24 December 1946
"They're asleep," Jean whispered as she came to stand with him in the corridor. It had been a long, lovely evening; much as Lucien disliked church or anything to do with the trappings of organized religion even he had to admit that it had been nice, spending Christmas Eve beneath the stained glass windows of Sacred Heart, the old rituals familiar and somehow comforting, after so many years away. There had been more than a few curious stares as the Beazleys and the Blakes trooped into the sanctuary together, but a stern look from Thomas was sufficient to silence any incredulous whispers, and the ease with which his family slid into place, he and Jean with their four children sitting on the pew between them, more than made up for any momentary discomfort caused by his neighbors' misgivings. Father Morton had delivered the homily in a clear strong voice, and the smell of incense and the old words washed over him, the formulaic responses tripping from his tongue while his ears picked out the soft sound of Jean's voice from amidst the din of the parishioners.
And now it was very late, and they were home, and the children were asleep. Thomas had trudged off to his bed the moment they came through the front door, being unaccustomed to staying up so late, and Lucien and Jean had herded their excited and over-tired little ones up the stairs. There were three bedrooms on the second floor, and so they settled the boys in one and the girls in the other, ostensibly leaving the third available for Jean, though Lucien had designs for this evening that would not require the use of that bed. If she were willing, if he was brave, if he said the words just as he'd planned them, if life were kind.
Lucien had settled the girls into one room while Jean took the boys to the other, and he could still hear the faint sound of her gasp, as she opened the door and saw the set of bunkbeds Lucien had installed there. There were two little dressers and a little desk with a chair, and a little box for their toys, all ready and waiting for the day when the boys moved into that room for good and all. Since the boys already shared a room at home it made sense that they continue to do so here, and so with his father's help Lucien had painted the room and set up the furniture in the hopes that it would become a comfortable place for them, a place they could enjoy, together.
While Jean had been so occupied Lucien had carted the girls off to Li's room, where they would share a bed for the evening. They were whispering quietly to one another when Lucien left them, and the sound of their cheerful voice as they lay curled up beneath the duvet warmed his heart. Though Li was much younger Lily seemed to find her endlessly fascinating, perhaps because her life had up to this point been so very different from Lily's, perhaps because Lily was so eager to finally have another little girl to talk to, to play with, in addition to her brothers. For her part Li seemed equally taken with Lily, who was so much bolder, so much more self-assured, and with each moment she spent in the older girl's company Lucien had watched her growing more confident herself. They did not know, of course, of the ties that bound them, the shared blood that flowed through their veins, and perhaps they never would, but Lucien knew, knew that they were sisters, both his daughters, his dearest loves, and he rejoiced to see them happy with one another.
But he had closed the door and left them to their own devices, and now he was, at long last, alone with Jean once more. She was smiling at him softly, uncertainly, as they lingered there in the corridor, and his heart began to race as he watched her. Finally, at long last, his moment had come. There would be no more waiting, no more doubt, no more grief, for he planned this night to join his life to hers, fully, completely, irreversibly, forever. He had gone over and over every step of his plan in his mind until he was certain that he would not muck it up, and the time had come, finally, to act.
"Well," Jean said, leaning towards the doorway to the third bedroom and the bed that waited for her there. "Good night, Lucien."
"Wait, Jean," he said, reaching out to catch hold of her hand, lacing their fingers together and giving her a little squeeze. "You still haven't opened your present."
His eyes were mischievous, and the thought of that gift, of what Lucien had planned for her, left her both anxious and excited. She hadn't forgotten it, not even for a moment, but she did not want to appear over-eager, did not want to get her hopes up too high, only to be crushed when the contents of the box were revealed, and failed to be the one thing she desired most. Disappointment was an old friend of Jean's, and she had learned to handle it, after a fashion, but if she were forced to open that box now, with the house all in darkness with Lucien watching her, she wasn't sure she'd be able to hide her feelings properly. He was pressing the issue, however, and there was no way she could refuse him.
"I left it downstairs," she whispered back, and he grinned at her, bright and wild.
"Perfect," he said mysteriously, but before she could ask him what on earth he was thinking Lucien was leading her down the stairs, and she was left helpless to do anything but follow along in his wake.
The little box was waiting, still wrapped in bright paper, on a side table in the sitting room, and when they reached it Jean scooped it up, intent on settling herself on the sofa to open it, but once again, Lucien brought her up short.
"Not here, my darling," he whispered, and Jean found herself fighting the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. She knew he was not trying to be deliberately infuriating - well, he was, but she knew his intention was only to heighten her eventual enjoyment when he finally made the big reveal. He did not know, could not have anticipated, how much grief it brought her, as she worried over their future, as she prepared herself to face the truth hidden in that little box. If he meant to propose to her she would let him and then she would kiss him senseless and scold him about this for the rest of their lives, but if he did not...she had no idea what would come next for them, and she hated the uncertainty.
Lucien led her away from the sitting room, to the heavy doors that hid his mother's studio from sight. He took a deep breath, glanced at her strangely, and then cast the doors open, releasing her hand and gesturing for her to step inside.
It was Jean's turn to draw in a deep breath, as she gazed around the room. She had never set foot in this place before and so had not known what to expect, but the sight before her was almost overwhelming. There was a grand fireplace, faced by a soft rug and a leather sofa. There was a dressing table with a fine, clear mirror, and two tall, ornately carved wooden wardrobes. There were broad windows, shielded now by soft white curtains, and paintings that she supposed had to have belonged to Genevieve decorated the walls. What called to her most about that room, however, was the bed that stood sentinel by the back wall; the frame was antique, hand-carved wood, and the dark navy coverlet was soft and inviting. Two small tables, each with their own lamp, were perched on either side. It was clear what Lucien intended for this room, the purpose for which it had been restored, and just the thought of it made Jean's knees weak.
Silent as a ghost he sidled up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and bowing his head to whisper in her ear, "I think you should open your present now, Jean."
There was not a doubt in her mind, now, as to what that box contained, and her hands shook, just a little as she carefully peeled off the paper, trying to savor the moment, the warmth of Lucien beside her, the brush of his beard against the tender skin of her cheek, the soaring in her heart as she realized that, at long last, everything she'd ever wanted was finally within reach. She wanted this to last forever, this moment of love, of joy, of light, of hope, and so despite her excitement she tried not to rush. And if a part of her was trying to punish Lucien for the endless waiting he'd subjected her to, she chose not to dwell on that somewhat petty impulse.
At last she could delay no longer, and the paper fluttered silently to the floor. She was left holding a small, black-velvet covered box. Before she could open it, however, Lucien stepped around her, deftly drawing the box from her clutching hands. For a moment he stared at her, eyes huge and blue and hopeful, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of his staccato breaths, his very being seeming to vibrate with anxiety and anticipation.
"Jean," he said slowly, and in response she could do more than tremble. "This was my mother's ring."
Carefully he opened the box, holding it in such a way that she could see the sparkling diamond band inside. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes unbidden, but she could not blink, could hardly even breathe as she watched him now. I asked you to marry me! He had shouted at her months ago above the chorus of the pounding rain, and she realized in that moment that they had made it somehow, finally, had travelled back in time thirteen years to the Christmas season when they'd first met, when they'd first fallen in love, when he had first decided to propose to her. Their feet had trod a long and winding path since then, had carried them through heartbreak and war and calamity, but they were, at long last, right where they'd always wanted to be.
"And I would very much like for you to have it," he continued. Before Jean could speak a word he sank slowly to one knee, and the sight of him kneeling before her, this titan of a man with his broad, strong shoulders and his wild heart taking a position of supplication at her feet, offering all of himself to her, moved her more than words could say.
"I love you, Jean. I have loved you for years, since the moment we first met. Will you…" he lost his breath for a moment, passion and hope and want swirling in his eyes, and the knowledge that he was as overcome as she, as completely bowled over by the emotion of the occasion, made her smile softly and reach out to cradle his cheek in her palm. He pressed against her skin, his eyes closing in bliss for a moment, soothed by her reassurance, and then he found his voice once more.
"Will you marry me, my darling?"
"Silly boy," she murmured, a single tear of joy escaping her to slide unchecked down the curve of his cheek.
"Jean-" he protested at her teasing.
"Of course I will," she said, ending their torment for once and for all.
He grinned, and reached into the box, drawing out the ring before tossing the box carelessly to the side. Jean held out her hand, and he slipped the ring onto her finger, and she marveled, for a moment, at the way it fit her so perfectly. But then he pressed a tender kiss to the back of her hand, and the torrent of longing she had only barely been repressing broke free at last. Her hand slid across his cheek and around to the back of his head, where her fingers tangled in his soft blonde curls. She tugged, gently, and he laughed, and in a moment he was on his feet, and she was in his arms, and he was kissing her like she'd never been kissed before, like the world was ending, like they had finally found their home, here, together.