"What will you do tonight?"
Phillipe did not answer her still, his face impassive. He was sitting before the fire in the parlour, where he had been for the past few days. All he did was eat, sleep, bathe and sit.
"Who knows," he shrugged, his broad shoulders lifting under his polo shirt.
She steeled herself again, bit back her temper and Joseph could see her mentally prepare herself for another round against her youngest son.
"You could help with the planning of the coronatio-"
"It's been a year today," her son interrupted, "You know. And you've yet to mention it."
"I know," she rubbed her hand across her brow, "Don't think I did-"
Her son turned to her, snapping his heads round swiftly, his anger suddenly blooming and filling the room to the very edges.
"You did! You just don't care. You don't care!"
Phillipe stood up, stalking towards her. His whole bearing was threatening and Joseph moved instinctively, drawing himself neared to the queen.
"You don't care, you couldn't care less about his being dead or my being miserable or my daughter or my misery. Or – or..."
He had run out of steam now but he was inches from her face. She had not, she did not, flinch. She stood with her back ram rod straight, one hand resting on her desk while the other betrayed her. She fiddled with the button on her suit jacket nervously as her son stood, heaving before her.
"You're not even wearing black any more!"
She inhaled a deep breath, looked at her son. A number of cruel answers were gathering on her tongue. His sudden intensity about his father's anniversary was entirely new to her and she felt like saying something rather nasty in that regard. You could not have cared less about him when he was alive, she wanted to say. She didn't though because it would have been unkind and untrue. Instead she sighed. She had decided to wear a cream suit today and she was paying for it.
"Life," she said softly, forcing herself to remember she had to be a mother at this point, "Has a terrible habit of making us move on Phillipe. Just because I am not saying it, doesn't mean -"
"Mama," he interrupted, "I don't care about your advice – it's empty and contrived. I don't care."
He brushed past her and turned at the door, "Just like you don't."
The only thing that broke the silence was the slamming of the door as the crown prince left.
She swivelled on her heels, "I don't know what...Oh! Damn him!"
She lifted a nearby vase and with more strength than she thought she was capable of, hurled it at the closed door. It was surprisingly cathartic – the water splashed against the solid oak as the vase fragmented into shattered pieces across the floor. She slumped a little, her ire having departed and shattered like the vase, and fell into a chair.
"He's so selfish," she turned to Joseph, "I don't know what's happened to him."
"It's been a difficult year for him...for you both," he answered, bending down to scoop up the slithers of porcelain.
"Leave that," she said firmly.
"No," he answered, "I'm not going to leave it for one of the maids to clean."
"Oh I can't do anything right," she threw her hands up.
"I never said that," he said calmly as he lifted decimated stems and flower heads from the rich flooring.
"I can't get through to him," she whispered, and no one could have failed to note the despair in her voice, "It would be better for him to abdicate. No one has said it but it is evident that he does not want this. He does not want to be king."
"He is unhappy," he answered vaguely, wiping his hands on a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
He had to tread carefully around this subject. For one, it was entirely personal to her and for another it was something she had taken upon herself. She guarded the responsibility she had as if it were a secret. She treated it as sacred.
"He has been unhappy," she said pointedly, "For a number of years. Not just since his father died. I think," she paused, as if she had to work the words out from her mouth, "I think I may have to accept defeat."
He looked at her, slumped over in the chair. Her face was flushed with stress, a blush of fury had crept up over her neck to sit high on her cheekbones. In another circumstance he may have found the slight crease of her shirt and the tousled, finger-combed hair rather endearing. At this point however it vexed him rather than made him affectionate. He had watched her relationship with her youngest son decline to the point that they could no longer occupy the same room without rowing. It had become uncomfortable for everyone, not least for him.
He thought very seriously about making the suggestion he was about to.
He had worked for the Renaldis for a very long time; longer than he cared to remember. He had known the boys for most of their years. He had served the King loyally until he drew his dying breath in an overcrowded, stuffy bed chamber. He served the King still - the man he had envied for a very long time.
And then there was her.
To describe, to actually cognitively make a decision about how he felt about her, seemed irreverent. All he was able to admit was that he knew her. He knew her very well.
Thus he weighed up his choice to say this carefully.
"There is another -slim - possibility," he ventured tentatively.
She turned sharply, "The ruthless politician in me has considered it. Just imagine; "Phillipe I know, my darling, that you don't want the throne but how do you think your 14 year old daughter might like it?" I don't think so Joseph. He hates this crown; he'd rather see it die out. I have to accept that. He will never, he will never, be ready to be king. And he does not want his genetic legacy, Renaldi or not, anywhere near that bloody throne room!"
He nodded, "I know."
She looked out of the window, "Thank you for trying to help," she smiled weakly, "But he will not bend. And god damn me to hell but the mother in me -" she almost growled, "The mother in me does not blame him. No mother, no matter how remote, wants her son to be unhappy. But I promised him..."
She trailed off and shrugged. She had lost the determination she needed to have this conversation. It had slid from her body and slithered from the room. He was surprised by her description of remoteness. He chose to ignore it, instead he came towards her and placed his hand on her forearm as he sat on the stool at her feet. It drew another weak smile.
"I have to accept it," she said finally.
"You've not let him down."
"I bore him two sons who don't want their birthright. I bore him a son who ran away and another who is..." She laughed ruefully, "A bloody republican bohemian. I let him down."
"You're swearing an awful lot," he laughed ruefully.
"Bloody is about as crude as I get," she answered, leaning forward to remove her jacket.
He took it from her and slung it across the arm of the couch.
"It's saying it that I can't bear," she said suddenly, "I can't bear to ask him if he does not want it because I can't stand to hear his answer Joseph."
"But," he said kindly, "You are delaying the inevitable. You're avoiding the truth."
"Pour me a drink please Joseph," she motioned to the decanter on the side board.
"Is that a good idea?" He asked as he poured anyway.
"No," she answered, "But I need some Dutch courage."
She took the glass from him and cradled it in her fine hands.
"Do you know what's ironic?"
"What?" He reached for the coffee pot.
He was grateful that it was still warm because he had the feeling that this conversation was going to be extensive. It was going to be one of those ones in which revelations came in fits and starts.
"That I don't even care about being queen, not really," she sipped the honey-coloured drink, grimaced a little as it set fire to her mouth, "I just wanted to do the one thing I set out to do and ultimately, obviously, I failed. The irony is I'll be glad to shed this title, and these responsibilities, but not in this way."
"How," he said, frustration evident in his voice, "Did you fail?"
"I failed to raise my sons properly," she said simply, "I couldn't make them want it."
"Would anyone want it?"
"No one in their right mind," she laughed dryly, "It makes me worry rather."
"Of course it does," he laughed, "You're sane...most of the time."
"Joseph," she said, "I'll need to speak to him."
"Yes, you will."
"What then?"
"It will -"
"I'm titled in my own right you know," she interrupted, "I have an estate, I am a Duchess. It's not about that though...what do I do? How do I face the Von Trokens and know I failed?"
"I'll be here," was all he could say. It sounded stupidly placating. He hated himself for it.
"I know that my dear," she answered, "I don't doubt that. I need to just get it over with. Where will he be?"
"When he's annoyed he goes to the woods, or the bar..." he trailed off, looking at her from behind his cup.
"Go on, say it," she said, "To that girl he's been cavorting around with."
"Well...yes," he answered evenly.
"I regret what happened with Amelia's mother," she continued, "I regret that people think it was me who made the choice but most of all I regret what we took away from our son. And when I say 'we', I mean 'we'. We did something so cruel to him – we gave him no choice."
"I don't know so much," he shook his head, "Phillipe, at the end of the day, made that decision. He could have defied you both."
"Rupert and I both overpowered him," she said quietly, "He had no choice."
"Then he didn't want it enough," Joseph answered, "Or he wanted something more. No one makes choices for you Clarisse...not really. Someone can cajole you, or they can force your hand, but they cannot make a choice for you. It is very simple. It is his guilt that he is battling with, not you."
She raised her head to look at him, "And isn't that even more terrible?"
He nodded and there was nothing left to say.
"It is so sad that he regrets his choices Joseph," she whispered, "And if I – we- hadn't been selfish, we would have advised him better. We would have told him to stay with his child. To make a life worth living. Rupert was – he was so..."
Moments like this were cruel to him. He would watch her struggle to criticise the former king, the man she had cared for, the man to whom she had been married for many years. Jealousy, hot and thick, traveled through him. She was vocal in her criticism of his indiscretions in the past, and when Joseph had stood outside doors and heard them hurl insults and barbs at each other, she had never been economic with her intense dislike of whatever her husband had done. Not once though, had she openly criticised the King to Joseph. She wouldn't – he knew. One last barrier. One last frontier to maintain.
He saw her battle with herself. He saw the words leave her lips, swallowed in propriety. They hung on the end of her lips before she consumed them again.
"You don't have to explain," he finally murmured, because he couldn't stand to watch her battle internally.
"No," she polished off the remainder of the glass, "I don't have the words...that was always my problem."
"You should go to bed."
"I won't be able to sleep," she whispered, "Will you stand outside tonight?"
"Of course," he nodded. What she really meant with that question was 'Will you sit on my couch all night and keep my demons at bay?'
"And you'll be there when I speak to him?"
"Of course," he took the glass from her hands, placing it on the tray that the maids would collect later.
"Maybe," she managed a dry laugh as she took the hand he offered and threaded her arm through his, "Maybe one day you'll have more than those words."
"Maybe."
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