24 December 1946
Lucien paced round and round the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea, his thoughts racing. It was early yet; the sun had not risen, the house was all in darkness, and his father and daughter still slept, utterly oblivious to the turmoil that gripped him.
The arrangements had all been made for Lucien's first Christmas back home in Ballarat. Between them Jean and Thomas had shouted down every one of Lucien's objections, had cajoled and insisted and prodded him until he was left with no choice but to agree to attend midnight mass. Dinner first, Jean and her children and Thomas and Lucien and Li all gathered around one table, and then the children would each be permitted to open one present apiece before they ventured off to Sacred Heart. And then they would return to Thomas's house, all of them, to spend the night, and celebrate Christmas together come morning. While Lucien could have happily forgone the jaunt to church he was delighted at the prospect of having all of them under one roof; he would never confess it to Jean, but he looked upon this Christmas Eve as a trial run of sorts, a test to see how well they would fare, all of them together.
Though Jean had at last confessed her love of him, had agreed, in her own way, to join their lives together, Lucien had not yet properly proposed. He wanted her, with everything he had, wanted their family whole and well, wanted to call her wife, wanted to fall asleep with his arms around her every night, but he firmly believed that Jean deserved more from him than an impulsive, casual proposal. She deserved romance and beauty and joy and love, and with that thought in mind he had done the impossible, and restrained his wild heart for a full month. A month of Sunday lunches and Wednesday dinners and Saturdays spent lounging indolently on the grass in her garden, discreetly holding her hand while their children played together. A month of resigning himself to kisses, when he wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and carry her off to the nearest bed. A month of shy smiles, and stuttering pleasantries, a month of anxious joy, as she whispered her love to him softly when he left her in the evenings, as he turned over and over in his mind the words that he would say, when at last he asked her to be his wife, as he had wanted to do since he was twenty-four years old. He was thirty-seven, now, and through with waiting.
Today was the day, he'd decided; Jean loved Christmas, the lights and the food and the joy and the singing, and it had been the Christmas season when they'd first met, when he had quite literally stumbled across her as she left the church following a rehearsal of the Christmas program. The date had been fixed in his mind for a month, but now that it was finally upon him, he found himself beset by nerves. Oh, he knew that she would accept him, however he asked, knew now that she loved him, as he loved her, that they were united in their dreams for their family's future, but still, the worry lingered. He wasn't entirely sure that he deserved someone as good and lovely and kind as Jean, that he deserved a life as gentle and warm as the one they longed for, but now that it seemed everything he wanted was within his reach he could not help but fear it was all about to be snatched away.
Thus ran the course of his thoughts that early morning, until his solitude was shattered by the telltale sound of his father's cane upon the floor.
"Lucien," Thomas said gruffly as he made his way into the kitchen. "It's a bit early for you, isn't it, son?"
Lucien smiled wanly at the old man. Strange, how the winding road of his life had brought him back to this point, this moment so like the one so many years before, when everything had changed. Back then Thomas had been hard and unyielding, and now he was somehow tamed. It was hard to believe, really, that the father who had spurned him, thrown him out for daring to keep company with the wrong sort of girl, was now wholeheartedly encouraging Lucien to pursue that very same woman, to move her and her children into their house, to unite their families forever. Perhaps the winding path of Thomas's life had been just as strange, just as shattering, as Lucien's own.
"Couldn't sleep," he confessed.
Thomas was standing with his back to Lucien, pouring himself a cup of tea, but even so when he spoke Lucien fancied he could almost hear the old man's wry smile.
"No," he said, "I imagine you couldn't."
Thomas had of necessity been brought in on Lucien's plan; it had been Lucien's intention, the first time he decided to ask Jean to marry him, that he would present her with his mother's ring, and he remained firm in his conviction that this would be the proper course. Obtaining the ring required Thomas's assistance, and so Lucien had unburdened himself to his father, who had been only too happy to pass the heirloom over to his son.
It was my mother's ring as well, you know, Thomas had told him. Well, it was her diamond. I had it placed in a new setting for Genevieve. She would have loved Jean, you know. She would have been so proud of you.
Even now, weeks later, just the memory of those words warmed Lucien's heart, eased some of the tension that bound his body on this momentous day. He missed his mother dearly, grieved for the time they had lost, all the opportunities that had been denied them, but he liked to think that his father was right, that his beautiful, brilliant, tempestuous mother would have adored Jean. If there was a heaven, he was certain that Genevieve Blake was there, and he hoped that she was smiling down upon her son today.
"While we're on the subject," Thomas said, taking a seat at the table. "I have something for you."
He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a small, black-velvet covered box, placing it gently on the tabletop.
Lucien's breath caught in his throat, the weight of the moment settling heavily upon him. This was it, he realized, another of those moments when the road branched before him, and he would have to make a choice, and everything he had ever known would change because of it. With trembling hands he reached out and picked up the box, opening it and staring at the little ring nestled inside, the ring that had belonged to his mother, the ring he intended to give to his beloved, the little band of gold and diamonds that would take the shattered pieces of the people he loved most and knit them together into a family, for once and for all.
"All I've ever hoped for," Thomas told him, "is that you would do your best. And that you would find someone to love you regardless of what happened next."
Lucien looked at his father with tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and slowly reached out, resting his hand on the old man's shoulder, completely at a loss for words.
"And to be honest, son, I think you have," Thomas said.
"And this one is for your mum, Jack," Lucien said, handing the little boy a small, neatly-wrapped box.
She made a soft sound of protest; they had agreed to let the children open one present each, but no such allowance had been made for the adults. Jack had gone first, of course, tearing through a rather large package to find a new football, courtesy of Lucien. Then Lily had opened hers, containing a new dress she had rushed off to put on at once, insisting that she simply had to wear it to mass that evening. Christopher had received a package of playing cards, and the present Li had chosen turned out to be a book. There was a mound of presents still waiting beneath the tree, all sorts of delights as yet undiscovered, but the children contented themselves with what they had.
Li had curled up on Jean's lap, devouring the pages of her new book, reading so well now that Jean laughed when she thought about it, how like Lucien little Li was, bright and exceptional and eager to learn. While Lucien and his father had folded themselves into the armchairs Jean remained where she was on the sofa, the boys at her feet, Lily beside her, and Li in her arms.
"No, Jean, I insist," Lucien said, smiling. Jack was standing before her, insistently holding out the little package for her to take, and so she gave in as gracefully as she could. When she started to tear the paper, however, Lucien scolded her good-naturedly from across the room.
"Not yet," he told her, and there was a strange, bright glint in his eyes that made her stomach flutter. "You must open it tonight, but you have to save it until after mass."
That was his payback, she supposed, for her having insisted on his attendance at the service. He would tease her, would offer her this gift and then make her wait, wondering for hours what it could possibly be. It was smallish, and solid, as beneath the paper there was a proper box, and not flimsy cardboard. What could it contain? Jewelry, she supposed, though that thought made her heart race.
He had been infuriating, the last few weeks, had been warm and tender and willing to talk about their plans for the future, but he had not yet asked her properly, and her patience was wearing thin. Did he think it wasn't necessary? She wondered as she looked at him now, pressing her cheek against Li's soft dark hair and watching him smiling at her tightly. Did he think that her hurried confession the night he'd appeared like a ghost in her window was sufficient? Perhaps it was old fashioned or sentimental, but Jean would quite like to be asked, properly, and she was determined not to let Christmas pass without pushing the issue.
Unless, of course, the little box she now held clenched in her fist contained within it the answer to all of her questions, the fondest desire of her heart. She wanted it, wanted it so badly she could weep, and now here he was, telling her to wait just a little while longer. And though she knew the waiting would drive her mad, she could not help but think how she loved him, her wild, impossible man.
Whatever the little box contained, whatever surprises this night held in store for her, Jean was certain that this was quite the best Christmas in recent memory. The sitting room was warm and brightly lit, the tree huge and full and decorated with love and tender care by the Blake men, and she had her family, all together, at last. The boys were playing games at her feet and Li had started to read to Lily - who was being very gracious about the whole thing - and Thomas was smiling as he sipped his whiskey in the corner and Lucien was watching her with eyes so full of love her heart nearly burst.
It could not have been more different from the previous Christmas, cold and lonely with no news of Christopher, with hardly enough money for one present apiece for the children, despair weighing so heavily upon her. And though Christopher had not come home to her as she had so desperately prayed, he had - however unknowingly - given her one final gift, had set Lucien's feet upon the road to home, to her. There were a million things she wanted to say to Christopher, a thousand words she had whispered quietly in the darkness, praying he could hear her, though he had long since left the world. She wanted to tell him how she had loved him, how proud she was to have been his wife, how grateful she was to him, for the love he had given her, the home he had built for her, the sanctuary of his arms, the two sons she loved more than her own life. She wanted to tell him that though she loved Lucien with everything she had she would never forget the way Christopher had saved her, sheltered her, provided for her. One man could not replace the other, in her heart or in her life. It was just that her path had carried her onward, towards a new future, and she knew the time had come for her to embrace it.
But not yet; first she would linger in this moment, warm and content in the love of her family, in the dream of all that they could be, in the beauty of what she hoped would be the first of many Christmases spent just like this one.