"Really, Jean, do you like it?"
Mattie's sweet, earnest voice brought him up short; he had been en route to the studio, determined to say good night to the ladies of the house before seeking his own bed, but now that Mattie had asked the question he found he rather wanted to hear the answer, and he feared that he would never learn the truth if Jean knew he was listening. And so he loitered, just out of sight of the open doors, listening hard while Jean and Mattie talked in her new parlor.
"It's a very kind gesture," Jean said, diplomatic as always. "I might like it more if I'd been consulted first."
Lucien hung his head. When the idea came to him he had been so certain it was the right one, and then he had been so caught up in the work, and he had poured over the plans with Mattie, hoping to choose things Jean would like for her new bedroom, but a small, perhaps childish piece of his heart had wanted to keep it a surprise. He'd wanted Jean to come home and be delighted by the transformation, had wanted her to be pleased, and happy with him. Her initial response to the renovated studio had been one of dismay, and he'd regretted his obfuscation at once. It would seem Jean did not like surprises. But then she had not taken him to task for it, had not insisted that her things be moved back upstairs, and so he supposed he ought to be grateful that she had chosen to accept his gift, however much she might have disapproved.
"I think he wanted to surprise you," Mattie said, as if she could read his mind from where he stood outside the studio; that was a troubling thought.
"I'm sure he did," Jean answered. "And really, you two did a remarkable amount of work. And it looks beautiful."
High praise indeed, he thought, coming from Jean, who could find fault with anything.
"Lucien wanted you to like it. He wanted it to be beautiful, for you."
There was a strange, almost wheedling note to the girl's voice that Lucien did not understand at all. It made him quite nervous.
"Yes, and I'm sure I'll be grateful for that when I'm too tired to get out of bed for days at a time."
"Oh, Jean," Mattie sighed; all trace of teasing had left her now. "I am so sorry."
"Yes, well," Jean said, and Lucien could almost picture her reaching out, catching Mattie's chin in her hand in that comforting sort of way she had. "What will be will be, won't it?"
Perhaps that was true, but Lucien remained determined to do everything in his power to make Jean comfortable, to keep her well, to protect her in the days ahead. He had lingered long enough; Mattie would be leaving any second now, and it wouldn't do for her to catch him eavesdropping, and so he squared his shoulders, and marched into Jean's new little parlor.
They had passed some time in there already, the three of them, enjoying a cup of tea before supper, and then they had all trooped off to the table together. Jean had tutted over the fare Mrs. Toohey had brought, and promised Lucien and Mattie that she would make their supper herself the following day, a pronouncement that was met with much relief from her charges. After supper Lucien tried to help with the dishes, but Jean had been firm in her insistence that his help wasn't needed; he'd sat and fretted on the sofa in front of the television until she finally joined them, settling herself into her favorite armchair and picking up her knitting. Watching her needles darting and weaving in the glow of Game of Champions had never been as comforting to him as it was on this night. But now, the time had come for them all to go to bed, and it didn't seem right to go off without bidding them both good night.
Mattie smiled, as Lucien stepped into the studio.
"It's lovely to have you home, Jean," she said, and then she leaned over and kissed Jean's cheek. "Good night."
"Good night, Mattie," Jean answered, smiling, though her gaze drifted curiously towards Lucien.
"Lucien," Mattie said as she passed him in the doorway. There was a bit of mischief in her eyes, and he could not for the life of him imagine why.
"Mattie," he said, and then she was gone, and he was left alone with Jean. Feeling somewhat awkward, then, he stuffed his hands in his pockets, and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
"Erm," he said. Not the most auspicious beginning, to be sure. "I've spoken with Doctor Nicholson. Mattie is going to collect your medication from the hospital on her rounds each Monday. It will need to be kept in the refrigerator. We'll get one week's worth at a time."
"I'll clear out a space for it, then," Jean said. She looked as miserable as he felt, in that moment; he'd raised the specter of her illness, now, and any good humor Mattie's presence might have left behind had well and truly vanished.
"He's already sent over a supply for this week, so I think we'll get started tomorrow, if that's all right with you."
Jean sighed, and rested her hand against the back of the new leather sofa, leaning away from him as if she could hardly bear to be in the same room with him. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't personal, that it was the tidings he brought and not Lucien himself she objected to, but it was hard to believe, at present.
"What's going to happen, Lucien? I mean, how will this work?"
"You'll take a few pills each morning, and then three days a week I'll administer treatment intravenously. You likely won't notice a change right at first; you'll probably feel fine tomorrow, and maybe even the next day."
"But eventually I won't feel fine at all, will I?"
Lucien looked at her a bit helplessly; they both knew the answer, and yet he was not prepared to face it.
"Will I need to sit in the surgery, when you give me the medication?"
"I think that's probably for the best. Mattie and I sat down with my appointment book, and we marked out all the mornings you'll need treatment, so you'll have my full attention."
She frowned; she probably didn't approve of anyone meddling in the appointments, the organization of which was Jean's sole domain, but Mattie had made all the calls herself, and done a fine job, to Lucien's mind.
"What if Superintendent Lawson needs you?"
"Superintendent Lawson can wait."
He said the words with more heat than he'd intended; Jean's eyebrow quirked in surprise, but she brought herself back under control quickly. No doubt she thought he was being impulsive again, making grand declarations he had no intention of committing to, but Lucien had already discussed the matter with Matthew, and Matthew had been as firm as Lucien himself on the subject of Jean's care. Her treatment would come first; anything else would have to wait.
"I'm going to get very tired of you poking at me with needles, aren't I?" Jean asked a bit wryly. Lucien saw through her attempt at levity at once; it did not happen often, those strange beats of silence between them, but it happened often enough for Lucien to recognize it for what it was. One or another of them would say something that challenged their preconceptions of one another, and they would be left watching each other, thoughtful, wondering what else they could have been wrong about. Maybe Jean had been wondering, just then, if Lucien was really as selfish as she'd always thought him to be. Maybe he just wanted to think that was the case.
"Oh yes, I imagine so," he said, as lightly as he could manage. Months stretched out before him, months of him taking Jean's blood pressure and her weight, months of him pressing his fingers to the tender skin at the crook of her arm, sliding a needle into her vein, months of him close to her, looking after her, months of them trying to find some way to share such proximity courteously, without offending one another, months of watching her suffer, and nothing for him to do but wait, and hope. Months of darkness, and the light at the end of the tunnel was not guaranteed. His heart sank as he looked at her now; she was...beautiful, in the gentle golden glow of the fire he'd laid for her, beautiful, with her perfect curls and her perfect makeup, her red-painted nails still shiny and unchipped despite the fortnight in hospital, her eyes bright and warm. She was beautiful, now, but would the cancer steal the beauty from her, too, along with everything else? Somehow he thought not.
"Thank you, Lucien," Jean said quietly, her eyes soft, and watching him. "For everything you did for me in hospital. For organizing the medication. For this," she waved her hand, encompassing all of the studio in that one gesture.
"It's my pleasure, Jean," he told her, more earnestly than he meant to. "You know," he took a step towards her, thought better of it at the last moment, and then veered away, heading towards the fireplace. "The studio was my favorite place in the whole house, when I was little. My mother was always in here, making something, and sometimes she'd let me play with her paints. It's nice to see the rooms open again, and put to good use."
And it was, nice, to have thrown open those doors and found warmth and peace within, and not further grief. It was like the lancing of a wound, he thought; ignored, the sorrow of this place had festered, but now that he had faced it he found himself grateful for the memories, and grateful, too, that no corner of the house remained haunted. If the ghost of Genevieve Blake still walked here, she was no longer unhappy.
"Your father loved her very much, you know," Jean said, and when he turned to look at her he found her walking towards him, coming to join him at the fireplace. The thought of his father made him frown; there had been little love in the Thomas Blake he recalled, but Jean had always spoken of him so warmly, with respect and care, and her respect grated on his nerves. As far as he was concerned, Thomas hadn't earned it. But then again, Jean thought he had; perhaps Thomas had been kinder to his housekeeper than he'd ever been to his son. It was an unpleasant thought.
"So did I," Lucien said grimly. Lucien had adored his maman, and then a bare few days after she died Thomas had sent him away, to grieve her all alone at the tender age of ten. It wasn't something he liked to recall.
"Here," he said suddenly, wanting to change the subject. "I asked them leave this." He reached out for the mantle above the fireplace, and withdrew a small piece of gold leaf. "My mother used it in her paintings. Gold leaf is very light, you see, and she used to take a piece like this," he held it out in front of the fire, the heat against his palm helping him find the air current rising off of it, and all the while Jean watched him, hardly blinking. "She'd say watch this, and then…"
And then he let it go, and he and Jean watched together as the gold leaf caught, and lifted; she tilted her chin, watching the leaf rising higher and higher, but Lucien just watched her, the soft, wondering smile that stretched across her face, the long, elegant line of her slender neck, the curve of her jaw, and he smiled, too, thinking she was more beautiful than any gilded ceiling.
"That's wonderful," Jean said, laughing; she tilted her head back further, turned slightly on her heel, taking in the full view of the ceiling, now, covered in all its many flecks of gold.
"Even on a cloudy night, you'll have a sky full of stars," Lucien said, quite without meaning to. If he'd intended it, surely he wouldn't have managed to express himself so poetically, he thought ruefully. That was what he'd wanted, in fixing up these rooms for Jean, was to give her something beautiful, something that might make her happy, something that might ease the pain that was coming for her, in the days ahead.
For a moment Jean stood still, staring at the ceiling, but then she slowly lowered her head until she was looking him in the eyes. There was a flush in her cheeks; the heat of the fire, he told himself, though in his heart he wished she might have had another reason to blush.
"Thank you, Lucien," she whispered.
The moment stretched, silence falling on them like a blanket of snow, muffling everything save for the sound of his own beating heart. A month ago he never would have dreamed that looking at Jean might make him feel like this, might make his stomach flip, his throat constrict, his blood race through his veins, but a month before he had not stood so damnably close to losing her, had not allowed himself to acknowledge how lovely she was, how strong she was, how badly he needed her. Everything had changed.
"You're quite welcome," he breathed. And then he caught himself; he was standing alone with his housekeeper in her private rooms, and whatever momentary whimsy may have fallen over him he was sure Jean would not approve. "Good night, Jean," he added, and then before all sense of propriety left him he turned to go.
"Good night, Lucien," her soft voice, strangely thoughtful now, chased him from the room.