If asked to recount proposing to Jean, Lucien would chuckle and go dreamy-eyed and tell first he'd kissed her, had felt that she returned his most ardent feelings, then invited her to stroll with him in the garden, where they stood before the golden-toothed aloe plant that signified her life before coming to the Blakes, and he'd asked for her hand in marriage. With tears in her eyes, she'd replied, "Yes, oh yes, Lucien," and come into his arms again.
Jean remembered things a bit differently.
"Jean. There's something I have to ask you."
Lucien's expression was that of a boy with a secret, and although she knew what he wanted, she still responded, "Yes, Lucien?"
"Uh...yes...well...would you like to stroll in the garden? It's a beautiful morning."
Stifling a deep sigh of disappointment, Jean took his arm. "Yes, that sounds lovely."
Under her hand, his forearm quivered with pent-up energy. "So...I suppose things will get back to normal..." he stuttered.
"I don't think so," Jean said quietly.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye like a spooked horse. "No?"
"No." She bent to snip the wasted bloom from a plant with her sharp nails.
"I see," he said in the saddest voice possible. His shoulders drooped.
From her crouch, she looked up at him. His head was wreathed in sunlight. "You'll be my fiance, then my husband."
His adam's apple bobbed. "I will?"
She stood. "Yes. You're going to ask me to marry you."
"Yes I am," he said with wonder. Then fell into silence, just examining her face with his enraptured gaze.
"So..." she prompted.
"Oh! Yes! Will you marry me, Jean?"
"Of course, Lucien," she said with great satisfaction, and pulled his slack arms around her in an embrace.