XXIII

Lucien was pleased that no one bothered him during the rest of the time for Confession that day. He did not know what he would have done, should anyone have come by to whine about their silly sins to him then. Not to mention the fact that the screen between priest and confessor was a splintered mess. That certainly would have bothered people. He'd need to see to that first thing.

He left the confessional and hurried out of St. Catherine's and across the grounds to the rectory. As he walked, he tried to remember if the phone number for the chap who did carpentry work for the church was in his office or somewhere in the rectory. Probably in the office. He'd call later. But first he'd need to look after his hand. The blood was starting to dry, but there was probably a fair number of wood splinters caught in the wounds he'd have to find a way to pick out. Using the tweezers with his left hand was going to be an interesting chore.

But when he went in the front door, he was utterly shocked to see Mrs. Beazley's jacket and handbag there in the entryway as always. He had assumed, after their difficult talk, that she had gone home. Part of him wanted her to go home, as he did not know how to face her now. Part of him was immensely grateful that he had another chance to try and explain things.

"Jean?" he called out.

"Kitchen," she called back.

He braced himself, unsure of the mood she was in. "I didn't expect you'd be here," he began as he walked in and found her making two cups of tea.

"I nearly went home, but we've got catechism class later today. I still have a job to do, no matter how I feel about it," she said, barely looking up at him.

"You needn't be here if you don't want to be, Jean," he told her softly. "Especially now, I…I don't want you to feel pressured or…or obligated."

She gave the smallest hint of a smile. "Not pressured. But still obligated. But I think that's for the best."

He did not entirely know what she meant so he just nodded and said, "Perhaps."

Jean's eyes went wide all of a sudden. "What have you done to your hand?!"

Lucien hesitated, bringing the bloody mess up. "I…erm…"

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Oh come here."

He crossed the kitchen to her. Jean's reticence and nervousness from before had evaporated as she took charge of the task before her. She took his hand, carefully but firmly, and ran the cold water from the tap over it. He hissed at the slight sting of it. But the dried blood washed away. She rubbed her fingers over the stubborn spots, careful to avoid the wounds themselves.

"Sit down in your armchair," she instructed. "I'm going to get some wrappings and I want to have the light from that lamp so I can make sure there's nothing caught in there."

"Thank you," he answered softly.

She paused slightly, searching his face. But she just gave a curt nod and hurried out of the room. Lucien did as he was told, turning on the lamp and sitting down. Jean was back before he knew it with some gauze and tape and a set of tweezers from his bathroom. Obviously she'd figured out where he kept his medical supplies. He wasn't a doctor anymore, but for various accidents like this, he liked having some things on hand.

Jean sat on the arm of the chair and took his hand to hold under the light. He watched her turquoise eyes scrutinize the scrapes and cuts on his knuckles.

"What did you put your fist through?" she asked.

"The screen in the confessional. After you left," he admitted.

She plucked a tiny sliver out of one of his cuts, causing him to flinch with the sting of it. "So this is wood?" she asked.

He nodded.

Jean sighed, still focused on his hand. "Oh Lucien."

"You seem to know what you're doing there," he noted.

She hummed. "Plenty of practice cleaning off bloody and bruised knuckles."

"Husband or sons?"

"Both. My Christopher was quick to get in a fight in a pub. I patched him up more times than I could count. And then our Jack had a tendency to get into trouble. I hoped he'd grow out of it, take after young Christopher, but he never did."

"They were lucky to have you to take care of them."

Her lips twitched slightly, but she did not answer.

Lucien let silence fall between them before broaching the important subject. "I think we should continue our conversation from before. Before you left and I put my fist through a wooden screen."

She looked up into his eyes. "Yes, I think so. I'm sorry I was short with you. I…"

"Yes?" he prompted.

Jean had finished cleaning the wounds at that point. She dabbed a bit of antiseptic ointment from the tube in her lap and then went about bandaging his hand. "It was foolish of me to come to you in Confession."

"No," he disagreed, "it was a good place for us to talk."

"But we couldn't talk as ourselves there. And that's what we should have done. I shouldn't have been so much of a coward. Because sitting in that confessional, I needed you to be my priest. But you're…you're not. Not in that way," she said.

An ache in his chest constricted him at her words. The idea that he had let her down—her, of all people!—wounded him to his core. But she was right. He could not give her support and absolution and strength. Not about this. "I can't be your priest, Jean," he told her softly.

"I know. And that's why I got cross. But I shouldn't have expected it of you." She finished taping the gauze on his hand and lifted it to press her lips to his fingers. "I don't want you to be my priest, Lucien," she murmured.

Jean gazed at his face as she held his hand, having bandaged his wound. He looked at her with such awe. Such reverence and such affection. He'd looked at her that way before, though she could not quite recall when that had begun. All Jean knew was that when Lucien looked at her that way, her doubts melted away. He wasn't Father Blake, he wasn't a priest, and this bloom of love they shared was not deeply wrong. No, when he looked at her like this, he was only Lucien, a man who loved her, and she was only a woman who loved him in return.

The longing she felt for him was overwhelming sometimes. She had gone to Confession because she hadn't known what else to do, hadn't known how to speak to him otherwise. She knew now that was a mistake. Because they could not be Jean and Lucien inside St. Catherine's. Only here, in the safety of these four walls could they be themselves.

"Come here, please," he said softly, gently holding her hand in his injured one and pulling her towards him.

She smiled, pushing the first aid materials off her lap and moving to sit on his. Lucien wrapped her arms around her, one around her back and one resting on her hip. Jean tucked herself within his embrace, feeling all at once safe and electrified by this closeness. It was folly, surely, but she couldn't worry about that now. She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted to be held in his arms now and always.

For over a week, things had been strained between them. Ten days, in fact, since she had stood right beside where they sat now, and tenderly kissed the scars on his back. Another foolish thing she shouldn't have done. She was glad she had. And she was glad she allowed him to hold her like this now.

"What do we do, Lucien?" she whispered.

He hugged her tighter. "I don't know," he replied. He'd said that before. In Confession. Though it was different now. He continued, "I don't want to try to hide how I feel anymore. I thought I could be strong enough for the both of us, to keep away from you."

"You did?" she asked in slight disbelief. Since when was he the one to be strong and follow the rules?

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I've given up drinking."

She gasped in slight surprise. "Completely?"

"For now, yes. I don't know that I'll continue with nothing but communion wine, but I needed to…"

Jean traced the line of his beard with her fingertips. "You needed to what?"

He sighed sadly. "I needed to be sober to keep away from you."

"And what do you call this?" she teased.

Lucien buried his face against her shoulder. "I can't bear it, Jean."

She stroked his hair gently. "I know," she whispered. "I know."

Eventually they would need to get ahold of themselves and go to the church and set up for catechism and retain normalcy around the children. There was still a few hours till then, thankfully, and there was still much to discuss. Only perhaps not just now. Jean did not want to return to the real world just yet. She wanted to hold him a little while longer. She wanted to be held like this by the man she loved. She wanted to be with him just like this, in the safe haven of each other's arms. For now, the tea in the kitchen would grow cold and everything would be alright. Just for now.