XVII

Jean barely slept that night. She had gone home and had some supper and tried to read a book but her mind would not quiet. She tried to relax in a hot bath but nothing soothed her. She ended up going to bed early but sleep eluded her for hours. She tossed and turned and tried to take her mind off of it but couldn't seem to focus on anything else.

All she could think about was Father Blake. And all the time he'd spent before becoming a priest. When he was just Lucien Blake. Doctor Lucien Blake, it seemed. And then Major Lucien Blake in the army. She never would have guessed that about him, not in a million years. She knew he was odd and different and it made sense he had a life and career before becoming a priest. But she had, in some distance sense, thought he might have been a criminal of some kind. He had that air about him, that sense of danger and rebellion. Not that he ever made her feel unsafe or threatened in the least. He had a warm presence, when he wasn't drunk and shouting. There was a pain in him that was utterly palpable, and Jean still did not quite understand it. Was it only that he did not have the love of his father? That after his mother died, he was cast aside and sent away and not shown the kind of love that a boy needs to grow into a good man?

Well, that wasn't always the case, was it? Jean knew that from very personal experience. Her boys had lost their father and she had loved and protected them as much as she could. Jack, especially, had received more of her attention than was really his fair share. And still he had gotten into trouble and fought tooth and nail against the confines of polite society. Young Christopher had clung to his father's memory and joined the army to follow in his footsteps, despite Jean's vehement protests. She'd practically begged him to reconsider. She wanted to send him to university and tried to get him to go. She had been prepared to ask Doctor Blake for a loan to help pay for it. She would have given all of her savings to pay the tuition if Christopher had only gone to university and not to the army. All her love and attention had done nothing to dissuade either of her boys from their path. She could not imagine that Lucien was much different. Even if his father had been disapproving and distant, surely something else in his life had caused the pain he now lived with every day.

The other thing that stuck with Jean was the fact that her biggest question and biggest concern had not been answered by him telling his tale. Because Jean lay in her brand new bed in her house that was all her own that she had because she and not Lucien Blake had inherited Thomas Blake's estate. What had he said, that he was in a prisoner of war camp for three years and then joined the seminary? Had Doctor Blake been told that his son had been captured? Had he been told that his son had died? He'd always told Jean that he'd lost his son in the war. But he hadn't! Lucien had lived and become a priest. Had he not told his father he had lived? Had he been so filled with contempt for how he'd been treated as a boy that he would allow his father to believe he had died?

The very idea of it seemed so cruel to Jean, and she did not want to contemplate such a thing from the kind yet slightly odd priest she had come to know. Because despite the drinking and the shouting and the lax relationship with proper canon law, Father Blake was a good man filled with more compassion and understanding than Jean had ever encountered before, particularly in a priest. He genuinely cared about his parishioners. He was wonderful with the children he taught, he was gentle with the little ones and friendly to the older ones. He was polite and friendly to the elderly people he encountered. He was chivalrous with the ladies and straightforward with the men. And the idea that this same man could possess even an ounce of cruelty directed towards his own father was just so inapposite to Jean's understanding of him.

When morning finally arrived, Jean felt just as confused and exhausted as before she'd gone to bed. She hoped that there would be time to ask Father Blake her questions that day so she did not need to live with this uncertainty and guilt any longer, but he had been so abrupt the day before, had told her what he wanted to and nothing more and ushered her out of the house before she could say two words. The last thing she wanted was to upset him again, but he was just so sensitive and Jean did not want to push him with regards to such personal things.

She got out of bed and did her best to start the day as she always did. Her worries weighed on her, but she would just have to carry on.


Mrs. Beazley was very quiet, and it was causing Lucien great worry. She wasn't really a very chatty woman, which he usually appreciated, but her polite conversation and gentle—and sometimes less than gentle—scolding were things he had grown to enjoy and count on in his days. But not so today. She went about her work, making breakfast for him and fixing her tea, but she did not seem the same as usual.

Had he said too much the day before? Had his tales of his father upset her in some way? He'd tried not to be too hard on the old man, particularly not to Mrs. Beazley, who respected him and grieved his death. But perhaps some truth that he had told her had caused her to want to distance herself from him. And that was the thing he had feared. He did not want her to think less of him—for he'd not thought such a thing was possible what with the state she'd found him in more than once now—and he especially did not want her to pull away from him. He had thought that his keeping things from her was having that effect, but perhaps learning the truth was scaring her off. Lucien had lived far too long in isolation, and now that he had found one person with whom he wanted to share his time and his stories, he was afraid he might have ruined it all.

"Everything alright?" he asked as he assisted her with the dishes. She washed and he dried and put away. When he was sufficiently sober, he liked to do this with her. Some days he was just too hungover to manage standing upright and completing any such task. But he'd not had a drop to drink last night after she'd left. He'd made himself a sandwich and worked on his lesson plan for catechism and then gone to bed. But if she were in this sort of mood, maybe he should have gotten blackout drunk again.

But Mrs. Beazley reassured him, "Fine. I didn't sleep well last night, I'm afraid. I'm just a little tired."

Lucien wanted to ask if there was anything he could do to help, but thankfully he caught himself before saying the words. The insinuation of a man helping a woman sleep well were…well, it was inappropriate to say the least. He was a priest and he had already crossed far too many lines with her. Though, in fairness, she had let him. Ah well, a problem for another day. For now, she was tired and he was feeling a bit vulnerable and they'd probably just have to tiptoe around each other for now. They'd get through it, he had no doubt.

Mrs. Beazley went to work out in the garden after that. She did her work quietly, again, and he helped as much as he could. She gave him instructions and corrected his mistakes but they otherwise did not speak.

They shared a late lunch, again in companionable and slightly awkward silence, and then got ready to go to the church to greet the children. He went to his office to collect his materials and she prepare the classroom.

When the children arrived, Mrs. Beazley lit up for the first time all day. She was a marvel with children. Well, she was a marvel with most things, but seeing her smile and laugh and care for his students warmed his heart in a way he had not realized was missing. He loved teaching and loved the time he spent getting to help guide the young ones. And it looked like she felt just the same. He knew she was a mother, but seeing her be maternal this way was just ever so lovely. It even drove him to distraction sometimes, seeing the gentle way she was with those kids.

But class ended all too soon and everyone went home. A few parents were there to pick up the little ones who did not walk home, and one of the mothers stopped him to ask about the upcoming confirmation ceremony. It was still more than a month away, but parents tended to fret about events such as these. Lucien answered her questions as kindly as he could, and she seemed satisfied.

At last, it was just he and Mrs. Beazley left in the classroom, stacking chairs. She had gone quiet again.

"Mrs. Beazley, are you sure you're just tired?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied quickly.

"I would hate to think that something from our conversation yesterday has upset you in any way. Even tired, you're not usually so quiet," he pressed.

She paused, furrowing her brow as she regarded him. Eventually she sighed and said, "Well, there is something that's been bothering me. I…well, I wasn't sure how to bring it up."

Lucien stopped what he was doing and pulled two of the remaining chairs over. "Please," he gestured, taking one seat for himself and indicating she should do the same.

He'd not meant to put the chairs so close together, but when they sat down, their knees were practically touching. For whatever it was worth, she did not move away from him. He didn't either.

"Ask me anything you want," he prompted.

Mrs. Beazley frowned, likely working herself up to whatever it is she wanted to say. Her hands fidgeted in her lap somewhat before she looked up at him. "Why did you let your father think you died?"

Ah so that was it. Yes, that was one thing he'd chosen not to address yesterday. He had hoped to preserve some of her good feeling towards her deceased former employer, and this part of the story did not paint old Doctor Blake in a very good light. Lucien knew he had to try and take this as delicately as he could, lest she become upset and accuse him of defaming his father. "Did he say that I died?" he asked her.

She thought for a moment and suddenly realized, "No, actually. He always just said that he didn't have a son anymore. That you were lost in the war. I thought it was just a kinder way of saying it. But no, he never actually said you were dead. I only knew that he had no family."

Lucien nodded and told her the sorry tale. "I wrote him a letter when I got to seminary. Told him I'd survived the camp and was joining the priesthood. And he replied and told me he wouldn't try to change my mind but that I was wasting my talent and potential in favor of a life of hypocrisy and pointless preaching."

"What?!"

Perhaps he'd given more detail than was absolutely necessary, but that letter had wounded Lucien at a time when he had believed he could be wounded no further. His bitterness at his father for that and everything else was still closer to the surface than he liked to believe. "He never went to church with you, did he?"

"No."

"My father had a great contempt for religion. He indulged it in my mother when she was alive because he loved her. But he was a man of science through and through. Anything that could not be proven with scientific evidence was not worth his time. And in becoming a priest, I had done my final act of failing him, in his eyes. So after that letter, I didn't bother writing him again. It would have felt like rubbing it in, I think. And I didn't particularly want to face his derision any longer. And he never bothered to try and contact me, as far as I know. Hearing from you that he never spoke of me and acted as though I died makes perfect sense. In his eyes, he did lose me in the war. I came through it and became a priest, and to him, I was no longer myself. And perhaps I wasn't. But I made my choice and he made his."

Mrs. Beazley was quiet, watching her own hands clasped in her lap to keep them from fidgeting anymore. "So that was why."

"Why what?"

"Why he left his estate to me."

Lucien realized in that moment that poor Mrs. Beazley must have been worried about that since the moment she learned that old Doctor Blake's son was not dead and instead sitting right there in front of her. She was a good woman with a good sense of right and wrong, and to her mind, surely, a man leaving his estate to a housekeeper and not his son if his son was living was wrong. She had bought a house and been living quite comfortably over what she must have believed was Lucien's rightful inheritance. He quickly disabused her of that notion. "He left his estate to you because he cared for you, I have no doubt. Probably saw you as the daughter he wished he had. You were his companion and caretaker for years, and I'm sure you more than earned his good opinion of you. And even if he had wanted to leave anything to me, I couldn't accept it. I'm a priest, Mrs. Beazley, and anything given to me such as that would have been immediately donated to the Church. I took a vow of poverty. All I have is what the parish and archdiocese provide for me. I bet Dad knew that. And I know he would have rather seen you live a good life than see all his money go to the institution he reviled. You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty for. You took nothing that would in anyway be rightfully mine. And besides, I never wanted anything from him anyway. He and I are both happier that you have been the one to benefit."

She was quiet again. Processing everything he told her, surely. He waited for her to say something, though it was difficult for him to be patient in that way. "I suppose you're right," she finally said.

"Thank you, yes, I am right on occasion."

That made her smile just a little, which warmed his heart. "I'm just sorry things were left so unresolved between the two of you. Strain like that between a parent and child is difficult to bear."

Something in her words led Lucien to believe she was speaking from personal experience, though he did not want to invade her privacy now, not while she was already dealing with so much. His curiosity could wait. "I have been very alone for a very long time, Mrs. Beazley," he told her. "I have often thought it was for the best. Dad lived a perfectly fine life with you to take care of him. And I've been here, none the wiser. There's nothing to be sorry for. Not about that, at any rate."

The way she looked at him, so small and vulnerable, made Lucien wish he could take her in his arms and hold her and promise her that there was good in the world, even if he himself had trouble finding it. Fine priest he made, telling others to find meaning and joy where he himself could not. But of course he could not do that. Not with her or with anyone. That was part of the choice he had made. The terrible, stupid choice he'd made. And until this moment, Lucien had not yet admitted to himself that his father had been right about that.