A/N: If you've come this far, thank you! And I promise it starts to get a little happier as we go along.
~0~
Jean was pulled from Lucien's side by the call of his father down the hallway. She was standing in the kitchen, having just dismissed Li from the breakfast table to go wash her face and hands in preparation for visiting town for the day. Lucien had made a wry comment – something about she who must be obeyed – and Jean was just thinking up her snappy retort, her smirk firmly in place, when Thomas' voice called out from his room.
"Jean, would you mind coming here a moment?"
With a look to Lucien, one eyebrow raised, Jean deposited her tea towel on the table and walked briskly down the hall, hips swaying with the confidence of a woman having a good day.
"Yes Doctor?" she asked, rounding his doorway.
"I seem to have misplaced the blazer that goes with these pants" he said. He patted at his waist, clad in a soft cream cable knit cardigan, and then while he was searching about the room his hand came up and smoothed the back of his perfectly styled hair, patting down imaginary strands as though composing himself. It was sweet in a way – Thomas rarely asked for help with the mundane things and certainly didn't seek her out unnecessarily – but he looked so very lost that Jean took pity on him. She was still cross that he avoided half of breakfast in favour of finishing patient notes, but at the end of the day he was her employer, and he had been nothing but decent to her until now, so Jean stifled her growing wrath and answered his unspoken question.
"It's not misplaced, it's with me" she said, smiling a little to soften the blow of a tone just a bit too sharp. "I was mending the sleeves, remember?"
He looked up through his round glasses and nodded.
"Ah yes. Right you are" he said. And then he stood still for a moment with his mouth agape like a stunned mullet.
"Well I suppose I shall just go without" he added rather awkwardly. Jean remained where she was in the doorway and cast her eye about the room. There was another jumper on the back of the chair in the corner, and a pair of slacks hung over the open wardrobe door, and Jean's brow furrowed as she imagined Thomas Blake spending an inordinate amount of time this morning sorting out exactly what regalia he was arming himself with before exiting the room. It wasn't a thought that brought her comfort, in fact, if anything it made her rather sad. Thomas was a proud man, yes, but Jean had always seen him as stalwart as well; immovable and constant. That was, after all, the reason his son had returned to him, because he knew what to expect. Thomas was as fixed in the landscape as Lake Wendouree – sometimes low water and riddled with drought, yes, but always there and cherished for his unchanging nature. But now the façade was cracking with each passing day his son was home and Jean worried just what would be left when the impending conclusion to their argument finally broke free.
From somewhere else in the house Jean could hear the rumbling of Lucien's voice, booming through the downstairs bathroom with Li, no doubt roughhousing her in great love and making peels of giggles burst forth like sunlight through the clouds. He must have got sick of waiting at the kitchen table by himself, and instead sought out his daughter and her endless energy to ready himself for the day.
Thomas' eyes drifted to the doorway just over Jean's shoulder, his gaze wistful and mournful. There was so much happening just beyond his grasp, and he had no idea how to reach for it and hold it tight the way he so obviously wanted to do. He had lost a lot in his life, she knew. Perhaps some of it was of his own making, but it didn't lessen the loss, and she tried to remind herself of that and not take sides too badly in Lucien's favour.
"They are heading into town today, if you'd like to join them" she said, picking up the discarded jumper from the back of the chair to feign nonchalance. She heard rather than saw Thomas' scoff at the suggestion.
"I don't need anything from town" he said. But she could hear what he meant; that he wouldn't be welcomed even if he did ask. Jean thought it terribly uncharitable of him to assume Lucien would spurn him, though of course it was just as likely as not. But Thomas had got it in his mind that any interaction with his son was destined to end badly, and so avoided it altogether.
Jean stepped forward to collect the pants hung at the wardrobe, her anger once more surfacing at his easy dismissal of such a simple olive branch. She folded the jumper back into the tallboy and then she folded the pants neatly over a hanger to put back, and didn't even try to hide the jerkiness of her movements as she thrust them into the wardrobe and flicked them flat so as not to crease. Without thinking – without giving any deference to his position or their relationship – Jean voiced the only thought that kept swimming in her mind every time she looked at Thomas' churlish attitude and lack of gratitude.
"Do you have any idea what I would give to have my Christopher back?" she asked, her gaze fixed firmly on the clothes in the wardrobe.
Behind her there was stillness for a moment, and she felt glad to have shocked him. A ripple of righteousness ran through her at the mental image of his stunned face, though she still didn't turn around to see it for herself. Almost as quickly she felt guilty for using Christopher's memory that way, and she silently asked for his forgiveness.
"It's not the same" said Thomas gently. Jean spun around to look at him, her eyes fiery.
"No, it's not" she said. "You actually have a chance to-"
She cut herself short but they both knew what she was going to say. A chance to apologise. A lump formed in Jean's throat, comprised of all the words she would say to Christopher if he ever got to walk back through her open door after all these years. All the forgiveness she would seek from him as she held him close and promised to never let him go and never be discontented with their lot again. All the love she would show him for the devotion he had showed her. All the ways she would tell him that he was her whole world, and their family was everything she ever needed. But Christopher would never come home the way Lucien Blake had. Jean had her husband's medals and his dog tags and the death certificate from the Army to prove it. She marched in the parades in his memory and had to live with her guilt over their argument every day, and perhaps that was the real reason she was so mad at Thomas for his behaviour; because he squandered that which she could only dream of. The magnitude of what she had lost hit Jean anew like a bolt of lightning hitting the earth and tears filled her eyes so suddenly that Thomas saw them. She let him believe she was weeping for him and his son; she did not divulge the deepest parts of her heart that she locked carefully away, the guilt she couldn't let go of no matter how often her priest told her it wasn't her fault.
"A chance to talk to him" she finished, and ignored the softening of Thomas' eyes.
They looked at each other for a long moment, Jean waiting to see if his hackles would rise or if he would hear her point – concede her ground – and take to heart what she was imploring. After a few long heartbeats he seemed to lose some fight and Jean was glad for it; Lucien was as stubborn as his father and far more volatile. She shuddered to think what the outcome would be if it was up to him to make the first move. No, the stalemate had to be broken by Thomas, or it would not be broken at all. If she could only get him to see that there needn't be any war. Lucien was here – he had travelled the world to come this far and deliver himself and Li safely into his father's arms. Thomas only had to take one miniscule step forward to bridge the gap. In Jean's estimation it was not up to Lucien to make it any easier for him; he had done enough thus far.
"He's doing his best" she said.
For reasons she didn't understand the words brought tears to Thomas' eyes, and his gaze flicked to the door with such longing that Jean could feel his heart reaching for his family. She wanted to shake him and yell at him to get his act together, but it was no good. Whether he chose to step forward would be his decision and his alone. And instead Thomas only sighed and looked at her again, a sad smile on his face.
"We all are" he said.
Thomas walked to the door, brushing past Jean on his way, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he placed his hand on her shoulder just briefly, like a conciliatory pat. But he didn't walk down the hall towards where Lucien's voice was mingling with Li's, the two of them sing-songing together in such a practiced way. Instead Thomas continued across the hall and into the clinic to sit at his desk and continue his notes on experiments that he invented to pass the time.
Jean watched him go, anger turning into resignation, and she turned her eyes heavenward before she walked out of the room and back to the kitchen. You sure are testing me, aren't you? she thought, and she wasn't sure if she was asking God or her husband. Jean imagined Christopher smirking in delight at her frustration, the way he used to smirk when the boys would come in from the yard all mucky on her floors and she'd get cross at the lot of them. It brought a smile to her face to imagine him watching down from heaven, laughing at Jean's stubborn efforts to mend this family. He would have poked fun at her and called her pigheaded and told her she was being silly, though of course he fell in love with her for the same reasons.
But Jean was determined, and it put a spring in her step as she shook off her mood and ushered herself into the bathroom to ask Lucien, if it's not too much trouble, might she join them in town on her errands.
~0~
It was very late that night, and Li was asleep across the length of the couch, her head on her father's leg, his hand softly running over her hair to sooth away the excitement of the day.
It was marvellous to go into town together. The three of them attended the post office, and then the bank to secure Lucien's new savings account and deposit the clinic cheques. They stopped by the windows of dress shops and cigarette vendors, just to watch Li's face light up at the delights found inside. And Li's eyes just about fell out of her head when, spur of the moment, Jean offered to buy them all a single ice cream cone from the place that made excellent milkshakes. She never usually indulged and it was worth it to learn that Lucien liked mint-choc-chip. They walked leisurely down the street with nowhere specific to be while they licked the cones in the warmth of almost-summer sun, and it was like they had not a care in the world. Not even curious stares from passers-by at the strange-looking child could break them from the spell. Li had been too young to remember Singapore before the war, and hadn't explored much of Melbourne in transit, so this was the first opportunity for her to truly get a sense of her new home country. And though she clutched Lucien's hand tightly in her own and said very little, Jean watched the way she soaked up the world like a sponge in a bucket – full to bursting and yet still so much around her to take in.
Lucien had been deferential to Jean the whole day and it gave them both a chance to really obverse one another. He had intended to seek out jobs at medical clinics or even the hospital, but given their company he put that off another day in favour of spending it in peace. He watched with curiosity as Jean greeted each person by name, stopped and chatted with one or two at the green grocer or the butcher, and added her own pieces of commentary to him under her breath when she saw fit. He carried half her bags for her, doing the gentlemanly thing, and she didn't fight him on it, happy to have the help. Every stop took twice as long as Jean got embroiled in one conversation or another, introducing Lucien only briefly to avoid him having to talk to very many strangers, and it amused Lucien to no end to see a woman normally so circumspect at home light up while in public company. It seemed that Jean Beazley knew just about everyone in town, or they knew her, and Lucien was starting to get the sense that aside from being an excellent housekeeper and a gentle shoulder to lean on, she was also a pillar of her community. It only raised his esteem for her, and his curiosity about her.
They were becoming close, he thought. Trusted at the very least, though there were many moments when they rubbed each other the wrong way. It had been so long since he lived alongside another person that Lucien forgot all the small and insignificant ways he could offend another without meaning to; and Jean, for all her understanding and patience, was a surprisingly feisty personality. More than once his observations of present-day Ballarat were met with a passive-aggressive retort that broke him from his own thoughts, and though she didn't stay offended for long, she made sure that he knew when she was put out. It took him aback many times, and Lucien knew without a doubt that he had only scratched the surface of her reality. Their brief intimate encounters had always been tempered by a late hour or an emotional upheaval, but exploring around town was a different beast entirely. Jean walked with her head held high and a determination in her step. She struck him as a woman forged in fire – the loss of her husband and the distance of her sons wounded her, and living in his father's house tested her pride, but still she met everyone's gaze firmly and practically dared them to say one bad thing about her company.
She was quite formidable, and Lucien could see right through her.
He had spent enough time around soldiers to recognise someone faking it until the world believed it too. He felt like an imposter himself most days, barely holding on for the sake of Li, and even then he was a wreck of the man he'd once been. Maybe that made them kindred spirits, but Lucien saw through Jean's bluster with a practiced eye and admired how well she had fooled the world into thinking she was okay when really, he knew, she was weighed down like Atlas and living carefully to avoid it all collapsing.
But he didn't question her on it. If this was the front she chose to show to survive, far be it for him to second guess her methods. His own were too varied and damaged to go throwing stones from his glass house.
All in all, their day had been quite splendid, and punctuated by a beautiful clear sky that only bolstered them up and carried with it such promise of more to come.
And now it was late in the evening, and Lucien was sitting with a glass of scotch in hand and the record player down low. Jean had disappeared somewhere with a cursory comment, and it gave Lucien a chance to look around the room at take stock. Some things hadn't changed – a few of the pictures, and a piece of furniture or two. The room was arranged differently, which he attributed to time and Jean's firm hand. There were flowers in vases and books on the shelves, including the small collection Li had taken to with vigour. There were more modern records than he remembered; Lucien wondered if it was Jean or his father who bought them. This house had been his home once, many years ago. The longer he stayed, the more he could see it becoming so again.
If only he could get over one very significant hurdle.
Lucien was pulled from his quiet contemplation by Jean's return. She reappeared behind him, her hand gently caressing his shoulder to get his attention, and he looked up and over his shoulder to watch her round the couch to stand before him.
In her hand were a stack of letters tied together with a piece of twine, and almost immediately Lucien recognised them.
"I found these once, under his bed" said Jean, holding them out to him. "He told me to pack them up in the studio. I hope I'm not being too presumptuous"
Lucien took the letters without a word, his mouth slightly agape in shock. Turning them to read the front he saw the familiar slant of his father's writing, addressing the top envelop to Lucien's old address in Singapore. In messier writing over that was Lucien's own hand saying return to sender. The letter, he knew, had never been opened. Thumbing to the next one underneath he could see another of the same fashion, from a later date, and behind that was one that arrived to Hong Kong after the war, where Lucien was briefly based while looking for Li. He shuddered to think how his father found out his whereabouts from the Army, but it was written in black and white that Thomas had done so all the same. That one was returned with an unfamiliar hand stating not at this address, and Lucien wondered what the margin of error was; he'd been in Hong Kong so briefly, how close had he been to receiving the letter? By how long had Thomas' word missed him? Would he have opened it if he'd received it?
The pile of letters was relatively small, only a half-dozen correspondence telling the story of their estrangement so plainly that Lucien's eyes teared up. He rested them on the leg not occupied by Li's head, running his hand over them reverently. He looked down to Li, her face relaxed in sleep, and couldn't help but reflect on how far they had come. She had such a delightful day; she was so happy here, and settling in quickly. So much had happened since Lucien was last in Ballarat, fighting with his father over his engagement to Mei Lin, that it felt a world away.
Lucien looked up and watched Jean as she collected her sherry glass and quietly settled into the armchair on the other side. She was giving him a minute to acknowledge her gift to him – if he even saw it as a gift. She must truly be sick of playing intermediary if she was fishing out old mementos, but Lucien could see what she was really doing; he wasn't a fool. He knew his father's stubbornness and his own anger were both wearing her down, even if he was incapable of tempering it. He knew he was quite impossible to live with, happy and eager one minute, a depressed drunk the next. Jean was doing what she could without overstepping. Lucien had no doubt – after all their conversation around town that day – that she had her own basket of opinions of the Blake men and their history, and most of them would probably be correct. But Jean was also a deferential woman who was careful not to overstep her bounds, and so by giving Lucien the letters she was only passing on Thomas' words rather than quoting her own. She didn't know what was in them any more than Lucien did, but they could only give him more information to make up his own mind, like a scientist collecting data. The more data he had the better he could work, good, bad or otherwise.
She must have known that too.
"You're a remarkable woman, Missus Beazley" said Lucien softly, his eyes piercing her.
She looked at him and met his gaze, letting the intensity of him linger for just one heartbeat before she gave him a self-deprecating smile.
"Well. I don't know about that" she said, cocking one eyebrow and taking a sip of her sherry.
"I do"
His eyes never left hers, his wonder at her evident and unashamed. She tried to demure under that look but it was no use; Lucien didn't give much deference to the way most people behaved and he was unlikely to let her off the hook so easily. He wanted her to see – wanted her to know the depth of his regard and gratitude to her. She had done so much for him and his daughter and he couldn't repay her for those kindnesses; this one went far beyond what anyone would expect and he was still floored by her. Perhaps the letters would cause more pain with nasty words, or they may provide the exact answers he was looking for, but either way Jean had forced Thomas to reach out by revisiting words he wrote long ago. She couldn't make the flesh-and-blood man stand before his son and make amends but she could make damned sure his past words were heard. At this point there was little left to lose and she hoped, after spending one perfect day in Ballarat, that Lucien wouldn't take it as his cue to leave. She hoped that he would read the letters and, regardless of what they said, he would see it was reason to stay.
There was still so much left to say, it couldn't possibly be contained in a few meagre letters. There was so much for him here.
"Perhaps they will give you some answers" she said, and didn't look away from Lucien as she sent up a silent prayer; let them be just the beginning.
