It wasn't until her feet started to hurt that Jean's temper cooled a little. Storming out of the house had been unwise, she knew that, even at the time, but she simply couldn't bear to look at him a moment longer.

Perhaps a mile from the house she slowed a little, looking down and regretting she hadn't stopped to change her shoes for something a little sturdier. And, for that matter, she was still wearing her apron under the coat she had grabbed from its hook.

Within a few more yards she had come to a halt, and then she glanced back up the road, surprised to find herself so far from home. She recognised the street she was in, but had no memory of getting there. The night was chilly, and completely dark, and this suddenly seemed like a terrible mistake.

She'd just walked out of her job, and the only home she'd known for a decade, because she couldn't hold her temper. Jean chewed her lip for a moment and felt tears of frustration starting. There was no way she could go home now, but where could she go? She didn't have the money for a hotel, and she couldn't get on a bus or train to go to Christopher's till the next day at the earliest.

She walked on for a while, until at the end of the street she realised, if she turned right, she would be on the road where Dorothy lived. Could she go there? She knew Dorothy a little from church and the sewing circle, but they were little more than acquaintances really.

With a sinking heart, Jean accepted she didn't have much choice.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Dorothy Turner held out the glass of sherry and gave Jean an appraising look. She fancied herself a good judge of character, and her sad store of recent experience told her that Jean was not giving her the whole story. And she had heard the rumours, of course.

"Did you argue, Jean?" she asked, as gently as she could.

"No." Jean laughed bitterly. "It might have been better if we had, and he had fired me. No, I gave him a piece of my mind, and walked out." Jean swallowed her sherry in one go, and gasped slightly at the burn in her throat.

"Is he...difficult?" Dorothy asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

"He's impossible. He upsets everyone, frightens the patients, stays out all night, and is completely unreliable." Put like that, Jean was slightly surprised she had stayed this long.

Dorothy looked at her carefully. This wasn't just a disgruntled housekeeper speaking.

"You are welcome to my spare room tonight, Jean, of course. Do you know what you are going to do tomorrow though?"

Jean shook her head. "I'll have to go home for my things, at least." She looked down at her handbag and wished she'd taken a moment to collect some essentials. "Then I suppose I could go and stay with Christopher in Adelaide for a while, until I can find another job."

As they made up the spare room bed together, Dorothy spoke. Somehow it was easier to ask when she didn't have to look Jean in the eye.

"You know people in the town talk about you and the Doctor, Jean? Is he maybe...more to you than just your employer?"

Jean reddened, and paused with her hands flat on the sheet she had just tucked in.

"I know people gossip, but they have no cause to. I'm just his housekeeper." She shifted uncomfortably. "He's been kind to me, on the whole, but maybe it's time for me to leave. I didn't mean to stay after old Doctor Blake died."

"If he's good to you and the work suits you, why move away, Jean? Kindness is a rare quality." Dorothy also was suddenly very interested in smoothing the bedclothes.

"My husband John was...not kind." Dorothy's voice had dropped to a whisper. "He started by pushing me, and threatening me, and in the end he pushed me down the stairs. That's how I injured my leg."

Jean was shocked but tried not to show it. She had only a vague recollection of John Turner, but he had always seemed polite and cheerful. How had she not realised the trouble Dorothy was in? But then who could tell what went on in people's homes?

Dorothy smiled at her wanly. "I won't pretend I was very sorry when he died, Jean. I'm so much better without him. But if your Doctor Blake is a good man, don't be too quick to leave him."

Jean opened her mouth to protest. He wasn't her Doctor Blake. If anything, Thomas Blake had been hers: her rescuer, her friend, her companion. But Lucien wasn't hers, he wasn't anyone's, except perhaps Joy's.

"He's stepping out with Mrs McDonald, the journalist from Melbourne. Have you met her?" Jean tried to steer the subject away from herself.

Dorothy pursed her lips. "I've seen her, yes. He may have his head turned by her for now, but it won't last. She's too flighty."

Jean thought about this. Lucien could be pretty flighty and impulsive himself. Maybe they were well suited. If being with Joy made him happy, that was good, wasn't it? So why did her stomach sink just at the thought?

Dorothy straightened up and looked around the room to see if anything had been forgotten. Satisfied, she wished Jean a good night. Then impulsively she took her hand.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you need, Jean. Go and fetch your things tomorrow, and take some time to decide what to do."

xxxxxxxxxx

Jean passed a restless night in Dorothy's spare room. The bed was uncomfortable, and her mind wouldn't let her settle. She turned the same thoughts over and over.

She was horrified that Dorothy thought she and Lucien were involved with each other. Of course she knew there had been some gossip, but she had assumed it was just idle chatter, not that someone who knew her might really believe it.

Had they given that impression? Jean had to concede they might have done. Going to the begonia festival together may not have been wise, and it was only a matter of days since she had picked him up from the police station after his night in the cells.

But really, these things just felt natural to her. They were friends. That didn't mean they were involved.

Jean lay awake for a long time in the near darkness, looking at the pattern of cracks on the bedroom ceiling, and slowly conceding to herself that she might be growing fond of the most irritating man in Ballarat.