23 November 1960

There is always a reason, she'd told him, and the heaviness in her voice had conveyed within it a world of meaning he was loath to contemplate. She blamed herself, he realized, for the child she had lost. It was horrible, to think of Jean as she had been, impossibly young, and lovely, and besieged by such a guilt. Had they talked about it, she and Christopher? Had they reached this conclusion together? Or had Christopher done as Lucien intended to do now, held his wife close and whispered to her, over and over, how it wasn't her fault, how nothing could be done? Jean had lived this whole life he knew nothing about, carried within her so many stories he had never heard, so many private scars she had never shown to anyone else. She was showing him now, though, and he was trying his best to show her in turn the same patience and understanding she had showered upon him.

"Jean-" he started to say, started to tell her again you did nothing wrong, but she cut him off before he could utter another word.

"It was my fault, Lucien," she said with such conviction that it tore at his heart. "Our fault. We sinned against God, and we were punished for that sin."

Lucien had been himself so long away from the church that he had almost forgotten the power of it, the warmth of its reassurances, the sting of its reprisals. He had almost forgotten how it felt to follow such a faith, to believe so wholeheartedly in that system of things. If there was a god, that god had abandoned Lucien Blake decades before while he languished starving and abused in the camp, or at least that was the way Lucien saw it, and Lucien had formed for himself a new worldview, one which did not hold so strongly to the church's law. Jean, though, Jean's heart was so very different from his own. I've been waiting, she'd told him, and when those words passed her lips he had assumed that she felt that she had done something wrong, had in some way caused that tragedy to happen, but he had not realized until this moment just what that meant. As Jean saw it, the loss of her child was a direct result of her own misdeeds, and Lucien, ignorant of her history, had gone and placed her in this exact same position once again.

It was his turn to feel guilty, then, to think on how he had pushed her so far beyond her boundaries, how in his eagerness to have her he had encouraged her to commit a sin she feared so deeply. Of course, Jean had offered no word of complaint at the time, had not tried to stop him, not even for an instant, had begged him to continue, as hungry and desperate as he. But perhaps she had thought herself beyond such concerns, now that she was so firmly established in her middle age, now that the heady days of her youth were so far behind her. It didn't matter now, he supposed, what they had been thinking or why they had done it; the thing was done, and the time had come for them to face it.

He needed to say something, he realized. Perhaps his words would not carry much weight with her, given that she knew he was not a believer himself, given that she knew he harbored a certain amount of disdain for the church that formed the foundation of her very life, but he could not let this moment pass, could not let her go on believing that the trial she had endured was one of her own making.

Carefully Lucien turned her, rolled her beneath him, rose up above her so that he could at last look into her face, now that his eyes were accustomed to the darkness. There was sorrow in her gaze, but her expression seemed somehow peaceful, as if having finally spoken her fears aloud she had laid them to rest. For all that she seemed comfortable here with him, however, Lucien knew his wife, and he knew that there was more she needed of him, whether she could find the words to ask for it or not.

"You were very young, Jean," he said slowly. "And it is an awful tragedy. But I can't imagine even for a moment that God did this to you, that you caused it to happen."

Jean smiled sadly as she lay beneath him, still so beautiful despite the weight of her confession. "Christopher was like you," she told him, her eyes seeming very far away in that moment as she recalled the man who had been her husband, as the vile beast of jealousy began to roar in Lucien's chest, to think of how well Christopher had known her, when Lucien himself was still learning. "He said it was just the course of nature, but that never sat right with me. No one could tell me why. And if it was natural, I thought, surely someone could answer me."

That question - why - was one that had plagued Lucien all his life. He had studied so much, learned so much, read so much, and though he had found a good many answers, he had also discovered that no one, not even a doctor, could unravel all the mysteries of a human life.

"So I prayed. I asked God if he had taken her from me. I asked him if I was forgiven for my sin. I prayed, and I asked him to send me a sign that I had paid my penance. And he sent me young Christopher. That was when I knew. Do you know the story of the rainbow, Lucien?"

It seemed a bit of a non sequitur, to his mind, and so he only shook his head, shifting uneasily as he hovered over her, wanting to touch her and yet holding himself back, wanting to give her the chance to tell her story in full.

"God sent the rainbow to Noah, as a sign that he would not ever strike against the world with flood again. A sign that humanity could be redeemed, that there was still hope. Young Christopher was my rainbow, you see. My sign that I had been forgiven. I prayed for that sign, and he gave it to me. I will never have a daughter, but I have my boys. And this one now, too. I wasn't sure, before, but it's been so long now, and he seems to be doing well, and I think…" her voice trailed off, and she gave a great sigh. "I think we're going to be all right."

She was a marvel, his Jean. Brilliant and clever, she often saw connections that Lucien missed entirely, often provided the one piece of information he needed most in order to solve whatever riddle plagued him. And now she had once more stunned him with the labyrinthine twistings and turnings of her mind, how she had joined her beliefs and the harsh realities of her world to find an answer all her own. They were so very different, the pair of them, looked at the world through such different eyes, but he loved her for everything she was. He might not have shared in her superstitions, but he respected her too much to dismiss her concerns now. It did not matter what he believed, he realized slowly; all that mattered was that Jean believed it. Perhaps it was not the answer Lucien wanted, perhaps not one he ever would have reached on his own, but it was hers, and it seemed she drew some comfort from it. If Noah's rainbow meant that the world would never again be drowned in a flood, he could only hope that Jean's meant she would never have to suffer such a devastating loss a second time. Whatever he said next, he knew he must choose his words carefully, for his wife had gone out a limb, had trusted him with the deepest parts of herself, and he was grateful for that trust.

"I don't think you did anything wrong, Jean," he told her. "And I don't think less of you now that you've told me. I'm glad you've told me. I don't like the thought of you worrying all alone."

She smiled at him softly, raised her hand to press her palm against his cheek, trace the line of his beard with her thumb, the way she so often did.

"I love you," she said. "I'm sorry it took me so long to tell you the truth."

Lucien turned his head and gently kissed her palm. "Well, you've told me now, and I'm so glad that you did. I love you, my darling."

No other words would come to him, in that moment. She had given him so much to think about, this beautiful love of his; oh, he did not fault her for what she had done in the past, did not think any less of her now that he knew the circumstances of her first marriage. In fact, if it were not for the grief her first pregnancy had brought her he might well have teased her gently about it, his virtuous Jean. As it was he knew he would do no such thing, would instead treat her as kindly as he was able. He bowed his head, brushed his lips against hers softly, reverently, thinking only how he loved her, how he wished he could take these worries from her, lay her fears to rest. She seemed happier now that she had told him than she had been for months, and he prayed that this would be the end of her sorrows, at least where the baby was concerned. After all, she seemed to have some hope, now, that she had not had in the beginning. And Lucien was content to let her go on thinking their child was a boy, if that thought brought her peace. As for himself, he had never been more certain that their baby would be a girl than he was in that moment. Jean's girl, at last, safe and in her arms; Jean might have resigned herself to thinking it would never happen, but there was nothing Lucien wanted more.


With Lucien's arms around her Jean had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep; the anxious knot of worry she had carried in the pit of her stomach for so long now seemed to have eased at last, and she felt lighter for having made her confession. Lucien did not agree with her interpretation of things, she knew, but he had not been dismissive, had not called her a fool. He had listened to her, with patience and love, had whispered warm words of comfort in her ear, and she had taken such solace in them. It seemed a bit silly, now, that she had waited so long to tell him, but the words had come to her at last, and all she felt now was relief.

It was very early the next morning when the sound of his voice pulled her up from sleep; she did not immediately move, choosing instead to soak in the gentle words he spoke, trying to discern their meaning, trying to clear the fog from her mind.

"Mummy is sleeping, just now," Lucien was saying, and she had to struggle to contain the smile that threatened to burst forth from her lips as she realized what was happening. At that moment Jean was lying on her back, and her husband had draped himself across her, was lying with his ear pressed to the curve of her belly, his hand cradling her gently as he spoke to their child.

"She had a very hard day, yesterday, and I think we should let her rest," he continued.

What a dear, sweet man he was, this love of hers. For the first time in days Jean felt no fear at all, no guilt, no worry; all she felt in that moment, listening to her husband speaking to their child, was love.

"She's the best woman in the whole world, your mummy."

Jean was fairly certain that was not even remotely true, but it touched her heart to hear Lucien say such a thing. She might not have believed it, but he did, and she loved him for it.

"Things have not been very easy for her," he continued, and Jean frowned despite herself. There were some things, she thought, that their baby did not need to know about his mother. "But she loves you so much. I know she can't wait to meet you."

That much was true; though Jean very much wanted little Blake to stay right where he was for the next several months she could not deny that she was very much looking forward to holding him in her arms, cradling him close, feeling the beat of his tiny heart beneath her fingertips.

"And I could not be happier," Lucien said. His voice was thick with emotion, and Jean felt the sting of tears in the corners of her own eyes, to hear him express himself so plainly. Whatever her own feelings, Lucien had been from the very first eager and delighted, and it was his joy, his optimism, that had carried her through her darker moments.

"You have two brothers, and a sister. And one day we'll tell you all about them, and you'll get to meet them, and they'll love you, too. Even Jack."

Oh, Jack, Jean thought sadly. She still had not heard a word from her wayward son, and if young Christopher had received any news of his brother he had not shared it with his mother.

"I just...oh, you were very unexpected, little one. And now I am so glad that you're here. I love you, very much, already."

It was the softness of his tone that forced her hand, more than anything else. This man, powerful and brave and strong, a soldier, a fighter, possessed such a gentle heart, and Jean loved him so completely she could not remain still a moment longer. Carefully she reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, opening her eyes at last to find him watching her over the rise of her belly, his eyes warm and full of love.

"Good morning, my darling," he whispered, his own eyes fluttering closed in contentment as still Jean's fingers threaded softly through his hair, brushed against his scalp in the way she knew he liked.

"Good morning, my love," she answered.

It was a good morning, she decided then. Jean had laid her burdens at his feet and he had accepted her without reservation, had been kind and so full of understanding. There was no challenge so great they could not overcome it, so long as they stood together, and in this moment Jean felt closer to him than she ever had before.

"Come here," she urged him, tugging gently on his soft blonde curls.

Lucien grinned, quick and bright, and pressed a kiss against her belly before he scrambled up to kiss her lips instead. Jean wrapped her arms around him, held him tight, and gave thanks to God for this family, this love, this blessing.