8 June 1946
It had been a strange few weeks for Lucien. Waking up to Jean's embrace, the warmth of her, the softness of her, the scent of her hair every bit as lovely, as overpowering, as utterly enchanting as he recalled, had made all his attempts to keep his distance, to keep their relationship friendly and uncomplicated, a thousand times more difficult. She had been kind to him, following the night they'd spent together, had come to him that morning with a gentle look upon her face and trusted him enough to rest her head upon his shoulder, his heart singing at the contact. Perhaps she felt it, too, the subtle, seismic shifting of the ground beneath their feet. Perhaps as she felt his arms around her she had felt her own burdens lift, the way Lucien's had done. Perhaps there was a piece of her, however small, that wanted, just as he did; perhaps after everything they had shared in the last six months, after all they had learned, after they had been stripped of their illusions and forced to face one another head on, she was left with the same longing that haunted him in the long dark hours of the night.
Then again, perhaps not. Lucien had not forgotten Lily's quiet confession; she thinks we don't know about it, the little girl had told him solemnly, but I hear her crying sometimes. Whatever Jean and Lucien were to one another, Jean still grieved for her husband, and Lucien felt the sharp sting of guilt each time a day passed and he did not think of his wife. He had done his mourning for Mei Lin, had spent years wishing for her, had spent months in Melbourne cursing cruel fate for taking her from him, had come to this farm and taken his place beside Jean in the fields and slowly allowed himself to let go of his memories of his wife. Mei Lin had not been a saint, of course, their marriage no more perfect than anyone else's, but she had been his, and she was gone, and some days he rather felt that she deserved more than a husband who had already forgotten her. And yet his thoughts did not turn to her so very often, these days; He could only dimly recall the sound of her voice, having not heard it echoing in his ears for more than four years, and had it not been for the small photo of his family that had been salvaged from his things in Singapore and delivered to him in Melbourne, he would likely have forgotten her face as well. Time had dulled the sting of the pain, for he had long since learned how to live without her. It would seem that Jean, however, was still missing her husband fiercely, and Lucien did not dare intrude upon such grief unasked.
And so he waited, and worked with her, and ate his meals across the table from her, and tried to ignore the sound of his heart crying out for her.
On Saturday, as ever, he went to his father's house and, as ever, the Beazley children accompanied him while Jean set out to run her errands in town and make her confession to the priest. Lucien and Thomas were sitting together over cups of tea in his father's study, discussing the weather and what would become of the farm in winter, when Lily came tearing into the room with tears in the corners of her eyes, her brothers trailing close behind her, the three of them bringing with them a cacophony of words as they tumbled over one another, each trying to explain what had happened before one of the others could implicate them in any mischief.
Lucien was on his feet in a moment, rushing to Lily's side, trying to calm the racing of his heart as she lifted her bloodstained little hand for his inspection. His own hands trembled, as he carefully took hold of her, inspecting her wound. It was a minor injury, and indeed as Lucien led her over to the little exam table it became apparent that it was fear, more than pain, that caused her to weep so.
"It was Jack's idea-"
"No, it wasn't! Lily said-"
"They know we're not supposed to go in there, Doctor Blake-"
"It was only for a second!"
"I told you not to-"
"Boys," Thomas cut across them quickly, stilling the tumult of their explanations in a moment. "That's quite enough of that. Why don't we go into the sitting room, and then you can tell me what happened?"
The little ones hung their heads in shame but followed along docile as chastised puppies as Thomas swept from the room, leaving Lucien to tend to his young charge and the rather sizable splinter embedded in her palm. Lucien smiled down at her, blue eyes wide and bottom lip quivering as she prepared herself for the thrashing she no doubt thought was coming. Lucien had no intention of shouting at her, however; very carefully he caught her in his arms and lifted her up to sit upon the table, and once she was settled he gathered together the things he would need to remove the splinter and clean her hand.
"Do you want to tell me what happened, Lily?" he asked her kindly when he came back to her side. His heart was still racing; the sight of blood left him faintly nauseous, but Lily was fine, really, and it would be no difficult thing to patch her up. This wasn't really doctoring, as far as he was concerned; this was more the work of a father than a surgeon, and he had rather a lot of experience at tending to frightened little girls and all their scrapes and bruises.
"It's my fault," she wailed. "Jack said we should go into the sunroom and Christopher said we shouldn't but I wanted to see the flowers and then we went and we were playing but I fell and my hand scraped the table-"
"It's all right," Lucien shushed her as her voice grew ever more shrill and distressed. "You aren't in trouble, Lily. And this will be over in a tick, you'll see."
She was still shaking like a leaf, but she watched, fascinated as Lucien explained to her exactly what he was doing, as he extracted the sliver from the old wooden table and then cleaned the cut before applying a plaster. He had suggested to her once that she might become a nurse, and her interest in the proceedings gave him hope that perhaps that was not such an unlikely goal for her; very few children, in his experience, enjoyed spending time on a doctor's table surrounded by medical equipment, but Lily seemed enthralled by the whole experience.
"There we are," Lucien said, dropping a kiss against her plaster for good measure. "Good as new. And you won't go in the sunroom again, will you?"
"I won't, Lucien, I promise," she vowed, and with those word she jumped down from the table and rushed out to join her brothers, Lucien turning to watch her with a fond smile on his face. He stopped short at the sight of his father leaning in the doorway, however. There was a troubled expression on Thomas Blake's face, and the anxiety Lucien had only just managed to quell returned in full force as he wondered what could possibly concern his father so. In silence Thomas closed the door behind Lily, leaving the pair of them alone in the surgery, facing off for what purpose Lucien could not say.
"I have to ask you, son," Thomas said at last, his voice heavy, full of sorrow.
What on earth? Lucien wondered, staring at his father in silent apprehension. They had been enjoying a rather pleasant morning together before this interruption, their conversation of no particular consequence, and Lucien could not imagine that the boys would have revealed anything damning enough to cause his father such distress. What could have transpired, in the last five minutes, to account for the sudden tension in the room, the weary set of his father's shoulders?
"Is that girl your daughter?"
Lucien actually laughed out loud. He couldn't stop himself; he was so taken aback by the question and the sheer ridiculousness of it that his own incredulity won out over prudence. The thought had never even occurred to him, and he couldn't see why it would; Jean had married her Christopher, had borne him three children, loved her little family so fiercely. If he'd left her in strife he was certain he would have known, and equally certain that Christopher would not have taken her to wife. What sort of man would do that, wed a woman with another man's baby in her belly? And besides, if Lily were his, surely Jean would have told him by now, or else sent him running to stop him finding out the truth. No, he adored Lily, but she was not his flesh and blood, and he told his father so.
"Of course not," he scoffed.
Thomas appeared unconvinced. "There are no secrets in a town like Ballarat, Lucien," he said seriously. "I may not have been her doctor but everyone knows that Jean was already in the family way when she married Christopher. It was only a few months between the wedding and Lily's delivery. And it wasn't so very long after you left. Can you be certain?"
Lucien shifted uncomfortably on his feet, a heavy sense of doubt settling in his gut. He knew what his father was so cautiously trying to ask him; can you swear to me that you did not take that girl's virtue? Can you swear to me that you never once lay with her? And if you cannot, how can you say for certain the child is not yours?
The truth was Lucien had tumbled with Jean, many times, before his father cast him out, before he went off to Melbourne in search of a new life for himself. That had been January, he recalled; it was a warm night, not long after Christmas. Lily had told him, only a few days before, that her birthday was coming up in September, excited as she was at the prospect of presents, having already decided what sort of cake she would like to have to mark the occasion; rather quickly he did a bit of math, and felt his face run pale as his father looked on, stricken.
"She isn't mine," he insisted feebly, knowing his father did not believe him for a moment and yet trying, with all his might, to preserve Jean's honor. It was possible, he supposed, given the timing of it, and wasn't that strange, that he had never dared even hope for such a thing until his father mentioned it? It was just as likely that Jean went running straight into Christopher's arms, believing that Lucien had jilted her, and they had been terribly unlucky from the very start. Lucien did not know which answer was more troubling, that he had left Jean alone and pregnant and desperate, or that Jean had been able to so quickly transfer her affections to another man. To his mind both solutions spoke to failings of his own character, meant that either he had been too weak to do what it took to claim Jean for his own, or that he had not been man enough to sway her heart for more than a week or two.
"Perhaps it's best," Thomas said slowly, "if we all behave as if I believe you."
And that was that; Thomas turned from the room, and did not speak another word about it.
Later that night, however, after a subdued supper and a quiet drink with Jean, after the children had gone to sleep and Jean had sought her own bed, Lucien sat upon the sofa, his hands clenched in fists atop his knees, and tried to sort through the tumult of his emotions. Lily was a charming girl, dear to his heart, though he was equally fond of her brothers and would not have anyone say that he favored one of the three more highly than the others. His affection for Lily stemmed in no small part from the joy of having a little girl around when his own daughter was so far away from him, he knew, but he had come to care for her just as she was, for all the little ways she reminded him of Jean, for all the little ways she had shown herself to be her own person already, headstrong and curious. How would things change, if she truly were his?
He did not think he could care for her more than he did already, for in truth he looked after all the Beazley children as if they were his own, felt a fierce desire to comfort them, to protect them, all three. And even if she were his flesh and blood, it was Christopher Beazley who had raised her, whom she had called dad, whom she had loved as a child loves her father, and he could not, would not dare to presume to disregard the role that man had played in her life.
And then it struck him, quite suddenly, and he buried his face in his hands as if he could somehow hide from his own damnation. If Lucien truly were Lily's father, he owed Christopher a debt beyond measure. Christopher had taken care of Jean, that girl Lucien had loved so fiercely and yet abandoned, and he had taken care of Lily, and apparently never once complained or slighted her on account of her parentage. That brave young man who had died holding Lucien's hand, who had perished while Lucien still soldiered on; Lucien had been the one to bring news of his death to Jean's door, Lucien had been the one who failed to save him, who had turned up one fine summer evening and torn this family to pieces. Perhaps it was not his fault that Christopher had died, but he carried the weight of that guilt just the same. He had told himself at the time there was nothing more to be done, and though the pragmatic voice in his head told him it was true, his heart still cried out, wondering if something, anything could have saved Sergeant Beazley, could have spared his children this pain. Christopher Beazley had been all the things that Lucien was not, kind and good and strong enough to defend this family, to provide for them, while Lucien had run away. Not for the first time he found himself cursing fate, thinking how cruel it was that he survived while Christopher was gone, that there was still a chance, however slim, that Li might one day be reunited with him while Lily would never again feel the warmth of her father's arms around her. Even if she was his flesh and blood, he could not call himself her father, not when he had been so long away from her, when he had formed another family all his own and left her behind.
And Jean, oh Jean; he nearly began to weep as he thought of her. He could not imagine how difficult it must have been for her, if it were true, how scared she must have been, how desperate. Barely nineteen, her father cruel and strict, her mother's health failing, everyone in town looking down their noses at her already for her shabby clothes and her worn out shoes and her undesirable surname. It was a blessing that she had loved her Christopher so deeply, that he had been more than a soft place to land, that she had given him her heart, all of herself, but still, Lucien could not banish the thought of her, that girl she had been, wild and hungry and eager to see the world, to be anywhere but Ballarat, forced to abandon her dreams and wed Christopher in a hurry because of Lucien's own carelessness. If Lily was his, then he had stolen her mother's future, had left her trapped in poverty and deprivation, widowed and alone. It did not matter that he had loved her once, that he might love her still, if that love had doomed her.
If, if, if. For in truth he did not know, for a certainty, that this calamity had been of his own making. The only way to know for sure, he supposed, would be to ask Jean outright, but he would not dare do such a thing. Jean had built this family with her own blood, sweat, and tears, had sheltered those children in the warmth and quiet of her own body, had brought them forth in strife and pain, had shared her bed with Christopher, had worked her fingers to the bone to keep food on the table, and in the end he supposed it did not matter, truly, who Lily's father was. Jean was Lily's mother, and if she wanted the girl to believe that Christopher was her father than Lucien would not question her. He would have to carry this burden in secret, his heart breaking each time he looked at Lily, each time he wondered what if. He owed it to Jean to keep his silence, and for her sake he would, though his very soul cried out in anguish.