A/N: according to the internet, £1 in 1960 is worth about £23 now. Just...for reference. In case y'all wanna do some math.
15 June 1959
The Lock and Key kept regular hours, despite the clandestine nature of the work the girls carried on inside. Jean had always been a firm believer in routine, and she ran her business the same way she had run her house, once. The doors opened to customers at 5:00 p.m. each evening, and remained open until just past midnight. Later, on Fridays and Saturdays; those were the busiest nights of the week, after all, and the girls earned more in one weekend than they'd earn in a week of Mondays. Midday appointments could be made, if the customers desired, but they cost extra and had to be arranged in advance. That suited some of the gentlemen just fine; Lorraine had a standing appointment with a city councilor every Tuesday at noon, and he was hardly the only man who preferred the relative anonymity of slipping up the back stairs in daylight to walking into the dining room of an evening. The pub was closed on Sundays; even working girls deserved a day of rest, Jean thought.
Every day followed a strict routine. Monday mornings were for the books and accounting, Tuesdays were for general housekeeping - Jean always kept her rooms neat and tidy - Wednesdays were for inventory, Thursdays were for laundry, Fridays were for deliveries. The girls slept late in the mornings, and Jean did her best not to rouse them. She'd make an early lunch for anyone who was up and about, and then the lads who worked in the kitchen would come shuffling in, and Jean would organize them in the afternoons, would set them to baking bread and pies, start the stew or the roast or whatever else she decided they ought to serve at dinner. The customers didn't always want to eat, but Jean made sure there was food just the same, and any extras were sent to the orphanage the next day; Jean had never approved of waste. The girls would get first taste of the evening's menu just before the doors opened, and then the work would begin, and Jean would settle herself into her corner booth, and keep an eye on all her little birds, her hands never idle, taking in everything that happened in that place, watchful, always, for signs of trouble. When closing time came she'd send Danny or one of the other young men who sometimes worked security for her in exchange for extra pay upstairs to roust the stragglers while she cleared the dining room herself. And then, when the kitchen boys had cleaned up and slipped out into the night, when the girls were all sleeping soundly, when the doors were locked and there was no one else around, Jean would drift through the dining room, wiping down the tables, sweeping and mopping the floors, rinsing out the whiskey glasses and lining them all back up. There was a pattern to it, a rhythm, and Jean took comfort in knowing what came next.
Only tonight was different, because he was here. That in and of itself was not so terribly unusual; he came by most nights. He'd come every afternoon in the week since Sarah'd had her little one, checking in on mother and baby, making sure that both were well. Most evenings he returned, always making his way towards her table, always waiting to be invited, always sharing a cup of tea. He kept his hands to himself and did not crowd her, did not swallow glass after glass of whiskey until he was stinking and drunk. He was polite, and kind, and he passed her a shilling every time she raised an eyebrow at him, content, it seemed, with the state of affairs between them.
But tonight, this time, he had not left after one cup of tea. He'd turned up later than usual, his hands shaking, his tie nowhere to be found, and when he sat himself down beside her Jean had known, somehow, that things were different tonight. There was a tension in him, his shoulders tight, his gaze restless, his questions infrequent and lacking his usual enthusiasm. Perhaps something was troubling him; perhaps that's why he was still here, as the clock ticked ever closer to midnight and the already paltry Monday evening crowd thinned even more. No doubt he would have left, if she told him to, but though his obvious distress concerned Jean a very great deal she could not quite bring herself to cast him out. It was clear he needed a listening ear, some sort of comfort, and Jean wanted, very much, to be the one to give it to him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, shattering the silence that had fallen between them. It was nearly midnight, and the kitchen boys had already cleaned up and gone home, and Elizabeth was half asleep behind the bar, no customers asking for her attention this evening. The girls took turns pouring the drinks; if a customer wanted the barmaid, and the barmaid was willing, she'd flag down one of her compatriots and they'd switch places. Business had been slow, though, and Elizabeth had been stuck drawing pints of beer all night. She wasn't paying Jean and Doctor Blake any mind, and she was too far away to hear their conversation anyway. They had more privacy in this moment than they'd ever had before, and Jean felt the weight of their isolation settle on her shoulders, thick and full of potential.
The doctor hummed, not looking at her, and so Jean pressed him.
"Something is obviously bothering you," she pointed out. "And I get the feeling you didn't come here to sit in silence."
He laughed. "No, you're quite right, Mrs. Beazley. I'm afraid I've had...a difficult week."
"Would this have anything to do with that young man who was set to be executed?"
Jean did keep up with the news, after all, and Danny had been up in arms about it all week. The young man in question had killed a police officer, and Doctor Blake's face had been splashed all over the papers, accompanied by several rather direct quotes from the man himself protesting the death penalty. It was not a particularly popular view, Jean knew, especially not among the law enforcement officers with whom he served, and especially not in this case, given the specifics of the crime.
"He didn't do it," Doctor Blake told her, taking a long sip of his now tepid tea. "The truth came out today. His brother killed that young police officer, in a fight over a girl. But they have another brother, a priest, and he convinced them to lie. The brother who actually committed the crime, he has a wife and children. They decided between them that it would be best if he went free, given his obligations."
Jean hardly knew what to say to that. She supposed the Doctor had been right, in his own way, to urge the powers that be not to kill the McBride boy; they had very nearly executed him for a crime he didn't commit. But what would become of his family now that the truth was out? Surely he would face punishment for perjury, among other things, and what about the brother who had murdered the policeman? Would he take his brother's place in line for execution, would his family now suffer forever without their husband, their father to provide for them?
"By all accounts, it appears the murder was an accident, he was only defending his brother. I don't think they'll execute him, not now, but he will go to prison. And who knows what will become of his wife and children."
"Do you regret it?" Jean asked him slowly. "Finding the truth?"
"I want to say no," Doctor Blake answered heavily. "We very nearly killed the wrong man, and I'm glad we managed to save his life. But I think about those children, and what I've taken from them...well. Children deserve to be with their parents, don't they? To be loved, and protected? This is why I find the death penalty unconscionable, there are too many questions, and I don't believe we have the right to mete out that kind of punishment, not when we could be killing innocent men. But I don't think I've changed anyone's mind on the subject. If anything I think I've made a few new enemies for myself. Your nephew barely spoke to me all week."
"Danny's young," Jean told him gently. "He wants to believe that the world is black and white, us and them. It isn't that simple, but he hasn't quite learned that lesson yet."
"You have though, haven't you, Jean?"
It was Jean's turn to hum noncommittally. Yes, she had learned that lesson long ago. When she was young, the same age as Danny was now, she had believed without question in the edicts of her church, had thought she understood the difference between right and wrong. Time and experience had taught her otherwise.
"Mrs. Beazley?" Elizabeth called out from behind the bar, interrupting their quiet conversation. "It's midnight. Can I-"
"Go on up to bed," Jean told her, already rising from the booth. "I'll send Allen to do a doorknock."
"G'night, Mrs. Beazley," Elizabeth answered, already making her way towards the stairs. Allen, the strapping young lad who'd been standing by the door all evening, had heard her words and was already hot on Elizabeth's heels; he'd go round to all the rooms and make sure there were no stragglers upstairs before going off in search of his own bed. Jean didn't think there were any men left in the pub, but she always liked to be sure. She didn't approve of surprises.
Closing time meant clean up; Elizabeth had already washed and stacked the glasses and wiped down the bar, and so Jean decided she would begin with the tables, and work her way out from there. She went to the bar and fetched a clean rag, wetting it in the sink, and for a moment she almost forgot that Doctor Blake was still there. Almost, until he spoke, and she realized he was leaning up against the bar, looking at her.
"Can I help, Mrs. Beazley?"
She should have told him no, and sent him on his way. It was late, the pub was closed - or would be, as soon as Allen came back downstairs and Jean locked the door behind him - and Doctor Blake was a handsome, troubled man who'd been spending far too much time by her side over the last few weeks. She should have thrown him out, but she couldn't; he looked so lonely, and so sad, and Jean didn't want to be without him, not yet.
"Here," she said, handing him the rag. "Take this, and go and wipe down the booths."
"Thank you," he answered. And wasn't that strange, she thought, that he should thank her for putting him to work. But in a way she supposed she understood why he'd said it; she hadn't sent him away, hadn't pushed him out into the loneliness of the night, had instead heeded his request and given him an excuse to linger. Truth be told, she was grateful for it, too.
The work went much faster, with an extra pair of hands. Jean wiped down the tables while the Doctor took the booths. Allen came down the stairs dragging a bearded man by his ear, and bid Jean a cheerful goodnight. She locked the door behind him, and then with Doctor Blake's help she began to stack the chairs up onto the tables, the better to sweep beneath them.
"I'm afraid I'm not much good with a broom, Mrs. Beazley," the Doctor told her as the last chair settled on the table. "Perhaps there's something else I could do?"
And so Jean sent him into the kitchen, to carry the rubbish outside while she swept. It was nice, she thought, having someone to help; ordinarily she was alone with the wireless. The wireless was still playing tonight, of course, but Doctor Blake's presence colored everything, now, made the evening somehow brighter, more cheerful.
She shouldn't want him around, she knew. He was a prominent member of the community, whether he wanted to be or not, and he had not once spent an hour with any of the girls. A man who was not a customer but did hobnob with the police presented a threat to her business, and she knew it. The other important men who visited the pub were customers, and they would keep their silence about the truth of her business for the sake of their own reputations. Doctor Blake did not share that particular concern, was not a member of that dubious brotherhood, and one wrong word from him could cripple her business, and threaten her freedom. And Jean knew, as all the girls did, that when one man began to show undue interest in one particular girl it could only lead to trouble; lust and love were often confused in the hearts of men, and a man in love with a girl who felt nothing at all for him was a dangerous one. Sometimes they grew violent or vindictive, when they realized they could not have what they wanted most, when they realized they must share their girl with anyone else who paid, when they discovered they were not special as they so very much wanted to be. Doctor Blake kept seeking her out, and while Jean did not yet know why she feared what would happen, when the truth of his motives finally came to light.
Only, he didn't seem to be interested in sex - or not only in that; Jean wasn't blind. She saw the way he looked at her, and sometimes she could almost hear his thoughts. He was a handsome man, a kind man, a strong man, and he had every right to ask for her, if he wanted. He hadn't, yet, but she could not help but wonder if he would, or when, and what she might say to him then. You can always say no, that was rule number one. But would she say no, if he asked? Would she want to? It was entirely possible he didn't want her at all, not in that way; he had so far only seemed to come to her for conversation. Jean did not know what it was he wanted, and that uncertainty was beginning to trouble her.
He came back in as she finished sweeping, but he paused by the bar, a strange expression flickering on his face. The wireless was still playing, a soft, sad song that Jean rather liked, and she swayed to a stop, her hands clutching her broom, watching him while that song wafted through the air around them.
"I quite like that," Doctor Blake said softly, gesturing towards the wireless. When Jean didn't answer he began to walk towards her, very slowly, and she realized at once what he was about to ask her. And yet she did not stop him, though he gave her every chance to do so; she simply stood, holding her breath and her broom, and waited.
"Dance with me, Jean," the doctor said, taking the broom from her hand and propping it up against the bar. "Life's too short not to."
She should have said no. She should have asked him to leave, or told him a dance would cost him a fiver. The girls in the Lock and Key never danced for free. But he was warm, and close, and his hand was gentle when he reached for her, and his eyes were so very blue, and Jean found she could not resist. She took the hand he offered, and let him pull her close, let his free hand settle on the small of her back as they began to sway together.
When was the last time she danced? Jean could hardly remember. The last time she danced with a man for free, with a man she cared for, that she remembered well for it had been Christopher, in the kitchen of their farmhouse a lifetime ago, before the fight that sent him far from her side, never to return. They'd danced all the time; they'd had no money, and sometimes very little food, and Jean had sewn all their clothes from whatever scraps she could find, but they had been happy, and in love, and they had danced. In this moment, with Lucien's arms around her, the comforting smell of sandalwood and antiseptic hanging faintly in the air around him, his breath warm against her cheek, she felt her heart begin to beat in her chest again, for the first time since Christopher had died.
He was a very capable dancer, Lucien Blake. He held her close, close enough for her to feel his chest brush against her own each time they breathed, though not so close as to be considered improper. His hands were warm and strong, but he touched her gently, tenderly, reverently, as he spun them deftly through the maze of empty tables there in the dim lights of the pub. It was very late, and all the world was asleep save for the pair of them, and he was so handsome, and he had been so kind, and…
Love was not a word that existed for Jean, any more. Love was not safe, not in this business. The love of men hurt, and it had been far too long since any man had been worth what it would cost her to love. She loved her girls, of course, loved them like her own children, but romantic love was a thing of the past. She could not think about love, not even in this moment when she was surrounded by him, when she felt herself in danger of falling. Yes, he was kind, and clever, yes he made her laugh, yes he was thoughtful, yes, there was something broken about him that called to Jean's own heart, but it could not be love that she felt for him. Love would be her undoing. She needed to put a stop to it, she knew she did, but just for now, just for these precious few moments, she let herself go, and rested her head on his shoulder while they danced, drinking in the comforting warmth of him.
But that song, like all good things, drew to an end. Lucien did not push his luck; he released her, and when she looked up at him he bowed his head, and brushed a chaste kiss against her cheek.
"You dance beautifully, Jean," he told her as he stepped away, smiling at her softly. Oh, that smile; it was more dangerous than any knife. "Where did a girl like you learn to dance like that?"
All the warmth that had gathered in Jean's chest, all the fond feeling that he had inspired in her, withered in an instant. She straightened her shoulders, her heart racing in anger, now, rather than affection.
"A girl like me?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow at him incredulously. Is that what he thinks of me? She wondered as she looked at him. Just another girl? Has he only been kind to me because he thinks he can get something for free if he's nice enough?
"Jean," he said, looking suddenly aghast, "I didn't mean-"
"What are you doing here, Doctor Blake?" she asked him sharply. "Really, why do you keep coming back? You know the rules. If you want something, you pay for it, same as anyone else. Or do you not want to pay, is that it?" She was on a roll, now, the ire rising in her heart, quickly spinning out of control.
"Jean, I would never-"
"You would never what? Never stoop so low? You've been coming round here for weeks, and don't think I don't know what you're thinking when you look at me. You think you could offer me more than this, don't you? You think you could save me from this life? You're hardly the first man to get that idea in his head, Doctor Blake, don't fool yourself about that. I don't need saving."
There was one reason Jean had kept the Lock and Key open when it fell into her possession, one reason she had not sold it and started a new life somewhere else. Running this business, not working the floor but controlling the purse strings, had offered the one thing she could not find anywhere else. The Lock and Key meant freedom, for her, meant independence, meant deciding the course of her own life and answering to no one. To step away from it would be to subjugate herself to someone else - to an employer, a landlord, a man - and after everything Jean had seen, everything she had suffered, her freedom was the one thing she could not stand to lose. Perhaps Doctor Blake, with his big house and his fine suits and his money and his education, thought he could offer her something better, but he could not offer her freedom, and she would not let him take it from her, not for anything.
"What if I don't want to save you?" he asked quietly, and the tension between them shifted, tightened, became something else entirely. The breath froze in Jean's lungs as she looked at him, his blue eyes burning into her. "What if I want to buy you instead?"
"I told you-"
"I couldn't afford you, yes. I'm not so sure about that. Name your price, Jean."
He was deadly serious, she could see that in his gaze. He was not crowding her, not reaching for her; he was giving her the choice, giving her the chance to make this decision for both of them. You can always say no.
"For an hour?" she asked. "Full service?"
The usual questions came tumbling from her lips, buying her a moment to think. She could name a price so outrageous he'd never pay it, and win this battle of wills between them. Or she could name a price that was high, but not out of the question, and then...was she really considering this? Considering taking him to bed? What would become of them if she did? Jean had started to look forward to their evening chats, to spending time in quiet conversation with him. He provided exemplary care to her girls, and was always the very picture of courtesy. Would that change, if she let him become a customer?
But oh, what might it be like, to let him roll her beneath him, to feel those sleek muscles under her hands, to tumble with a man she cared for, for the first time in nearly two decades? Would he treat her gently, would he consume her utterly, would he come back for more? And did it matter, really? Everything was for sale, in the Lock and Key, that was just the way things worked, and Jean wasn't sure she could pass up the opportunity to see just how much Doctor Blake was willing to pay for her.
"Yes," he said in answer to her question. The ticking of the clock, usually so faint, sounded loud in her ears. The moment had come when she must make a choice, for both of them. What do you want, Jean? She asked herself as she looked at him. Truly, what do you want?
"One hundred pounds."
The gauntlet had been thrown; once the words were spoken she knew she could not take them back. It was an extraordinary price, for one hour's pleasure. Not beyond the reach of a truly wealthy man, perhaps, but enough to make him pause, if only for a moment. It was an offer designed to be declined, but not so outrageous as to be utterly out of the question. Whether Doctor Blake had such means Jean wasn't sure, but -
"Done," he said, holding out his hand as if asking her to shake.
You can always say no. if you want to.
His gaze was dark, and hungry, but his hand was steady. He was sure, then, about the offer that had been made. He was willing, then, to pay her such a sum, just to spend an hour in her bed. He was not backing away from her, was not protesting that he was too good - or that she was too good - to make such an arrangement. He was meeting her on her own ground, according to her own terms.
You can always say no.
"Done," she agreed, and then she shook his hand.
