"Matthew, can I have a word?" Jean asked, wringing her hands on the dishtowel when she'd finished the washing up after dinner.
"Of course, Jean." He leaned on his cane by the kitchen door, pausing to turn back to her.
She hesitated before saying anything.
But Matthew saw the distressed look on her face and crossed back toward her. "What is it?"
"I don't think I can bear it, Matthew," she said in a rather harsh whisper.
In a wash of compassionate understanding, he merely placed a gentle hand on her arm and nodded. "A quiet Christmas."
"I don't want to have you all caught up in my sadness, though. You should…you should go out. The Club always puts on a lovely party on Christmas Eve. Take Alice. For me," Jean insisted.
"You shouldn't be on your own."
"No, I'd rather have some time alone. I don't want to push you out of the house, but…"
"It's fine," he replied firmly. "I'll talk to Alice. We'll keep out of your hair the next day or two."
Tears welled up in Jean's eyes, but she blinked them back. "Thank you, Matthew."
"And if you want some company, all you have to do is call. We'll be right over," he promised.
"I'm all a mess, I'm afraid. The best thing you can do for me is go out and have a really happy Christmas. I know Lucien would want it that way. A happy celebration. Maybe next year we can have everyone over again like we used to," Jean reasoned.
Matthew nodded. "Of course. Whatever you like."
With that, Matthew hobbled out to the parlor to sit and read for a while. Jean remained alone in the kitchen. She knew that Lucien would want a big, boisterous holiday, like the ones they'd had in years past. Surrounded by friends and family, wine flowing and Jean's never-ending delicious treats to feed them all. There was always music and laughter in the house on Christmas, to make up for all the years her husband had been all alone.
But she just couldn't do it this year. She certainly didn't feel like celebrating anything. It had only been four days since she'd had her startling realization that he really was gone and not coming back. Only four days she'd felt like a proper widow. He may have been gone for nine months, but she'd only been grieving for four days. And in a rather twisted way, Jean wanted to remain in her sadness for a little while. Just some quiet time alone in her house to miss him. To cry and hug his jumpers and drink his scotch and just miss him. Perhaps that wasn't the way Lucien would want to be honored, but for Jean, it was what she needed to do. And at this time in her life, with all she'd been through and all she'd conquered and all she'd changed, she wouldn't force herself to smile and carry on with her head high and placate those around her. She'd done enough of that. She would remember her husband in her own way and in her own time. And surely he couldn't fault her for that.
In Mildura, Lucien was able to find work at the railway station. He'd regained much of his strength from his injuries en route to Jakarta, particularly after having a few square meals at the Hitchens house. He still looked a fright, but at least he was mildly clean and could load and unload luggage, and the porter took pity on him, sleeping on a bench at the station, and allowed him to spend the nights in the storage office.
Summer was fast approaching in Australia. Before he knew it, Melbourne Cup Day had arrived. Lucien was invited to listen to the horse races with the station manager. He smiled truly and properly for the first time in a long, long while. It felt like home. Well, not quite. But close.
Lucien considered sending a letter to Jean, telling her he was on his way, but decided against it. He had no way of knowing when he'd be able to get back, and he didn't want to get her hopes up, or his own, until he had a better idea. Besides, he had no idea what had been going on in Ballarat since he'd left, and he certainly didn't want to make things harder for her. He had gotten himself into this mess, and he would get himself out.
It was mid-December before he could afford fare to Bendigo. He had considered stowing away on a train as he'd done on that cargo freighter to Darwin. But that had been in a foreign land he had no hope of escaping from, and he was too weak to work. He was back in Victoria now, and his morals wouldn't allow him to take advantage.
But reach Bendigo, he did. A truck allowed him to hitchhike to Castlemaine. And from there, he walked.
The road to Ballarat was one he knew quite well. It wasn't too far. Two full days of walking in the summer sun wasn't the best use of his time, but the road was strangely lonely and no cars stopped to pick him up. He couldn't fault them. If he had been driving and seen a man with a long, scraggly beard and ragged clothes hanging off him, he probably wouldn't have stopped either.
On and on he walked, stumbling periodically in the change of gradation, thanks to shoes that were barely keeping together after nine whole months. Nine months since he'd seen his home. Nine months since he'd held his wife in his arms. Christ, he missed her. He was only a dozen or so miles away from her, now. Just a day or two more, if he could keep his strength up. He was dehydrated and starving, all he kind care from Alice Springs and Mildura long gone from him. But onward he went. He was so close. So close, he couldn't stop now.
A mantra filled his mind and kept time for his pace. "I'm on my way, I'm on my way," he muttered to himself. Through the streets of Ballarat he spoke softly to himself, looking more and more like an escaped insane criminal and less and less like a distinguished doctor with every dragging step.
He turned onto Mycroft Street and his heart caught in his throat. He was so close. "I'm on my way, I'm on my way." And when he stumbled up his very own gravel drive, he ran. He ran to the front door with the very last bit of energy he possessed.
