A/N: This is part of the 2017 Doctor Blake Mysteries Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr. This was written for lucienblakes, who gave me the following prompt: It's Christmas Eve and Lucien doesn't know if he'll be home in time for morning.
24 December 1961, 6:00 p.m.
"Sorry, doc," the lad said apologetically as he stood looming over Lucien; blood loss and adrenaline made Lucien's stomach roil, and he closed his eyes rather than watch the boy's face swim nauseatingly before him. "You know how it is," the boy continued. "It's either you or me, and I've got a wife to look after."
Lucien wanted to protest that he had a wife as well, that he ought to be home carving the roast his beautiful Jean had prepared for their dinner, exchanging presents with their friends and celebrating their first Christmas together as a married couple, but he lacked the strength to speak. Instead of enjoying a quiet night at home he was trapped here, gutshot and incapacitated on the filthy dirt floor of a barn miles outside Ballarat, with no backup coming and no way to call for aid. Even if he'd had the breath to shout, there was no one to hear him. He'd survived war and famine, three and a half years in a Japanese prison camp and all the horror that had followed, only to die in a bloody barn just outside his hometown.
"I didn't mean to kill you," the boy - Timothy - told him sadly. Well, you're doing a fine job of it, Lucien thought grimly. He knew what the lad said was true; Timothy wasn't much of a shot. He'd been shouting at Lucien to keep his distance, and the moment the bullet ripped through his gut it was Timothy, and not Lucien, who let out a howl like a wounded animal. Timothy was barely twenty, with a pregnant wife at home, young and stupid and scared out of his mind. Perhaps Lucien should have known better than to confront the boy on his own, but he had been certain that the murder he was investigating - the first of what would likely soon become two murders committed by this hapless young man - was no more than accident, had been certain that guilt would make young Timothy come quietly. How very wrong he had been.
"Please," Lucien gasped, his throat parched, his voice hoarse.
"I won't shoot you again," Timothy said, completely misinterpreting Lucien's request. "I'll leave you here, that way maybe someone can find you, and maybe you'll make it. How's that sound, doc?"
In that moment Lucien regretted that he lacked the strength to reach out and give the boy a good shake; if he wanted to help Lucien, leaving him alone in a barn was hardly the way to go about it. Before Lucien could gather himself to speak again Timothy turned and raced out of the barn, pausing for a moment in the doorway to look back at him one last time. "I really am sorry, doc," he said.
And then he was gone.
Earlier that day…
"You will be back in time for dinner, won't you, Lucien?" Jean asked, a hint of steel in those sparkling grey eyes. They were standing together in the foyer of their home and Jean was holding his hat hostage, twirling it between her fingertips and refusing to hand it over until she'd extracted this one last promise from her husband. In truth Lucien was in no particular hurry to leave her; the last nine months or so he'd spent holding her in his arms each night had only endeared her more to him, and each time he looked at her he smiled to himself, thinking how lucky he was, to have found her, to have somehow made her his. As far as he was concerned his Jean was the most beautiful woman in the world, with her sweet expressive face, her slim hips, her soft dresses emphasizing every curve of her body. No, he didn't want to leave her, but duty called; he finally had the test results in from a soil sample taken on his latest murder case and he had, at last, put it all together. He was going to the station, to speak to Matthew, and then he was going out to have a chat with Timothy Holden.
"I'll be gone three hours at the most," he assured her, reaching out to catch his wife by the hips, his fingers curving against her as he drew her into his embrace, his lips slotting down over hers as natural as breathing. For a moment he lost himself in her, in the taste of her, the heat of her; Jean placed his hat haphazardly on his head in order to free her hands, her fingertips caressing the back of his neck and sending a shiver down his spine.
"Good," Jean breathed into their kiss, giving his lower lip one last affectionate nibble before pulling away to straighten his jacket fussily. "There's a special gift I'd quite like for you to open tonight."
If those words had been accompanied by that familiar mischievous glint in her eyes Lucien might have made some bawdy comment in reply, but there was an unexpected sort of trepidation radiating from his formidable wife, and so he did not tease her. He kissed her cheek, and then reached up to adjust his hat.
"I promise, my darling," he swore. "I'll be home before the roast is done, you'll see."
6:15 p.m.
The trick, he knew, was to keep himself calm. Keeping breathing, keep the wound covered, and think. There was no way he could leave under his own strength; he had tried to haul himself upright the moment Timothy departed, and had promptly collapsed in a heap, swearing. He couldn't stand, and dragging himself from the barn was right out as well; likely the strain would kill him before he reached the doorway. Matthew knew he had gone to speak to Timothy, but they were miles from the little cottage Timothy and his wife were renting, and no one had seen Lucien pass this way. The soil samples might point Matthew and his team in the right direction, but Lucien had left the samples at home. He turned his head and - with some effort - managed to lift his sleeve just far enough to check the time on his watch. Alice would be arriving at the house shortly, and, being an inquisitive sort, it was likely she might investigate the samples herself. It was a slim hope, but it was all he had to cling to, at present.
6:30 p.m.
The incessant banging on the front door roused Jean from her meandering thoughts as she stood carefully monitoring the progress of their Christmas feast. There were rather a lot of details involved when it came to planning a meal for seven people and Jean had spent most of the day in a flurry of activity, caught up in cooking and baking and last minute cleaning and double checking that the presents were all in order. Her back was aching and her feet were protesting, practically begging her to step out of her favorite suede pumps and into her comfortable slippers, but Jean was not about to welcome guests to her home in such a state. Her hair was done, her makeup perfect, her dress neat and freshly pressed, and she was determined to give no sign of her physical discomfort.
It was that discomfort that had so distracted her as she stood her lonely vigil over the vegetables. That, and Lucien's absence; he should have been home hours before. Not that Jean really expected him to be back within the time frame he'd promised. She knew her husband too well to expect that he would really turn over his findings and come straight back home; no, Lucien liked to be in the middle of the excitement, liked to help, liked that moment when the puzzle pieces all clicked into place and he could at last discern the truth of whatever mystery troubled him at any given moment. For all his rash, almost childlike exuberance Jean loved him still, and so she was not cross with him for being late. Though that would likely change, she thought peevishly as she went to answer the door, if he did not return soon; their guests were already arriving.
Unsurprisingly it was Alice who stood on the front steps, carrying a sack full of presents in one hand and a bottle of wine with a festive ribbon tied around it in the other.
"Hello," Alice greeted her rather formally, as if she and Jean had never met before, and Jean found herself overcome with a sudden wave of fondness for the eccentric doctor. They hadn't spent much time alone, Jean and Alice, but they had always been friendly with one another, and Jean had always respected the way that Alice remained unabashedly herself, no matter what people might say about her. Besides, the pair of the shared a little secret, and that had bound them together in a profound sort of way.
"It's lovely to see you, Alice," Jean said, leaning forward to kiss Alice rather impulsively on the cheek. Since Alice's hands were full there was hardly anything she could do to stop it, and when Jean stepped back she noted the surprise in Alice's eyes with some satisfaction. "The men aren't here yet," Jean explained as she closed the door smartly behind her guest.
"That's just as well," Alice answered with a smile, handing over her parcels when Jean reached out to accept them. "You and I can share the wine, then."
6:45 p.m.
Matthew didn't bother knocking before sweeping into the Blake residence; though he was no longer lodging with his friends he did still feel rather at home here, and he knew Lucien wouldn't mind. The sound of voices lured him to the kitchen, and there he found a most unexpected sight. Jean and Alice were standing together by the stovetop, each of them cradling a glass of wine, laughing together as Jean attempted to explain Alice the myriad processes involved in cooking their dinner. Rather than disturbing them in the midst of what was a rare moment of solitude for the pair of them Matthew simply leaned against the door frame, smiling as he watched them together. Over the last year or so he had grown quite fond of Alice, and they had shared the occasional meal together. She was a strange, fierce creature, a woman of her own making, and if she didn't always know the right thing to say, Matthew liked her all the more for her earnest awkwardness. And she was lovely, too; they were both of them lovely, Jean and Alice, in very different ways, two bright flowers blooming together in the dingy garden of Ballarat, and watching them now Matthew could almost feel the weight of his day's work sliding off his shoulders. It was Christmas Eve, and he was to spend the evening surrounded by the people he loved; he could think of nothing better.
7:00 p.m.
Charlie and Rose arrived together, quite by accident; he had just parked his car in front of the house when Rose came waltzing down the pavement, and though he was not especially pleased to see his former lover without the protection of other people to distract him, he did the chivalrous thing and waited for her before making his way towards the house. They stood together on the doorstep, both of them feeling rather uncomfortable.
"How have you been?" Charlie asked conversationally.
Beside him Rose shifted uneasily. "Fine," she answered. "You?" The question was delivered too brightly, and he could tell by the way her eyes slid quickly away from his face that she was kicking herself for it.
"Yeah, fine," he said, his smile feeling rather forced. "Melbourne is...nice."
They were saved further small talk by the opening of the door; Jean's smile was wide and radiant, but when she realized who was waiting for her there her face fell.
"Oh," she said with a somewhat haggard air. "Come in, you two."
It wasn't exactly the sort of greeting Charlie had been expecting; he had taken the train from Melbourne, certain that spending a few days with Lucien and Jean, sleeping in his old bedroom and enjoying Mrs. Blake's very fine cooking, was infinitely preferable to spending time cooped up with his own family, who were, as ever, at each other's throats. Jean's less than enthusiastic welcome gave him pause, however.
"Is everything all right, Mrs. Blake?" he asked her quietly as she closed the door behind him. Calling her Blake instead of Beazley had taken quite a bit of getting used to, but Charlie did his best to be respectful, and refused to call her by her given name, no matter how she had chided him for it. She was a real lady, Mrs. Blake, compassionate and gentle and stern by turns, always ready to do the necessary thing, always looking out for other people, and Charlie had always been rather fond of her. Rose had already raced off to the relative safety of the kitchen, and for a moment Charlie felt a bit cross with her, for abandoning Jean when she was so clearly distressed.
"It's Lucien," Jean admitted. "He was supposed to be home hours ago. Everyone is here, and I have no idea where he is."
"I'm sure he'll turn up," Charlie said reassuringly. "You know what the doc is like. He does things in his own time."
"He used to, Charlie," Jean told him sadly. "He's been much more considerate lately, I'd gotten rather used to having him home in time for dinner."
Charlie felt the tips of his ears turn pink, the way they always did whenever he found himself involved in a conversation that touched - however briefly - on emotions. Though she hadn't said it outright, Charlie knew all too well what she meant, that their marriage and Lucien's love of her had reformed the doctor somewhat, and that love, while it was a wonderful thing, left him feeling rather embarrassed. Whatever they got up to when they were alone was between them, and the last thing Charlie wanted was to discuss the doctor and his habits with Mrs. Blake. He didn't know what to say, and so he said nothing, offering her a little smile instead. Jean leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, and then herded him off to the kitchen, chiding him about how skinny he'd gotten while he'd been off in Melbourne.
7:15 p.m.
Though it had been a balmy summer day the barn was shaded and the sun was setting, and Lucien was so cold that he was beginning to shiver. We can't have that, he told himself, though there was nothing he could do to keep himself warm. There was no pile of hay close to hand for him to bury himself in, no blankets, nothing but his dirt-splattered suit, and it was not enough. His watch told him he was officially late for dinner and he tried to take comfort in that fact; surely, he told himself, his friends would begin to question his absence, would start looking for him soon. All he could do now was wait, and so he tried to distract himself from the cold and the pain in his gut and the fear that gripped his heart.
The only thing that could bring him comfort in such a moment was Jean. He conjured the image of her face, the smooth line of her cheek, the flash of her eyes, the fullness of her lips. He imagined her as she had been that morning, soft and warm and naked in his arms, trailing kisses across his chest as he slowly dragged himself into wakefulness. I wonder what sort of present she has for me? He thought. There were quite a few brightly wrapped parcels in the corner of the sitting room that were to be saved for Christmas morning; what would be special enough, he wondered, that she would want to give it to him the night before? Perhaps he had read her wrong, earlier; perhaps it was some silky new nightdress she planned to wear for him, and for a time he lost himself in imagining what it might be like to unwrap that particular present. Thoughts of a naked Jean were infinitely preferable to thoughts of his own imminent demise.
7:30 p.m.
He hated to be the one to do it, but someone had to say something. Lucien had left the station hours before, and he was nowhere in sight, and that troubled Matthew more than he could say. Everyone else was present and accounted for, Jean and Alice and Rose and Charlie and Danny and Matthew himself, and though Jean did her best to play the part of the gracious hostess, keeping everyone smiling and their drinks topped up, the doctor's conspicuous absence had tempered the jovial mood with which the evening had begun. Assuring herself that no one was in need of tea or wine or brandy Jean fluttered off to the kitchen, and Matthew exchanged a worried glance with Alice before hauling himself to his feet and limping off after her.
"Jean," he said as he stepped into the kitchen. At the sound of his voice she jumped, nearly dropping the plate of biscuits she was carrying.
"Matthew," she said, her smile brittle and gone in a flash, "you startled me. Do you need something?"
"Where is he, Jean?" Matthew asked, crossing the room to stand beside her. She really was something, was Mrs. Jean Beazley Blake, tough as nails and pretty as a flower, not easily rattled. To see her like this, so obviously on edge, the shine of her eyes and the trembling of her hands betraying her distress, inspired a fierce sort of protectiveness in him. Wherever Lucien was, Matthew was determined to track him down, and give him a good bollocking, for Jean's sake if for nothing else.
"I thought you knew," she said, her shoulders sagging. "He said he was going to the station, he thought he'd solved the case."
Matthew grunted, but before he could respond Danny and Charlie came wandering through, the pair of them wearing matching expressions of worry and doubt. Matthew spared a glance for them before deciding it was just as well to include them; perhaps Lucien had said something to young Danny about his plans that he had failed to mention to the superintendent.
"He told me he needed to talk to Timothy Holden. But that was-" he checked his watch - "four hours ago. He should have been home by now, Holden's renting a cottage here in town."
"Unless Holden told him something that sent him off on one of his tangents," Charlie suggested from the other side of the room.
There came the sound of soft footsteps padding down the hall, and then the ladies joined them, Rose and Alice both still clutching their wine glasses, though neither of them looked particularly festive. For her part Jean just looked overwhelmed, as if there were suddenly entirely too many people in her kitchen.
Right then, Matthew thought grimly as he surveyed their little gathering. Three policemen, a doctor, a journo, and the victim's wife; he had enough manpower here to start his investigation.
"Jean," he said, turning to her and trying to block out the rest of the room with his own bulk, needing her to focus on him for the moment. "Where's Lucien's chalkboard?"
8:00 p.m.
"You really ought to sit down, Jean," Alice said sternly, giving her a knowing sort of look that Jean liked not at all. That rankled, being told what to do in her own home, but she knew that Doctor Harvey was right, and so she folded herself neatly into one of the little armchairs in the sitting room and clasped her hands together in her lap. Danny had gone to the station, to see if Lucien had called in there, and Charlie and Matthew had rushed off to visit Timothy Holden at home. Rose was on the phone to some of her contacts, trying to determine whether anyone in town had seen him, and Alice was about to review the results from the tests Lucien had been running - just as soon as she finished chiding Jean for over-exerting herself.
From her perch on the chair Jean gazed up at Alice, wondering, not for the first time, how strange it was that she now counted this woman as one of her dearest friends, that she had entrusted to the good doctor her darkest secrets, and been rewarded for that trust with a truly remarkable outpouring of kindness. Oh, Alice wasn't naturally an effusive sort, but she had been so good to Jean, since the day Jean visited her at the hospital, and even now, when Jean knew that the other woman was itching to dig into the experiment in Lucien's study, Alice was taking the time to look after her. Her concern was terribly sweet, if a bit misguided. Jean knew how to take care of herself, after all; she had rather a lot of practice at that.
"Thank you," Alice said, and without another word she took herself off to the study, and left Jean alone with nothing but fear for company.
Where could he have gone? She asked herself for the hundredth time. Where could he be?
It had to be something to do with the case, she knew, and so she turned the details over and over in her mind, trying to find some sense in the chaos. A car in Lake Wendouree, a young man in the driver's seat with a knife lodged in his throat, Timothy Holden...no great revelation came to her, and in truth she rather quickly found herself thinking less about the dead lad and more about her own predicament.
Perhaps he knows, she thought morosely, her mind drifting towards the gift she'd planned to share with him that night after everyone else had gone to bed. He is a doctor. Perhaps he worked it out for himself, and decided he'd rather just leave than face it.
It didn't seem like the sort of thing Lucien would do, abandon her like that, but fear and grief did strange things to people, and Lucien had endured more than his fair share of both.
You're just being silly, she told herself. Any minute now he's going to come walking through that door, and you're going to be terribly embarrassed for working yourself up into such a state. You'll see. He'll be back any minute.
But the minutes passed, and Lucien did not return.
"He isn't here," young Mrs. Holden insisted, one hand pressed to the small of her back, her belly, large with child, thrust out in front of her almost accusatory. "I told you, Timmy left this morning and I haven't seen him since. Haven't seen your doctor either. If you find my husband, though, you tell him to get himself home, quick. It's Christmas Eve, for goodness' sake."
Matthew opened his mouth to tell her that her that if he found her husband the last thing he was going to do was send the lad home for his Christmas ham, but before he could Charlie came shuffling back into the room, shaking his head.
Bloody hell, Matthew thought grimly.
"Right," he said aloud. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Holden."
And with that he and Charlie departed, Mrs. Holden trailing after them and grumbling like a distressed mother hen.
Outside in the car, Matthew radioed to Danny at the station.
"Any sign of him?" he asked gruffly. Beside him Charlie shifted around uncomfortably; Matthew knew rather how he felt. It was strange, interviewing people in his blue jumper and khaki slacks instead of his policeman's uniform.
"No, boss," Danny answered. "And I rang Bill Hobart, he was the last one to leave tonight, but Bill says the doc never came back after he spoke to you."
"Right," Matthew told him. "You stay put, we'll be there in a tick and then we'll ring Jean, see if Alice has found anything."
8:30 p.m.
Lucien was dreaming. Well, perhaps hallucinating might have been a more accurate description. He was conscious, all too aware of the pain that wracked his body, the cold, his dire thirst, the musty smell of the barn around him, but beside him he saw his wife. It couldn't be real, he knew, because this Jean was wearing her favorite grey silk housecoat, the one he'd bought for her in Paris on their honeymoon, with the little white flowers embroidered around the hem and the sleeves, and as beautiful as she looked in it, she would never have come to him in a barn dressed that way. Her hair was an artful tumble of soft dark curls, touched by grey at her temples, her face fresh and clean and for once free of her usual make up. This ghostly Jean reached out one graceful hand and brushed the tips of her fingers against his cheek, and for all that he knew it wasn't real, for one mad moment Lucien was certain he could feel the heat of her skin against her own.
Come back to me, my love, she whispered.
I'm trying, Lucien answered her in his mind. I would never leave you willingly, my darling.
9:00 p.m.
Jean, Alice, and Rose gathered together around the little telephone in Lucien's surgery, listening as Matthew relayed their findings. As the lady of the house it was Jean who had taken the call, but she was doing her best to keep her guests aprised of the conversation.
"I don't understand," Jean said slowly. "If he told you he was going to talk to Timothy Holden-"
"Why didn't he go to the lad's house? I'm wondering the same thing," Matthew cut across her grimly. "What was he working on before he left today? He said he'd run some tests and that was why he needed to speak to Holden."
Jean snapped her fingers and pointed to the pile of papers on Lucien's desk. "The soil samples, Alice," she said, passing over the phone as Doctor Harvey took over the conversation.
"He was testing the soil found in the car with the victim," Alice explained, cradling the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she rifled through the pages of Lucien's notes. "Apparently it's local, likely from a canola farm."
"Canola?" Even from a distance Jean could hear the incredulous bark of Matthew's voice. "Do you know how many people in Ballarat and the surrounding area grow canola?"
Too many, Jean thought morosely. And yet…
"Hang on," she said aloud, her heart racing as at last the pieces clicked into place. Without a word of apology she took the phone from Alice, already berating herself for having taken so long to put it together.
"I think I know where he is," she told Matthew breathlessly.
9:30 p.m.
Matthew drove as quickly as he dared in the darkness, Charlie guiding him as they went, clutching the page on which he'd scribbled Jean's directions as if it were a life raft. The countryside flashed by, green and lush with the glow of summer, but eerily still as they left the town far behind them.
Of course it was Jean who'd worked it all out, Jean whose encyclopedic knowledge of the local populace had saved them more times than they could count. Young Timothy Holden had married a girl called Mariann, a girl whose grandfather had grown canola on a farm not far from the one where Jean and her first husband had settled down. The grandfather had died, but the girl was his only living relative, and her husband had no skill for farming; they'd been unable to keep the place up and abandoned it, and the police had no idea it even existed, as there were no official documents linking Timothy to the place. But Jean had known, Jean who retained every bit of gossip she'd ever heard, in whom everyone in town seemed to confide, no matter their circumstances. Apparently the girl had been a regular at Sacred Heart, when Jean herself had attended that church, and just like that, it all fell into place. Why Holden had killed the young man in the car - if indeed he had - seemed suddenly much less important than finding that farm, and so Charlie and Matthew had raced off in search of it. Danny they had left behind, to speak to Mariann and then start re-interviewing Holden's friends, trying to track the lad down while Matthew prayed that Lucien would be waiting for him at the end of this wild goose chase. But it was dark, and the temperature was dropping, and it had been over six hours since anyone had seen Lucien last. Though he hated himself for it, the old copper was beginning to fear the worst.
Stay with me, Jean whispered to him in the darkness. Lucien no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open, but it didn't seem to matter; the phantom vision of his wife he'd conjured to keep him company during his final hours stayed with him, her fingertips trailing like fire across his skin.
I'm sorry, he told her in his mind, though he could not bring himself to speak the words aloud. When they wed he'd promised his wife that he would be more careful, that he would be there for her, to love her, cherish her, protect her for all the rest of his days. There was nothing he wanted more from his life than to spend his days by her side, and yet in his recklessness he had rushed out to the farm alone, and for his troubles he was about to die alone and weary, on Christmas Eve no less. He had purchased gifts for her, books and records and jewelry and fine dresses, had intended to shower her with the lot of it, to watch her eyes light up as she tore through parcel after parcel. And instead he had given her the cruelest gift of all; he was about to make her a widow, for the second time. She deserved so much more than this, his kind, brilliant, inestimable Jean, Jean who had endured so much pain. She deserved to smile, to laugh, to be happy, but he had brought her only darkness. Lucien was a doctor, he knew what his injuries meant. It had been hours since he'd been shot; even if they found him now, the risk of infection was great. Even if they rescued him from this place, he was likely to die fever-mad and shivering in the hospital in just a few days' time. And for that reason he hoped they would not find him; if he had to leave her, at the very least he could do this one thing for her, could die now and spare her the agony of watching him fade slowly, in terrible pain.
I'm so sorry, he told her again.
9:45 p.m.
Charlie all but leapt from the car the moment Lawson brought it to a stop, using a torch to guide him as he raced towards the house, the superintendent limping along behind him, swearing. The house was a dilapidated little ranch, looking much the worse for wear, obviously abandoned, just as Jean had said. In a moment Charlie was inside; dust covered everything in sight, the furniture slowly rotting right where Mariann's grandfather had left it. Checking the premises took only a matter of minutes; there weren't many rooms, and the place was eerily silent. Having ascertained that it was in fact empty he stomped back towards the front of the house, and found Lawson leaning against battered old couch, staring balefully around him.
"No one's here, boss," Charlie told him glumly.
"Maybe not," Lawson agreed. "The victim had soil on his shoes, though; maybe he never even came inside. Jean said the old man kept horses; what do you reckon there's a barn around here somewhere?"
Not long now, Jean told him.
Thank you, Lucien answered. He'd stopped shivering, and a warm sort of lassitude had fallen over him. The darkness was coming for him, but at least he still had Jean to cling to, the warmth of her touch, the softness of her voice. Finding her had changed him, had set his feet upon a different path, and he was truly, deeply grateful for her, for her steady presence, for her radiant love, for the life she'd sparked within him when he'd thought all hope was lost. She truly was an angel. Thank you for being here. For staying with me.
Always, came her ghostly answer.
His suspicions were correct; there was a barn tucked away at the back of the property. Once more Charlie was racing ahead of him, and once more Matthew was cursing his leg, berating himself for not being able to keep up. It was folly, he knew, to keep on rushing off into the field when he could hardly walk, but his pride, and his affection for Lucien and Jean, would not allow him to stay behind. He had only just crossed the threshold when he heard Charlie's triumphant shout, and as he hobbled over to the lad, he found a most welcome sight.
There in the dirt at his feet, covered in filth and blood but still mercifully breathing, was Lucien bloody Blake.
"You lucky bastard," Matthew gasped, feeling his heart soar at the sight of his friend, even as he registered the significance of his injury. Lucien was alive, but bleeding like a stuck pig, and they were miles from town. Their options were limited, and time was running out, and so Matthew did not linger, did not stoop to give his friend's hand a reassuring squeeze, to wipe the sweat from his brow.
"We've got to get him to the car," he barked at Charlie, pacing around the doctor once, trying to decide how best to maneuver the injured man.
"What?" Charlie looked flabbergasted by the very suggestion. "Boss, I don't think we should move him. Can't you radio for an ambulance?"
"We don't have that kind of time, son," Matthew told him grimly.
At their feet Lucien shivered, and let forth a pitiful little sound that tore at Matthew's heartstrings. Lucien Blake was larger than life, with his lanky, self-confident swagger and his boyish smile, always sucking the air out of any room he entered, and it was jarring to see him like this, small and helpless and fading fast. "Jean," Lucien whispered.
"That's right, doc," Matthew told him. "We're going to get help, and you're going to see Jean."
10:30 p.m.
"It will be all right, Jean," Alice told her soothingly. "You'll see."
But Jean just shook her head. "Surely if they'd found something, we'd have heard by now," she said sadly. Ostensibly she was knitting, needing something to keep her occupied while they waited for Matthew or one of the boys to ring them, but her hands were still, her needles hanging limply from trembling fingertips.
Alice fought the urge to reach out and shake her; the last thing they needed was for Jean to go to pieces. Not that she ever did, really, but especially not now, with Lucien missing - most likely injured - and Jean's little...secret to worry about. It was strange to see a woman as practical, as level-headed, as even-keeled as Jean display this sort of sorrow; the depth pain in her sharp grey eyes offered an window into the complex goings on of Jean's heart, a world that Alice had never before been privy to. That Jean cared for Lucien had been obvious from the moment Alice first saw them together, but this sort of love, this shattering, all-consuming need for another person was confronting, to say the least. Before this moment, Alice had rather though that Jean wasn't the sort to give herself over to that kind of emotion, but then she had always heard that love did strange things to people. Perhaps that was true, after all.
Still, though, Alice decided it would be best to try to comfort Jean, rather than flee from what might soon turn out to be one of the most uncomfortable conversations of her entire life. It was best for everyone if Jean remained calm, and Alice was determined to do whatever she could to keep the tension from mounting even higher.
"They know where he's gone, and who he's met with," she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone of voice. "Danny's found Timothy Holden, and any moment now they're going to find out what's happened. You just have to be patient, Jean."
That was the wrong thing to say; Jean's eyes flashed, baleful and wounded, at the word patient. No doubt she thought she had been patient enough for one lifetime, waiting so long for Lucien, from when they first began dancing around one another to the painful months of Mei Lin's stay in Ballarat to the eons they'd spent waiting for his divorce to come through. And then of course there was everything that had come before; though Alice wasn't privy to all the details, she knew that Jean had been a widow for a long time before Lucien Blake came home to Ballarat.
"I just meant," Alice started to try to smooth things over, but she was promptly - mercifully - interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Though Alice leapt to her feet Jean reached the telephone first, answering it with a breathy "Matthew?", terror and hope together etched into every line of her face.
Please, Alice prayed silently for the first time in many years. Please, God, let Lucien be all right. For Jean's sake.
25 December 1961, 3:00 a.m.
Jean began to weep, the moment she walked into Lucien's room. The last few hours were a blur, from the moment she'd answered Matthew's call - he's alive, Jean, I promise, he's alive - to the moment she'd first arrived at the hospital, and a grim-faced nurse had taken her to the side and very quietly explained that Lucien was in surgery, and they wouldn't know the extent of the damage until the doctors began to patch him up, and that Jean should prepare herself for the worst. She'd collapsed into a chair there in the corridor, clutching her handbag while Matthew rested a heavy hand on her shoulder, thinking numbly that it was ironic, really, that the person best suited to saving Lucien's life was probably Lucien himself. And then there had come the interminable waiting, while the surgeon saw to Lucien, and Jean and her friends lingered in purgatory in a room just down the way.
She sent Charlie home first, to tend to their supper, make sure the food was all put away and then get some sleep; he'd spent the day travelling, before he went gallivanting off with Matthew, and Jean thought that if only one of them were to have the chance to spend the night in a real bed, it ought to have been him. Danny went home next; Jean insisted that he ought to be at his mother's house, come Christmas morning. He had protested, of course, his eyes huge and full of hurt - but, Auntie Jean, he'd said - but in the end he had done as he was bid, extracting a promise from Jean that she would update him in the morning. Likewise, Matthew had sent his niece away; Bill Hobart had come to check in on them, after helping secure Timothy Holden in a cell at the police station, and he had graciously agreed to drive Rose home. That left Matthew and Alice standing vigil with Jean, and though her thoughts were too chaotic for her to give them voice, her stomach roiling and her heart too full of grief, she found herself grateful for their steady presence just the same. Unlike their younger friends Alice and Matthew were quiet and contemplative, the pair of them, and they comforted Jean without inane chatter, for which she was very thankful.
At long last the surgeon had appeared, had told them that Lucien was a damned lucky bastard, that the bullet had taken the best possible course, and missed any major arteries or organs. The risk of infection was still high, he'd said, but with careful monitoring it was likely Lucien would make a fully recovery. And then, a few minutes later, Jean and her friends were allowed to see her husband.
Though she could sense Matthew and Alice standing at her back, peering over her shoulder at the prone form of her husband lying amongst the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed, she could not bring herself to feel embarrassed for the rush of her tears, the choked little gasp that escaped her. Let them see how much she loved her husband, how deeply the sight of him affected her, how weak she was, where he was concerned; she had no secrets from either of them, not now, not after everything. She was by Lucien's side in an instant, clutching his hand fiercely in her own, unable to stop the steady stream of tears splashing down her cheeks.
For a moment they indulged her in this display of brokenness, but then Alice was by her side once more.
"You really should sit down, Jean," she said softly, her gentle doctor's hands guiding Jean into the chair by Lucien's bedside. Of course Alice was right; this sort of shock was no good for her, not now, and she shouldn't be exerting herself, but somehow she didn't care, any more. Lucien was here, dreadfully pale but alive, and nothing else mattered.
"Maybe I should take you home," Matthew suggested, exchanging a brief look with Alice that made Jean wonder for a moment if the good doctor had confided her secret to the superintendent, if Matthew had learned of Lucien's Christmas present before he did. No, she decided as she looked at him; no matter how fond Alice might be of Matthew - and Jean was convinced that Alice was really rather fond of him - she would not have broken Jean's confidence.
"I'm staying right here," Jean said firmly.
And that was that.
6:30 a.m.
Lucien woke slowly, his eyelids heavy, feeling as if there were a cinder block weighing down upon his chest. It took a moment for him to orient himself, to discover that he was not in heaven, or in hell, or trapped in that bloody barn or home in his warm room with his wife in his arms, but instead lying beneath the sterile sheets of a hospital bed. If he had not been pumped full of medicine and lightheaded from bloodloss he might well have wept, to discover that he was alive and well. Not for his own sake, for it had been decades since Lucien Blake feared death, but for Jean's. He had said his vows to her, had promised to be there for her, and he was relieved to discover that he had not broken that promise, that he had not done the unthinkable, and widowed Jean again.
With a great deal of effort he turned his head, and found the object of his affections sleeping beside him; she was sitting in a chair, her arms crossed over the bed and her head pillowed atop them, her perfect curls tumbling artfully around her dear sweet face. A smile as bright as the sun spread across Lucien's face at the sight of her; she had come to him, in the darkness of that barn when he thought all hope was lost, had given him the strength to carry on, and now here she was, with him, as she'd sworn she always would be.
"Hello, my darling," Lucien whispered, wishing he had strength enough to reach out and brush the hair out of her eyes.
She was awake at once, bolting upright with a startled gasp, her eyes welling with tears at the sight of his crooked little smile.
"Hello," she answered breathlessly, reaching at once to clasp his hand in both of her own, tracing her thumbs over his knuckles and staring at him as if he were the most precious thing she'd ever seen.
"I've missed dinner, haven't I?" Lucien asked, doing his best to lighten the mood, though he flinched at the sight of his wife's tremulous pout. No doubt she was remembering the last time he'd spoken those words to her, when she'd threaten to kill him herself, if he ever gave her such a scare again. It had been his intention to never again put her in this position, and yet he'd done it anyway, had rushed out on Christmas Eve and nearly gotten himself killed for the sake of solving a riddle. Not for the first time, he made a silent vow to do better, for her sake.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, reaching out to fuss with his blankets, refusing to meet his gaze. That was the thing about Jean, he'd discovered long ago; she was willful, passionate, tempestuous, but she was careful, too, did not often let others see the riot of emotions that consumed her, did not easily share her grief and her hopes. Over time she had let him in, had allowed him glimpses of the ferocity of her heart, but every now and then she built her walls back up, protected her heart, even from him. Lucien couldn't bear it, to feel so separate from her, and so he gave her hand a little squeeze, hoping she would look at him again, would hear what he had to say.
"I'm fine, love," he told her. "And I'm sorry, Jeannie. Really, truly, sorry. I didn't think-"
"No, that's right, you didn't think," she cut him off sharply. "I know you, Lucien, I know how passionate you are, but please, for my sake, you have to think. I can't have you just running off like this when…"
Her voice trailed off, her cheeks coloring faintly as her eyes skittered away from his face. Though he could not say why, exactly, Lucien felt a great fear begin to gnaw at his gut, and he desperately wished she would finish her sentence, would share with him whatever burden was weighing so heavily on her mind.
"Is there something you need to tell me?" he asked her slowly, watching the flicker of emotions in those fierce grey eyes he loved so well.
"It's nothing," she said dismissively, but Lucien didn't believe her for a moment.
"Jean-"
"It was supposed to be your Christmas present," she confessed, her shoulders slumping beneath the weight of his stare. The fear was dissipating now, and something else, something altogether brighter, more hopeful, began to take its place. There was a little clock hanging on the wall, and that clock told him it was already Christmas morning, and though they weren't unwrapping the shiny parcels beneath the tree in the sitting room, Lucien rather felt that this was the perfect moment for the unveiling of this particular gift.
"Jean," he said softly, giving her hand a little squeeze. "Please-"
"I'm pregnant," she told him quickly, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she watched him apprehensively.
Lucien broke out into a smile so wide his cheeks ached with it, his heart expanding until he thought it must surely burst from his chest, tears of his own gathering in the corners of his eyes. They had talked about this possibility, a time or two, had faced the fact that, weary as they felt some days, they were neither of them too old, that if they weren't careful it might well happen one day. They had talked of their own children, their dreams, their regrets; Jean had buried her face in his neck and whispered the story of the daughter she'd never had, and in turn he had confided in her about his own, about how he had loved her, how losing her had nearly drove him mad, and that shared grief had only served to bind them closer together.
And now, this.
"Are you sure?" he choked out, hardly daring to believe it, and yet wanting it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
Jean gave him a watery smile. "I am. I had Alice run a blood test, just to be safe. We're going to have a baby, Lucien."
He let forth a wild laugh and the next thing he knew she was in his arms, weeping even as his own tears fell, the pair of them overwhelmed and overcome and full to bursting with love. Never in a million years would Lucien have imagined spending Christmas morning this way, but he was certain that he had never had a finer present than this, this second chance at life, at love, at family, this woman who had saved him, healed him, restored him, and taught him how to smile again.