29 June 1959

Jean lay flat on her belly, sprawled naked and glorious across her mussed sheets, watching him with a fond expression on her face as Lucien stuffed himself back into his trousers, and went searching for his vest and shirt. The time had gotten away from him; he'd forgotten, for a least a little while, that the clock even existed, let alone that its inexorable ticking was pushing him ever closer to the moment when he would inevitably have to leave Jean behind, and go out into the night alone. Caught in the pleasant trap of her soft thighs he had lost himself completely, but though he was certain Jean had enjoyed herself immensely she had not forgotten. It was Jean who brought them back down to reality with a resounding crash, but she had held him gently, after, her hands gentle on skin.

"What do you think, Mrs. Beazley?" Lucien asked her, having finished buttoning his shirt, holding his arms out and inviting her inspection. His shirttails were untucked and his socks were balled up in his trouser pocket, and he could feel his hair sticking up in all directions, set free from its restraints by Jean's wandering hands.

"You'll do, Doctor Blake," she declared winsomely, "though I think you've misplaced your shoes."

"Indeed I have," he answered, laughing, returning to the end of the bed and sliding his bare feet into his shoes.

"I'll walk you out," she said, and then she was rolling out of bed, padding silently across the room while Lucien watched her, slack-jawed and aching. That swing to her hips was more pronounced somehow, now that she was naked and soft, her feet bare on the carpet, and the vision of her, comfortable in her own skin, comfortable with him watching her, her breasts, her bum, the soft skin of her belly revealed to his hungry gaze was all the more enchanting for the unselfconscious way she carried herself. He was not allowed to love her, but he found that he did, just the same.

Much as he might like to he knew he could not linger, and so he sighed and roused himself, giving his head a shake as if that would be sufficient to clear the maudlin thoughts that had begun to plague him the moment he left her bed. She was beautiful, and he had to leave her; he was lonesome, and there was no one and nothing waiting at home for him save for a letter he did not want to read bearing tidings he did not wish to hear. That particular calamity could keep for another night, he told himself; it would be better to read it in the daylight, for terrible thoughts burrowed through his brain in the darkness, and night was fast approaching in the chill world beyond Jean's warm bedroom.

Lucien made his way out into the parlor, and found Jean in the act of slipping her black robe once more around her shoulders, her hands reaching into the pockets as if on reflex, checking that the notes he'd given her were still there. Perhaps she had not meant for him to see it; perhaps it would have been better if he hadn't, if he had not witnessed that small action, that nefarious reminder that whatever Lucien wanted from her could not be had without payment. What funds he had would not seem him through indefinitely, not with Mrs. Beazley burning through them at such a prodigious rate, but his heart was weak with wanting her, his soul weary from lonesomeness, and like a dying man he would spend every last penny he had on the one cure he'd found for his sorrows; she owned him completely, already.

"Here," she said as she took note of his arrival in the parlor, belting her robe tightly around her waist and stepping nimbly behind the sofa. "Let's get you sorted."

In silence Lucien approached her, and stood still before her as she reached for him, draped his tie loosely round his neck and then set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. Her good mood cheered him, somewhat, and he smiled at her fondly, thinking how wonderful she was. She returned that smile with grace, and then bent and neatly scooped up his jacket. Perhaps she meant to put that on him as well; perhaps she meant to lift herself up onto her toes, meant to let her hands brush against his shoulders, meant to let her chest rest against his own, just for a moment, before their time together well and truly ended, but Lucien would not ever know for as she picked his jacket up off the floor a somewhat crumpled envelope tumbled out of the inside pocket.

For a moment they both stared at it, hardly daring to breathe, though for different reasons. Lucien's heart was sinking in his chest, for he had forgotten, before this moment, that he still carried it with him. Before now he'd thought he must have left it at home, but there it lay, a portent of doom glowering at him from beside Jean's red-painted toes. Jean's hesitation was no doubt born of her intuition; Lucien was certain she could feel the way his mood had shifted, the way his whole body tensed in terror. Yet she stood frozen for only the space of a few heartbeats before she was moving, draping his jacket over the back of the sofa and picking up the letter, turning it over in her hands.

"Are you not in the habit of reading your mail, Doctor Blake?" she asked as she passed the letter to him.

"Not when it brings bad news, no," he told her. With the letter in one hand he reached for his jacket with the other, pulling it on before stuffing the letter back in the pocket it had so recently vacated. Any trace of cheerfulness left by Jean's gentle smile had well and truly left him; there was a chasm in his chest, a vast aching well of loneliness and grief, and he felt himself hurtling into it, thrown out into the abyss.

"Lucien," Jean said his name softly, hesitantly, reaching out and resting her hand on his forearm. "You can talk to me about it, you know. If you want to."

Did he want to? Lucien wasn't sure. He hadn't shared this with anyone, not even with Matthew, but in that moment he found that he wanted, very much, to talk to a friend. And had they not been friends, before anything else? Had it not been Jean's friendship that first drew him to her, her companionship the reason he had sought her out in the pub, night after night? Their hour was through and his bill was paid, but she was not pushing him out the door, or asking for more coin. She had offered to hear him, earnestly and without agenda, and this burden had grown too heavy for him to bear it alone.

"I told you once that I have a daughter. Li."

Jean frowned. "Yes," she said. "You said you didn't know where she is."

"I didn't. I don't. I...she...before the war, I was a soldier. My family lived in Singapore. My wife and my daughter and I."

"Oh, Lucien," Jean sighed heavily, her eyes widening as if understanding already. Like an old soldier she had heard the words the war, and sorrow had clouded over her beautiful face, the memories of battles fought long before resurfacing at once. Her hand remained steady on his arm, and Lucien reached out, covered that hand with his own, held her there, anchored by her touch while he found himself staring at his shoes, unable to look her in the eye.

"We knew the Japanese were coming. We knew they were going to take the city. I couldn't leave, but I put my girls on a boat to China. My wife had family in Hong Kong, and I thought they'd be safe there."

But they weren't. You knew there was a risk, you knew Ballarat would be the safer option, but you were too proud to ask for your father's help, and your pride killed your family.

"Not long after they left, the Japanese bombed Hong Kong. I don't know if their boat made it there before that, and I couldn't look for them, because the Japs bombed Singapore the same day. We were under constant attack for two months before the city fell, and I was taken prisoner."

Lucien's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, each word a struggle, but he had come this far, and he knew he needed to see his tale through to the end, and Jean was not interrupting him, only standing still and silent, waiting.

"I was held in that camp for three years. By the time we were freed, the trail had gone cold. Too many people were missing, and China was in civil war. Records in Hong Kong were hard to come by. I never stopped looking, never gave up hope."

That wasn't entirely true; hope had deserted him long before now. He had continued in his grim quest for answers, not because he held out hope that one day he might be reunited with his family, but because he felt that he must, because he knew it was his duty, because he believed that one day he might finally discover the truth. Only now that the truth was within his grasp he found he did not want it; he feared it with everything he had.

"And that letter?" Jean prompted him, not unkindly, when he had been quiet too long.

"From a private investigator I hired. I'm...I'm afraid it might be the last one."

I'm afraid my search is at an end, and I don't know who I am without it, and I fear what I might become.

"But you don't know for certain." It wasn't a question.

At last Lucien looked up at her, and found Jean watching him with eyes soft and sad. It was not pity she showed him now; if anything, he rather got the sense that she understood him.

"When my Christopher died," she said slowly, and a lump formed in the back of his throat as he remembered her own sorry tale, the husband she had lost, the beautiful life that had been shattered at his death. "It took them six months to tell me. Six months with no letters, no word. I didn't know where he was, or what had happened. All I could do was wait. And then one day, two soldiers turned up at my door." As she spoke Jean turned her hand over beneath his, laced their fingers together and held on to him tightly. "You've been waiting a lot longer than I did, Lucien, but...you need to know what that letter says. You can't put it off forever."

In that moment he wanted to ask her how it had felt, when she finally learned the truth. He wanted to ask if it had helped her, to know for a certainty that her husband was gone, wanted to ask if losing hope was better than clinging to it indefinitely. He wanted to burn the letter, wanted to turn it over to her and ask her to read it for him, to take this burden from him. He wanted to weep; he wanted to hold her. Instead he only smiled, sadly, and clung to her hand.

"I know," he said heavily. "I know. And I will. Not tonight, but...soon."

"You'll tell me, when you know?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Could it be, he wondered, that she cared for him as she did for her, that his happiness meant as much to her as her happiness meant to him? Was this friendship she was showing him now, and was it not worth more than anything else he'd ever purchased? And would he tell her, when he knew? Would he even want to?

"This is about your family, Lucien," she said softly. "Nothing is more important than family. And yes, I want to know. I want to know that you're all right."

Nothing is more important than family. An odd sentiment coming from a madam, perhaps, but Jean had children of her own, sons she clearly treasured, and she looked after her girls as if they were her own flesh and blood. Jean knew what it was, to have a family and to lose it. Jean understood the nature of this grief, and, Lucien realized then, in the understanding of it she understood him. Yes, he would tell her when the time came; in all the world she was the one person he felt he could share this truth with, however strange such a thought might be.

"All right," he agreed, softly, still holding her hand. "All right."