Author's note: This was, by far, my most favourite chapter to write, edit etc. I'm sure you'll see why and you enjoy it too.
The phone, a sharp and irritating ring, broke through her concentration. Violetta reached towards it and answered quietly. Clarisse was grateful for her doing so and went back to the work in front of her. Rupert had slowed down recently, and she was worried over his health in a way she hadn't been before. He coughed through the night, the bark ringing down the corridor, his shortness of breath echoing through the halls. She didn't want to acknowledge it, she couldn't acknowledge the situation that was staring her in the face. The quietness of the palace, the absence of Anna and Pierre, was only broken by the growl of his cough and the shouts of Phillippe and the whole orchestra was a horror.
She would have given anything to fall asleep and never wake up and she knew how terribly selfish that was.
Her mind flew to Joseph. She couldn't recall the last word they'd shared that hadn't been about work or worry. She wondered now where he was.
"Your Majesty, it is the school."
"Oh."
The first time the school had called they'd spoken to Rupert to complain quite vociferously about Anna introducing the other ladies 120 Days of Sodom, complete with dramatic readings of certain extracts. After that, Clarisse had discreetly asked the school to direct any complaints towards her. Over the course of the year, there had been precisely six phone calls.
She tried to gather her strength as Violetta put the call through.
"Lady Withers, are you well?"
She listened as the head of the school told her that the final straw had been quite neatly snapped.
"Yes," she agreed wearily, "Encouraging the other girls to break out is scandalous."
And she did agree, she really did.
"She cannot remain," the woman said finally, ruefully, "And I am truly sorry."
"I'm sure you are," Clarisse answered, her voice chilly with the hope she might use her sway.
"We've educated many princesses here, yourself included, but Princess Anna simply does not fit. Forgive me, Your Majesty."
"No," she knew there was no protest to be brooked and that an offer of money or endorsement would do no good. These schools prized privilege above money. Which, she had learned, were very different.
"Your Majesty, I am sorry," the woman said on the other end.
"You are not at fault," she sighed, "I shall send someone to fetch the princess. I shall let you know the details tomorrow."
There was no point in asking to speak to Anna because she wouldn't want to speak.
Standing up, ignoring Violetta's pitying look, she smoothed her jacket out over her front.
"Have you ever wanted to eat an entire tub of ice cream Violetta?"
"Oh, absolutely," the woman answered.
"Well, do not let me near the freezers, today of all days," she smiled, "Excuse me, I have to see the Colonel."
"Of course, Your Majesty."
The halls were quiet and dark and the only noise was the clicking of her heels. She liked this noise, the noise of journeys and travel, the noise of no thought and only movement.
She found him in the garage, where he was often to be found. He was obsessed with every little detail of security and the vehicles were just a facet of his fascination with detail. And she knew he found it therapeutic – that, at heart, he was the kind of person who wanted to be constantly occupied.
He was crouched at the wheels of his own motorcycle this time and then it occurred to her that it was his day off. She stopped to admire. And it was an admiration she'd almost forgotten. He was so good-looking. Strong, handsome, tall, safe. And desirable, she thought, for just a treacherous moment.
"You are not a good spy. Your heels give you away."
She startled a little, smiling as he turned to face her. He was shiny with perspiration, his cheek streaked with grime, his hands blackened with oil. He rubbed his fingers with a rag that he pulled from the pocket of his jeans.
"Like what you see?"
She felt her face redden at his brazen words and felt naïve again, for the first time in a long time. It was bizarre to come full circle like this. Time, it appeared, did heal all wounds. The transition had been slow but it had happened. The old Joseph, the old Clarisse, had started creeping back into both of their lives. She wasn't sure, really, how she felt about it.
"Don't tease," she grumbled through a half-smile, "It's not appropriate."
"No, I'm sorry," he agreed, though she smiled to soften the blow and he grinned in return.
This banter had crept back with their old selves, the banter from so long ago that had once been their entire script.
"I have to speak with you," she leaned against one of the large red cabinets that held all the tools.
"Speak away, Clarisse," he settled against the bike.
"Anna has been expelled," she said bluntly, "Truly expelled."
She tried to ignore the smile on his face. He was pleased and it irritated her that she was too.
"It is not funny."
"What was it? A filthy book? A treatise on the positives of a society without monarchy?"
"Less inventive," she said, "She, and a few other girls, escaped and became friendly with a gaggle of soldiers."
He winced at the second part.
"It is almost a cliché," she continued, "I will not be telling Rupert. He's under pressure as it is."
She let the fact that the king would be truly furious go unsaid, even though both of them knew it.
He was quiet as he continued to rub his fingers on the rag. She looked at him closely still. When had his hair started to grey?
"I love this place," he said, hands still busy, "You know."
"It's an odd choice for a favourite location."
He smiled at her sarcasm, though it wasn't without darkness.
"I can still feel you here, if I try very hard," he continued, voice low and entirely serious, "But the rest is gone."
She felt the breath leave her body, as if she had been punched in the gut. It was a melee of emotion ranging between embarrassment and love for him.
"I-"
"Do you still think about it, about us?"
She nodded, "All the time."
"I had become frightened you'd let me go," he looked up from his hands, "And that was the worst thing of all."
Without thinking she went towards him and drew face to face with him, their bodies so close that she felt his breath meet hers. A charged silence, filled with only their breathing and years of painful history, was between them then.
"I could never forget it," she said honestly, openly, "Despite the desire I have to have never loved you in the first place. And I say love, because I love you. My mind would be much clearer, my conscience too. I'd rather the agony of having known you though, and lost you, than of never having had you at all."
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, all the while telling herself that she was simply the worst person in the world.
But it was so hard, no it was impossible, to fight it. She'd run out of ammunition and strength for this war against her own feelings and desires.
He pulled her tightly towards him, a hand on her hip and the other weaved through her hair. She pushed her jacket off with his help and then fumbled to pull his t-shirt over his head. Time had blurred lines again, healed wounds and was about open them afresh.
But she couldn't hear the warnings over the pleasure of his hands on her after an exile that seemed now to be the worst punishment she had inflicted on herself.
On them.
"It's been so long…" he warned against her neck, teeth biting the flesh over her collar and tongue trailing hotly in between, and she realised he sounded unsure, "I might not be able…to ugh…last…"
For a moment she was embarrassed, embarrassed by it all. For the man who'd once been so sure of himself in her bed that he'd rendered her speechless now being afraid of humiliation, that she'd put weight on, that she'd become so much older and more tired.
"If you will forgive my aging body-"
"Be quiet," he murmured, lifting her up and pushing her against the bonnet of the Rolls Royce, "I worship your body."
"You're such a fool," she held her hand against his cheek to focus him, to steady him, "All I've ever done is hurt you."
"We love the things that hurt us," he worked the buttons of her blouse free, sliding it down her arms, "And Clarisse, I love you so much."
She tipped her head back as his mouth devoured her neck then moved down, his hands pushing the straps of her bra deftly as he went.
"Don't leave any marks," she warned gently, her hands on his head.
"You think I've forgotten? "He barked a little laugh and pushed her skirt up her thighs and round her waist, "I practise this in my dreams every night."
Despite the filth of it, the truth of it, it made her feel more loved than she had since the last time she'd been with him in this garage. His hands were glorious on her, burning and demanding. And his mouth whispered love and affection and everything that she had known but failed to listen to for years. It didn't matter the locale or the circumstance or the lack of bed but who it was with and what it was about – those were the keys to her feeling of worth.
She flustered to push his jeans down, her hands trembling against the old denim.
"I have wanted you for so, so long," he said softly, gently.
He was so gentle, even under these circumstance.
She was embarrassed to feel tears spring into her eyes.
"I love you."
And saying that again was the biggest release of all for her.
-0-
He hadn't dared imagine this again; it had been so long and now in the aftermath he felt blurry with shock. Nerves sloshed in his gut as he realised that there had to be an end to this too, that much was inevitable. She was sitting, eyes closed and face tipped up to the ceiling and resting against the grill, on the dust sheet he'd quickly placed down once they'd finished making love.
For a moment, he wondered if any other queen had ever made love in the garage.
"There's oil on your skirt," he pointed to the greasy stain on the cream garment, "Must have come from my jeans."
She looked down, "It is fine. I'll throw it out." She moved a little to rest her head on his shoulder, "Joseph, you're going to have to help me up; I am too old for this floor."
"With this knee," he tapped his kneecap grimly, "We might be stuck then."
She was suddenly very concerned, "Oh Joseph, did I hurt you?"
He laughed, "No Clarisse, I'm just…old. It's getting worse."
She quirked a brow, "You don't feel very old."
"I don't feel old when I'm with you," he said gently, "So that helped, actually."
She curled her legs up so they were resting across his and her hand began to gently massage his knee. The touch was so kind, so gentle, he thought he might weep. It had been so long that holding her, like this, and having her touch him like she once had, made him feel alive again.
"Do you want me to go for Anna?"
She nodded silently.
"Okay, I'll leave tomorrow."
"Then what do we do?"
She seemed helpless and lost for a moment. She was not, in this timeframe, the queen she was so very good at being. She wasn't brilliant at being Clarisse, it occurred to him.
"I have an idea," he said, "But I'll need a few days to sort it. She'll be safe and happy and gone for the remainder of finishing school."
She looked wary momentarily, "You know you are proposing we lie to Rupert, a treasonable offence."
He nearly snorted at her seriousness, "Are you kidding?"
She smiled sourly, "I suppose you make a salient point."
"The most salient ever made," he laughed, tipping his head back as she trailed her finger across his goatee.
"Counting greys?"
"Nope," she whispered, "Reminiscing. Enjoying."
"Oh, it was enjoyable all right," he pulled her closer.
"It was…it is," she whispered, tipping her head against his, "I thought I'd never have this again."
"Good sex?"
He couldn't resist seeing a blush of indignation crawl over the bones of her cheeks.
"No," she swatted his chest gently and he caught her hand and kissed it, "No, no. Though I am not disputing that."
"It'd be rude of you to dispute that…and dishonest."
"Honestly, I'd forgotten you had such a filthy tongue," she laughed lowly.
"You like my ton-"
"Quite enough," she said, and he knew she was serious.
He held up his hands and grinned, "Forgive me."
It was funny that, after they'd done something unspeakable again, their conversation was flowing more than it ever had. She was laughing as she once had and smiling as she used to.
"What did you think you'd have, if you never thought you'd have this?"
He watched her think, the way she smoothed her hand over her crumpled, uneven shirt as if that would help.
"I was too young to know what I wanted," she said gently, "I didn't know what I wanted until you were it and then I could not have you."
"You have me now," he smiled, frightened to darken the mood with fears of what might be.
She smiled and kissed his cheek, "I have to go back, I have a meeting in…," she checked her watch, "An hour."
"Organise with Rupert, my going away, please."
"I shall fabricate another lie," he could see she was embarrassed, "What's another one to add to the pile?"
He felt guilty then, "You're doing it because you have to."
"I am doing it because I'm weak," she rested her head against his, "But I am so tired of being strong, of fighting."
"There's nothing wrong with being weak," he answered and he really meant it.
"Only if you're not hurting others. I thought my strength of will, my moral compass, my duty to my country, could win over my bodily weakness."
"Ah, see," he touched her cheek, "You're mistaking weakness of the heart for a weakness of the body."
"Such a poet."
She closed her eyes and he admired her beautiful, calm face. He was transported back to the warm, quiet sheets of an apartment that was in the so long ago, he had forgotten how it felt.
"Thank you."
And he was thanking her for so much more than just the compliment.
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