Patriot games - Tom Clancy [52]
"You will sit at my right hand, Jack," the Queen said.
Ryan took a quick look at the table. It was wide enough that he didn't have to worry about clobbering Her Majesty with his left arm. That wouldn't do.
The worst thing about the dinner was that Ryan would be forever unable to remember-and too proud to ask Cathy-what it was. Eating one- handed was something he'd had a lot of practice at, but never had he had such an audience, and Ryan was sure that everyone was watching him. After all, he was a Yank and would have been something of a curiosity even without his arm. He constantly reminded himself to be careful, to go easy on the wine, to watch his language. He shot the occasional glance at Cathy, sitting at the other end of the table next to the Duke and clearly enjoying herself. It made her husband slightly angry that she was more at ease than he was. If there was ever a pig in the manger, Ryan thought while chewing on something he immediately forgot, it's me. He wondered if he would be here now, had he been a rookie cop or a private in the Royal Marines who just happened to be at the right place. Probably not, he thought. And why is that? Ryan didn't know. He did know that something about the institution of nobility went against his American outlook. At the same time, being knighted-even honorarily-was something he liked. It was a contradiction that troubled him in a way he didn't understand. All this attention was too seductive, he told himself. It'll be good to get away from it. Or will it? He sipped at a glass of wine. I know I don't belong here, but do I want to belong here? There's a good question. The wine didn't give him an answer. He'd have to find it somewhere else.
He looked down the table to his wife, who did seem to fit in very nicely. She'd been raised in a similar atmosphere, a monied family, a big house in Westchester County, lots of parties where people told one another how important they all were. It was a life he'd rejected, and that she had walked away from. They were both happy with what they had, each with a career, but did her ease with this mean that she missed Ryan frowned.
"Feeling all right. Jack?" the Queen asked.
"Yes, ma'am, please excuse me. I'm afraid it will take me a while to adjust to all of this."
"Jack," she said quietly, "the reason everyone likes you-and we all do, you know-is because of who and what you are. Try to keep that in mind."
It struck Ryan that this was probably the kindest thing he'd ever been told. Perhaps nobility was supposed to be a state of mind rather than an institution. His father-in-law could learn from that, Ryan thought. His father-in-law could learn from a lot of things.
Three hours later Jack followed his wife into their room. There was a sitting room off to the right. In front of him the bed had already been turned down. He pulled the tie loose from his collar and undid the button, then let out a long, audible breath.
"You weren't kidding about turning into pumpkins."
"I know," his wife said.
Only a single dim light was lit, and his wife switched it off. The only illumination in the room was from distant streetlights that filtered through the heavy curtains. Her white dress stood out in the darkness, but her face showed only the curve of her lips and the sparkle of her eyes as she turned away from the light. Her husband's mind filled in the remaining details. Jack wrapped his good arm around his wife and cursed the monstrosity of plaster that encased his left side as he pulled her in close. She rested her head on his healthy shoulder, and his cheek came down to the softness of her fine blond hair. Neither said anything for a minute or two. It was enough to be alone, together in the quiet darkness.
"Love ya, babe."
"How are you feeling, Jack?" The question was more than a simple inquiry.
"Not bad. Pretty well rested. The shoulder doesn't hurt very much anymore. Aspirin takes care of the aches."