5 November 1960
"This was a lovely suggestion, Jean. Thank you for inviting me," Alice said as they lingered over cups of tea and the crumbs of their meal.
"Thank you for indulging me," Jean answered with a smile.
The idea had come to her on a whim, to invite Alice out for lunch. Though they shared meals now and again during the week, usually it was either a sandwich eaten in a hurry in the morgue, or a meal at home, with Lucien and Charlie underfoot. Jean treasured the opportunity to spend time with a friend; oh, she loved Lucien, and Charlie was nearly as dear to her as her own sons, but sometimes she just wanted the company of another woman, even one as strange and occasionally awkward as Alice. The restaurant Jean had chosen was a new cafe, one she'd been meaning to try, and the food and the company had been very much to her liking.
"I'm afraid I don't do this sort of thing very often," Alice said without a trace of shame or self-deprecation. It was a statement of fact, from a woman who was well aware that she lived her life on the very outskirts of propriety, and could not have cared less. Alice did what she pleased, as and when she wanted, and the knowledge that she had chosen to do something so out of character simply because Jean had asked made their time together that much more precious to Jean.
"I imagine that you don't get much of an opportunity to make friends at the hospital."
It was an observation Jean had made privately months before, as she spent more and more time with Alice at her place of work; there was hardly ever anyone else in the morgue save for Lucien, and when they roamed the upper levels of the hospital the doctors and the nurses all gave Alice a very wide berth.
"People can be very superstitious," Alice said with a shrug. "The very idea of the work I do is upsetting to a lot of them." She offered Jean a gentle smile. "But not to you."
Jean laughed. "Oh, I got used to talking about murder at the dinner table years ago."
Which was not to say that she always enjoyed it; sometimes helping Lucien with his work could be fun, a bit of role play, a bit of riddle-solving, piecing together a puzzle, but sometimes the truth of what they were discussing would hit home, and Jean would be left with an aching heart, thinking of all the families that had been broken in half by violence and grief. She knew what that was like, to lose a loved one too soon, and she did not wish such pain on anyone else. Perhaps that was why she did not balk at her husband's chosen profession, or Alice's; the two of them brought justice to the dead and solace to the living, and there was honor in that work.
"This was a very nice way to pass the time," Alice said after a moment. "I don't suppose you'll have much opportunity, once this little one gets here."
Again, there was no hidden agenda behind Alice's words; she was not fishing for information about Jean's plans or her emotions as regarded the impending arrival of little Blake, was only making an observation. That was what Alice did, after all, make observations, draw connections; her inquisitive mind was a vital tool to aid in her work. Jean smiled a soft, fond sort of smile, laying one hand flat on the curve of her belly beneath the generous fabric of her green dress.
"Maybe not, for the first few months. But once he's a little bit bigger I think I'll be able to take him out with me sometimes. I will have to introduce him to his Auntie Alice."
Alice's eyes went wide, as if she had never considered before this moment that Jean might regard her so fondly or wish for such closeness between Doctor Harvey and her family, but before she could say another word the sound of voices drifted over from a nearby table.
"Honestly, if I were her I wouldn't be able to show my face in public." The speaker was a woman, and Jean's face went white as a sheet as she realized just who was talking. It was Mary Ann Douglas, a fine, somewhat snobbish lady Jean had known most of her life. They'd grown up together, attending the same school and the same church from the time they were children, though Mary Ann had been born into a rich family and married into a richer one, and had always looked down on Jean and her handmade dresses. In point of fact, Mary Ann had made Jean's life miserable, when she had first fallen pregnant as a teenager, had taken glee in telling anyone who would listen about Jean's transgression, the way she'd trapped Christopher into marriage. For the last few weeks Jean had felt Mary Ann's judgmental gaze heavy on her back as they sat for Mass each Sunday, and though Jean had only heard a snippet of the conversation she had no doubt who Mary Ann was talking about now.
"She's done this twice now, can you believe it? I suppose some people never change. She's as coarse and common as ever," Mary Ann continued.
Alice had been watching Jean, and listening just as hard, and her eyes narrowed as her gaze flicked from Jean's anguished face to the table behind them where Mary Ann was entertaining her friends with this little diatribe. It was clear that Alice, too, had drawn her own conclusions about the topic of conversation, and Jean's heart sank, wishing she could simply disappear. Still she sat, silent and straight-backed, one hand still pressed to her belly as if to protect little Blake from the awful things Mrs. Douglas was saying about his mother.
"Though I daresay she's done much better for herself this time. All that money and that house and the Blake name, and all she had to do to get it was spread her legs. I just hope for her sake things go better for her this time."
Tears sprung to Jean's eyes, the pounding of her heart so loud she could not make out the words as one of Mary Ann's companions asked her a question. Jean wanted to scream, to turn around and throw her tea right in Mary Ann Douglas's smug face, wanted to be cool and calm, to clear her throat and raise an accusatory eyebrow, wanted to stand up and run from the cafe, wanted to march out the door with her back straight and as much dignity as she could muster, wanted so many things she could hardly fathom which course to take, and so she remained frozen to the spot, the old guilt washing over her, dragging her under a tide she could not swim against.
"Oh, didn't you know?" Mary Ann answered her friend. "She lost the baby, the first time around. Too bad, really, because she was stuck with Christopher by then. Maybe she'll be luckier this time, but at her age, I mean, really-"
"Right, that's enough of that," Alice said darkly, drowning out the rest of Mary Ann's invective. "Jean, get your things."
Somewhat numbly Jean rose to her feet and gathered her handbag, smoothing out the front of her dress over the undeniable swell of her stomach. She wanted to turn to the ladies at the table behind her and be clever or cutting, but the truth was that Mary Ann had touched on the very thing Jean feared more than any other, and she was so overwhelmed in that moment she could do no more than follow Alice's orders in silence.
With a hand at the small of Jean's back Alice began to guide her towards the door, but she slowed for a moment as they neared the table where Jean's nemesis sat primly sipping a cup of tea. To her horror Jean realized that Alice meant to say something to Mary Ann, and as she spared a quick glance at the table she also saw that one of the ladies sitting there listening was her friend Nancy from the sewing circle. Nancy had been rather cool to her the last time they'd met, though Emily and Evelyn had remained as kind and lovely as ever, and now Jean knew the reason why. Sorrow struck her then, as she realized she had lost another friend.
"So much for Christian charity," Alice said in a dangerous sort of voice. "Some people would do better to look after their own affairs instead of meddling into others. Or have you forgotten, Mrs. Douglas, about the very discreet man I recommended to you in Melbourne? The one who took care of your little problem?" Now it was Mary Ann who turned pale and frightened looking, but Alice just lifted her chin. "Good afternoon, ladies," she said coolly, and then she was urging Jean forward again.
They did not speak again until they reached the pavement, walking quickly towards Jean's home while her hands trembled and her thoughts ran riot. Before this moment Jean had hoped that enough time had passed, that perhaps no one remembered the circumstances of her first marriage, but now she saw just how very wrong she had been. Mary Ann had been right; how could she possibly show her face in public, walk around with everyone knowing that she was too far gone to have fallen pregnant on her wedding night, that this baby she carried was not a source of joy but of shame? How could she have dared to sit there smiling with her hand on her belly as if nothing were amiss?
I've brought this on myself, she thought bleakly.
"Honestly, the nerve of that woman," Alice huffed. "Are you all right, Jean?"
Jean could not speak; it took every ounce of strength she possessed to keep from bursting into tears right there on the pavement. She only walked, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and lifting her chin, trying with all her might to hold herself together, just for the time it would take to walk back home.
"You mustn't listen to her," Alice told her sternly as they walked along. "It's none of her business. Lucien loves you, Jean, you know he does. That's a wonderful gift and you shouldn't let a miserable old harpy like her ruin this for you."
"She's right," Jean said, the words escaping her in a single gasping breath. "I should have known better, and now…"
Now I am going to reap what I have sewn. God help me.
"You're going to be fine," Alice said. "The baby is going to be fine. Whatever happened before...it wasn't your fault, Jean."
Jean froze midstep, turning to look at Alice in horror as she realized just what Alice meant, the importance of what she'd overheard. Alice knew, now, that Jean had fallen pregnant before her first marriage, that she had lost that baby, and Alice knew, now, the single biggest fear Jean carried in her heart. There was nothing but compassion in Doctor Harvey's face, however.
"What if it was?" Jean asked in a small, miserable voice.
"It wasn't," Alice said firmly, and then they were moving again.
They came through the house in silence, but the sharp sound of his wife's footsteps bypassing the sitting room where he perched on the sofa and the slamming of their bedroom sounded loud as thunder through the house. Lucien was on his feet in a moment; it wasn't like Jean to ignore him so completely, or take to their bedroom in the middle of the day. In the corridor he found Alice wringing her hands with a worried expression on her face.
"Lucien," she said as he approached. "I'm afraid there was a bit of an incident at lunch. Not me," she added quickly, and he berated himself for letting his suspicions show on his face. He should have known better than to suspect, even for a moment, that it could have been Alice who put Jean in such a foul mood. "There were some other ladies there, and they said some rather hateful things about Jean. She's taken it quite hard, I think."
Lucien's shoulders sagged, and he reached up to run a weary hand across his face. In a way he supposed it was a miracle that it had taken this long for someone to say something offensive about Jean's condition, but the very idea that anyone could think such uncharitable thoughts about Jean of all people, Jean who was the kindest, gentlest, best woman he had ever known, turned his stomach.
"Thank you, Alice," he said heavily. "I'll just-" he gestured vaguely towards the bedroom door, and Alice smiled, somewhat sadly.
"I'll show myself out," she said, and then she was gone, and Lucien was squaring his shoulders, preparing himself to go and face his wife.
He opened the door with some trepidation, approaching her slowly, somewhat uncertain as to how best to deal with the situation, wondering what he could possibly say to set her mind at rest. She was sitting on the little bench in front of her dressing table; her shoes were discarded in an uncharacteristically untidy heap by the front door, her dress in a pile at the end of the bed, and she was at that very moment in the process of plucking the pins from her hair. There were tears coursing silently down her cheeks, and he followed their progress in the clear reflection of the mirror, his heart aching to think of his beloved Jean in such turmoil.
"I'm fine," Jean said defensively as she caught sight of him in the mirror, but the tremor in her voice gave evidence of the lie. Still Lucien continued, until he could rest his hands on her shoulders, could feel the warmth of her skin and the cool silk of her chemise beneath his palms.
"You can talk to me about it, darling," he said in a soft voice, trying very hard to comfort her, not to upset her even more. "Alice said there were some women at the cafe-"
"Did she tell you what they said?" Jean whirled around to face him at once, though she was somewhat slower rising to her feet than she ordinarily would have been. Her eyes were a bit wild round the edges, and Lucien wished more than anything in that moment that he could take this burden from her, shoulder all her cares so that she would never have to feel so lost.
"No," he answered quickly, and some of the tension left her. She remained on her feet, plucking the last of the pins of her hair so that her curls fell in a gentle wave all around her face. For a moment he simply looked at her, wondering how it was possible that she could still be so beautiful, when her face was ravaged by weeping, when she stood before him in nothing but her undergarments, the curve of her breast and the swell of her belly pulling the fabric taut in all the places where he longed to touch her.
"What did they say, my darling?"
It was apparent Jean wasn't going to tell him of her own accord, and though he knew she did not respond well to such prodding Lucien felt it was very important for them to face this together, as they had faced his own troubles earlier in the week. But still she did not answer him, only stood there with her lips in a tight line and her hands trembling, and so Lucien reached out and drew her into his embrace. She went with him willingly, her hands fisting in his shirt, her head coming to rest just under his chin. For a moment he simply held her, tried to show her by the gentle touch of his hands against her back, the strength of his arms, the steadiness of his presence that he would be there for her, no matter what came next. When still she did not speak, however, he turned them both, and led her toward the bed.
"Here," he said. With one hand on her hip he held her close to him and with the other he pulled back the duvet, and then they were sliding into bed together, despite the bright afternoon sunshine streaming in through the open curtains on the windows. They rolled together, lying on their sides with Jean's head pillowed on his bicep, her belly and the child she carried within it nestled in between them.
"She said I'd done it on purpose," Jean said in a small voice. "She thinks I trapped you, that I'm just after your money."
Lucien laughed; he couldn't help it. He'd never heard a more preposterous thing in all his life. In his arms Jean tensed, however, and so he kissed her forehead, and sought to correct his error at once.
"She's a fool," he told her firmly. "I love you, Jean. You have saved my life. And I love this little one, too, already."
He reached down to stroke his hand across her belly, while Jean's breath caught in her throat and she buried her face in the crook of his arm, hiding herself from view.
"I do love you, Lucien," she whispered against his skin. "I couldn't bear it, if you thought…"
"Never," he answered fiercely.
She sighed, and so Lucien deftly rolled her beneath him, catching her lips in a gentle kiss. "I love you," he breathed. "And you love me. And that is all that matters."
He knelt above her, kissing her softly, lightly, teasing her, trying to draw her into this moment with him as his hands glided along her legs. Though he could feel the tears still damp on her cheeks she kissed him back, and he heard her gasp as his hands slipped beneath her chemise and curled around her thighs. For a moment he simply held her, stroked his fingertips along the sensitive skin at her inner thighs, but then her breathing grew ragged and he continued his progress. With deft hands he drew her chemise up and off, tossed it to the side so that she was left in knickers and a bra, her soft skin pale and glowing as he looked down on her adoringly.
"I know that we've gone about things in an unconventional way," he said as he brought his palm to rest against the curve of her belly. "But I wouldn't change it, not for anything. You have made me happier than I ever been in all my life, and I love you, and nothing anyone says will ever change that."
He sealed his promise with a kiss to her skin just above her belly button, and lingered there, thinking about their child, this wondrous gift that one day soon would come screaming into the world. Though he had his doubts about his own suitability as a father he knew that Jean was already the best mother he could have ever wished for his child, was strong and fiercely protective of those she loved, was gentle and kind and brave, possessed of so many sterling qualities he could hardly list them all. At night when the ghosts of his past haunted him and kept him awake he turned his thoughts toward his wife as she slept in his arms, picturing her holding their daughter, singing songs and playing gentle games, imagined a little girl with hair the color of her mother's, with Jean's bright, sparkling eyes, her brilliant smile. He thought of their daughter, thought of them raising her together, growing old together and spending every night in this bed with his arms full of Jean, and the grief that had tormented him for so very long began to recede. There was no dream more beautiful than the life he led.
Jean had been rather quiet, while his thoughts wandered, but after a time she tangled her fingers in his hair and urged him to raise his head, to look into her eyes. There was grief in her still, the wounds caused by the words she'd heard that afternoon still cracked and bleeding, but there was such trust, such affection in her gaze that he had no choice but to slide back up her body, to answer her silent plea and capture her lips with his own.
And so they remained until supper time, curled up together in their bed, talking quietly to one another and leaving the darkness of the world beyond their door to keep for another day.