Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
-Hebrews 11:1 (KJV)
For all that she adored him, Lucien Blake had always been something of a mystery to her. Dangerous but soft, brilliant but selfish, tender and yet capable of such rage. She had draped his arm round her shoulders and shuffled him off to bed when self-hatred and drink had made a mess of him, had watched in horror as he strode through a crowded gathering at the Colonists' Club laying bare his bitter heart and decking Matthew Lawson in the face. She had seen him weep for his child and smile as he danced with Mattie in the sitting room, had looked on in fascination as time and time again he unraveled some riddle that had stumped everyone else around him with grace and aplomb. Well, perhaps not with grace; he was wild, impulsive, eager, always, roaring through town like a bull in a china shop. But his heart was gentle, and loyal, and brave, and over the course of their acquaintance he had shown those virtues to her, had awoken the reckless beast that had slumbered in her chest since the day her Christopher had died, had reminded her what it was, to love another person.
Today had been no different, as he tried, so damnably hard, to find little Elizabeth's mother before it was too late. It had been nice, in a strange sort of way, having that little girl in the house, watching Lucien interact with her, knowing that he would do whatever it took to put her family back together. He had been so gentle with the child, and he was gentle with Jean now, as they made their way to the sitting room to settle down together on the sofa while the wireless played softly in the background.
Mattie had left them, spread her wings and raced off to London to chase her dreams, and now the house was quiet, theirs, for a time, as Charlie had gone out for the evening. It was nice, to be properly alone with him, especially now, after everything. After Adelaide. After he had run down the street like a man possessed, boarded that bus with nothing but the clothes on his back and his heart in his eyes. After he had told her, in a voice low and sincere and dripping with heat, that he loved her, that he did not want her to leave him, that he wanted her by his side, always. After he had stood on Christopher's little porch late one fine evening and wrapped her in his arms and kissed her like she hadn't been kissed for over a decade, a kiss full of want, of hope, of promise. Yes, after all of that, Jean wanted nothing more than to sit on the low sofa with him, alone in this house they shared, and let his tender voice wash over her, carrying away the troubles of the day and leaving her full of love and life.
And yet it seemed that a long slow evening was not in the cards, for Lucien was looking at her quite strangely, his breathing fast and staccato, his eyes somewhat wild. There was something on his mind, something that made him rather nervous, fidgeting like a schoolboy caught out in a lie.
"Jean," he said slowly, "Would you mind...erm," he stammered, lost his voice, took a breath, and tried again. "Would you mind, erm, just waiting here, just...just for a moment?"
Whatever it was that plagued him, Jean knew it would fall to her to help him through it. Though she was a bit concerned, a bit baffled by his sudden neurosis she was more than ready to help him find his way, whatever the cause of his distress. After all, she had been doing much the same from the moment they first met, helping him with his cases, talking with him quietly of all manner of things. That was how she had come to fall in love with him in the first place, sharing these pieces of his life with him, helping him to put them back together.
"All right," she agreed.
He hesitated for a moment. "Right," he said, and then bounded from the room.
Jean settled herself down on the sofa, her sherry and his whiskey sitting together on the low table in front of her. There was no point in trying to work out what had set him off like this, trying to interpret his hopeful, anxious gaze; he would be back in a moment, and then he would tell her the truth, and, knowing Lucien, that truth would be far stranger than any outcome she could imagine on her own. She ran her hands over her skirt, smoothing the fabric across her thighs, humming softly to the familiar tune coming from the wireless. She had missed this, during her brief sojourn in Adelaide, had missed their home, their easy way with one another, the thousand tiny details that made up her life in this place. A life she had chosen for herself, time and time again, as she turned down the job offer at the Royal Cross, as she turned down Robert's marriage proposal, as she ignored the earnest entreaties of her friends telling her she could find more stability with a more respectable employer. Jean didn't want a respectable employer; she wanted Lucien, and their home, and their life.
And then he returned, tugging anxiously at his waistcoat before clasping his hands together behind his back, blue eyes darting around like some kind of caged animal. The calm that Jean had been feeling, the certainty that whatever this was they could work it out together, was beginning to fade in the face of his agitation. Though she often found his vulnerability, his willingness to confess that he was not in fact some superior omniscient being rather endearing, seeing him so lost in this moment did not bring a smile to her lips. He had solved his riddle, and saved Judith Chapman; what on earth could have gotten him so worked up?
He stood before her, tall and broad and strong and tense, no trace of his usual confidence on his face. As she watched, he took a deep breath, and spoke.
"Jean," he said in a very serious, almost formal sort of voice. "Would you mind standing for me, please?"
Now her heart was racing in truth. Almost everything Lucien did was strange, to her mind, but there was no trace of the good humor that had carried him through their supper and to this place. There was no smile on his face, as she rose to her feet, eyeing him warily. There was a tension in him, a tension that communicated itself so articulately to Jean. Something was happening here, and though she was not entirely sure just what that something was, she was beginning to suspect that it might be the sort of thing that might just change her life forever.
He lifted his chin, took a deep breath, and then, maddeningly, he shook his head.
"Actually, do you know what? Let's...let's have a seat."
Oh, for goodness sake, she thought, frustration rising as he continued to faff about, fidgeting, awkward, dawdling rather than getting right to the point. It was unbearable, really, sitting suspended in this moment with Lucien looking at her as if he were frightened of her. She narrowed her eyes at him, truly worried by this display and yet entirely uncertain as to what it was he wanted, needed from her in this moment.
But then, oh then, he reached into his pocket, and all of her fears were turned to wild, relentless joy in a moment.
"Jean," he said, holding out a little black and opening it carefully, "this was my mother's ring."
She drew in a sharp gasp, his name escaping her before she could stop it, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.
Of course she had hoped, every day since he'd chased down her bus in the street, that this moment might come. She had hoped when he kissed her, when he held her, when he smiled at her, that one day, one day soon, he might ask her the question she knew was only seconds away from tumbling out of his stammering mouth. Little Elizabeth had called her Mrs. Blake, had asked her if she loved him, and though Jean had demurred in the moment her heart had known the answer. Yes, she loved him, loved his broad shoulders and his strong hands and his soft lips, loved his gentle heart, his unpredictable nature, loved the way he made her feel beautiful, and free, in a way she had not done since she was a girl. She loved his intellect, his passion, his hopefulness, loved him when he was furious and when he was laid low by grief, loved him in her own quiet, steady way, every moment of every day. The thought of being his wife left her feeling at once both deliriously happy and terribly baffled; they were so different, the pair of them, but they had already been living together for ages now, and they had come to understand one another, come to be comfortable with one another, and she had faith that if only they were brave, and kind, and honest with one another, they could be quite content, together.
But before they could start out on that adventure he would have to ask her, properly, and to that end he had found his mother's ring, that beautiful, sparkling ring he offered to her now with trembling hands. If Jean's own mind had not been racing, if she had not been tossing and turning on the swell of her rising emotion, her hope, her fear, her desperate love of him, she might have smiled, might have taken stock of the details of that beautiful ring. As it was, she had eyes only for Lucien, his trembling hands, the hope in his eyes, the neat line of his beard, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. For an instant she drank in the sight of him, this man to whom she was so inextricably linked already, this handsome, terrible man who had reminded her what it was to feel desire, to love, to dream.
"And I would very much like," he started to say, but before he could finish that sentence, before he could speak the words that would loose her heart in earnest and set their feet upon the path to joining their lives together, there came a most unwelcome knock upon the door.
"Oh," he said, trying to offer her a reassuring smile though Jean could see that he was just as disappointed, just as distressed by this sudden interruption as was she. "That's probably Charlie. Hold that thought. I'll be right back."
And with those words he left her.
Anxious, tense, boiling over with excitement and with hope and with longing she rose to her feet, pulled up right by sheer nervous energy. She did not pace, did not smile, did not go racing off after him; she stood very still, as if the slightest movement on her part might shatter this precious moment like a vase upon a marble floor. Lucien had left the ring on the coffee table, but she did not dare pick it up, examine it for herself, not now, not yet, when he had not properly offered it to her, when they remained trapped in a terrible sort of purgatory.
For a moment she remained there, alone, staring at that box, taking this opportunity to assess the state of her own fragile heart.
Is this what I want? She asked herself.
To be his wife, to bear his name, to sleep in his bed, to claim this house, this life, as mine, truly? To hold him, to touch him, to be a part of his world, forever, irreversibly? To tie our fates together, never to be torn asunder?
It was a heavy thing he was planning to ask of her, something she never would have considered just a year before. And yet, over all the days and weeks of their time together he had shown himself to her, had given her a glimpse of a life free from the constraints that had bound her almost from the moment of her birth, a life of dancing in the sitting room and dashing through crime scenes, quiet dinners and expensive presents and beautiful trips, a life full of so much more than she had ever dreamed herself worthy of. A life he wanted to give to her. A life of love, companionship, a life without the loneliness that had dogged her steps every day since she'd learned of Christopher's death.
Is this what I want?
There is nothing I want more.
"There's a plate on the table for you, Charlie," she heard Lucien say. The lad did not have a key to the house as yet, and Lucien must have locked the door earlier in the evening, hence the interruption. She could not be cross with the boy, however, for she would much rather he interrupt them in the manner that he had, rather than come walking into the sitting room to witness the scene for himself.
That's the trouble with boarders, she thought wryly. There's never any privacy.
"Mrs. Beazley has already gone up to bed," Lucien continued, and her brow furrowed in confusion, for Lucien knew she had done no such thing. "And I think I'm going to do the same. So unless there's anything else you need…"
She heard Charlie's voice, though she could not make out the words, and in a moment Lucien appeared in the sitting room. He lifted his finger to his lips, gesturing for her to be quiet. There was something powerful, determined in his movements; he swept across the room, catching hold of her hand with one of his while with the other he scooped the little box up off the table, never stopping, never slowing, even for a moment, as his fingers laced through hers and she was borne along in the current of his conviction. Though it was not readily apparent to her just exactly what it was he intended she knew that she must follow him, must hold tight to his hand and give him the chance to ask her the question that she most longed to hear from him. Yes, everything would change, here, tonight, assuming fate would allow him to ask his question without further interruption.
They did not speak, either of them, until he had led her into his bedroom and closed the door firmly behind them. She was a vision, neat breasts heaving with each of her unsteady breaths, grey eyes wide and and bright and stained with tears, her back straight as she leaned against the door for support, her hand clutching his own fiercely. Somehow, strange though it was to contemplate, he felt more sure of himself now than he had done as he sat beside her on the sofa. She knew, now, what it was he wanted to ask of her, and she had not shied away, had not chided him, had not spurned him, had instead followed him into this place, no matter the potential for scandal inherent in her standing in his bedroom after dark. Having been almost denied the opportunity to propose to her he now knew, without a doubt, that there was nothing he wanted more, and it seemed to him that Jean was as fixed in her purpose as was he.
"Jean," he breathed her name, all of his nerves, his anxiety, his crippling self-doubt flooding out of his body in that soft exhale until all that was left was Jean, steadfast, true, more beautiful than words could say. With their hands still linked he leaned forward until his forehead was resting against hers, gently, his right hand wrapped tight around the little box that contained the sum total of all his hopes and dreams for their future. She pressed against him, warm skin and shaky breaths and the faint, lingering scent of her perfume calming him, reassuring him, giving him the confidence he so lacked in this moment. She was everything to him, and he could not bear the thought of a life without her in it. Her response to him made him bold, and at last, he found the words.
"I love you," he told her. "And I would like, very much, to ask you to be my wife."
It was not the most elegant of proposals. He had not dropped to his knee before her, had not swept her off her feet, had not composed a flowery speech for her benefit. And yet, somehow, he felt that it was right, felt that Jean would not have approved of anything other than this, his honest devotion, his hand in hers, his heart open and presented to her along with every bit of trust he possessed.
Beneath him she was trembling, his beautiful love. He knew what it was he was asking her, knew what this meant to both of them. They had done this dance before, with other people; they both knew the delirious bliss of love and the howling agony of loss, and now he was asking her to take a monumental risk, to lay their hearts on the line knowing that at any moment they could be plunged into such darkness again. To Lucien's mind it was a risk worth taking, if only for the joy of her skin beneath his fingertips, her lips against his neck, her sure and steady presence beside him, for all the rest of his days. He could only hope that Jean agreed.
"Well," she said in a shaky voice. "Ask me, then."
He laughed, or at least he tried to, though the sound that left him more closely resembled a sob. How like Jean, his clever girl; she had heard his words, and she had accepted him, he was sure, though a tear was sliding down the curve of her pale cheek, and now, in this moment of relief and joy she was teasing him. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to gather her into his arms and spin her around in circle propelled by his joyous love of her, but she was right. He would have to ask.
"Jean," he said again, her name the most beautiful word he had ever heard. "Will you marry me, my darling?"
"Yes," she answered at once, so quickly that he laughed again, and placed a gentle kiss against her cheek. "Yes, Lucien."
He wanted to do more than kiss her cheek, but there was a certain procedure to be observed, and so he withdrew the little ring, tossing the box carelessly aside and taking hold of Jean's left hand. Another tear had escaped her, now, along with a breathy sigh as he slipped the ring onto her finger, where it fit so beautifully, sparkling against her delicate skin.
"Oh, Lucien," she breathed, and he smiled, and kissed the back of her hand. He had done it, somehow, had found the courage and the strength to open his arms to her and she had stepped into them so willingly, so wholeheartedly, that he was left in awe of her, buzzing with an effervescent sort of joy, more alive and more content than he could recall having ever been before.
"It fits so perfectly," she mused as she raised her hand to cradle his cheek and in the process took a proper look at her ring for the first time. "How did you know?"
"Yes, well," he muttered, turning his head to kiss her palm and hoping to distract her from his foray into larceny earlier in the month. "I have my ways."
Her eyes widened, her brow arched, and he knew before she spoke that she had put it together, his clever, beautiful Jean.
"You took my ring," she said, her soft smile taking the sting out of the accusation, her thumb tracing the line of his beard as still she blessed him with the softness of her hand against his cheek.
"Are you very cross with me?" He tried to sound contrite, but it was difficult, in this moment, to hide the depth of his pleasure.
Her expression softened as her hand slipped around to the back of his neck, her eyes darkening with intent. Already he could feel himself falling beneath her spell, giving into the pull of gravity that tugged between them, threatened to pull him under the waves of his longing for her. Slowly, he lowered his head, even as she lifted herself up onto her toes to meet him.
"No," she whispered, her breath washing warm and sweet across his lips.
"Good," he told her. And then, oh then, he closed the space between them and covered her lips with his own, felt the taste of her blooming on the tip of his tongue and rejoiced as she sighed and melted in his embrace. Somehow, miraculously, he had done it, and now they were at last of one mind, certain in their purpose and in their love for one another, stepping out into the unknown of their future together, their faith in one another and in their love giving them wings.