that to me, there was never a question of us not doing this together. I'll do better, too, I promise. I might need your help, because I'm bloody messed up myself, but… what it all boils down to is that I don't want to lose you. I desperately don't want to lose you."
"I'm still here," I remind him gently. "I'm still in. And here's something else you can rely on: regardless of what happens and regardless of what it is – if you ever need me, I promise to be there."
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Farewell, Angelina' (written by Bob Dylan, released by Joan Baez in 1965).
A/N:
If you guessed this Author's Note was to announce another hiatus... you guessed right. I'm going on another holiday (much needed, in my personal opinion) and thus, so will the story. I've teased this particular chapter for so long that I wanted to finally get it to you (and I'm really curious to hear what you think of it!), but now that it's out in the world, I'm putting the story on a two week-hiatus. Expect the next chapter on March 4th. I promise that from now on, things will be much happier than they've been, so at least there's something to look forward to!
To JoAnna:
The press truly are awful, aren't they? Sadly, they're that way in real life, too. I particularly thought of when Kate was papped while tanning when on holiday with her husband - and the papers then had the audacity to blame and shame her. They truly stop at nothing and sadly, Rilla learned it the hard way here.
I'm with you when it comes to Ken's behaviour. He is in a tricky situation, but he could do so much more to resolve it and he doesn't, so... on balance, yes, he's in the wrong and he needs to improve. (Still!) But we learned a lot about what makes him tick in this chapter, so I don't want to say too much about him right now. I'd rather hear whether this new information altered your view of him at least a little bit or whether you'd still like to pelt him with rotten avocados ;). Both, of course, perfectly valid opinions to hold! I'm just very curious to hear what you think.
We also agree about Owen. Someone called him a king among men and that's a perfect description of him. He's a little bit awkward when it comes to the emotional stuff, but we shall forgive him, because having his son's blubbering girlfriend sitting in his office must feel a bit awkward. But he deftly rises to the occasion in the way Ken should have and didn't, so lots of bonus points to Owen! (Even more so because I think he's been wanting to get involved for a while and just waited for Rilla's permission.) So, we're in agreement about Owen being great and the press being awful - and the jury is still out on Ken! Do let me hear what you think, yes? :)
To Mammu:
I'm no expert on British law, but I don't think it's legal to take and/or publish pictures like these. But for the press, it's a simple equation. They know they will make much more money from publishing than any penalty would cost them, so for them, it makes a twisted kind of sense to publish. It's very, very bad, but unfortunately, it's how they operare.
Owen is indeed a King in Shining Armour! I think he's been itching to get involved for a while, but didn't want to impose, so he waited until Rilla asked for his help. Equally, I think Hanson was glad to pitch in and help her with the press. As Owen said, there are more people willing to help her than Rilla thinks, which will come in handy when she goes looking for a new job and a new flat - which will happen soon, I promise!
You wished for me to torture someone not Rilla, so... did this chapter deliver? ;)
