6 August 1959
How long had it been? Ten minutes? Thirty? Jean had no idea, and her limbs were too heavy to move, and her heart too soft to muster the resolve it would take to force herself out of this position. They lay together, still and peaceful, Lucien's head pillowed on her stomach, her fingers drifting slowly through his hair, his eyes closed, his expression soft, and content, and untroubled by worry. The fierceness with which they had fallen together shocked her, now, as she realized how completely she had allowed herself to be swept away, how they had danced together on the brink of madness. She could feel him, heavy where he rested in her lap, sticky between her thighs, but she was too grateful for this chance to touch him to be uncomfortable just yet. The time for practicalities - and for worries - would come later. For now, this moment, she wanted to think only of him, returned to her arms at last.
"Tell me what happened in China," she whispered to him. There had been a sadness in him when he first came to her, a sorrow she had not expected after he'd spent more than a month away from her, travelling in a foreign land to see his child. She had thought, before he arrived, that he would be happy when he came back, happy to have been given this chance to reconnect with his daughter, hopeful for the future, but the truth stood in stark opposition to those expectations; he had not seemed glad, or hopeful at all, and she wanted to know the reason why. She wanted to soothe his hurt with her own two hands, to take the pain from him, if she could.
Beneath her hand Lucien frowned, but did not open his eyes. He turned his head, let his lips brush against the soft skin of her belly, and she fancied she could almost hear the whirring of his mind, the way his thoughts rolled over and over one another, trying to find the strength to give voice to words he did not wish to say. At last, however, he found his courage, and spoke.
"I saw her," he said, "my Li. She's beautiful. Twenty-three, now. She's married a fine lad, and they're expecting a baby."
"Oh, Lucien, that's wonderful," Jean sighed, and found quite suddenly that tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes. Not only had Lucien's daughter been found, but she was carrying a child of her own, a grandchild for Lucien to love as he loved his daughter. He had found more than just one wayward girl in Shanghai; he had found his family. Jean thought of her own granddaughter, little Amelia Jean, that precious girl Jean loved so well, and yet saw so rarely. It was a beautiful thing, to see one's children grow up and start families of their own, make lives for themselves, and it was a terrible thing to be so far away from them.
"She doesn't want to know me, Jean. She asked me to leave."
One of those tears escaped her, slid slowly down her cheek, joy turned to grief. That was the reason for his sorrow, then, the reason he had sought sanctuary in her embrace, the reason he would not look at her now. He was a stranger to his own child, and she did not want to know him. Life had been hard to Li, Jean knew, so long separated from her father, raised by strangers, reared in a country that might as well have been another world, compared to Ballarat. How strange must Lucien have seemed to her eyes, this tall, broad man with his carefully styled hair, his neat beard, his fine suit; what had Li seen when she looked at him? Did she think herself abandoned, did she think she had no need of him? Did she not know how long he had searched, how consumed his heart had been with thoughts of her for nearly twenty years? Or had her grief made her hard, unwilling to let him in lest he hurt her afresh?
Jean had raised two children of her own, had poured all of herself into loving them, and she knew she had received a gift that Lucien had been denied, to have kept her children close to her and not lost them to horror. But Christopher would not visit, and Jack…
He doesn't want to know me either, she thought then. Their stories were very different, hers and Lucien's, the paths they'd taken through life quite divergent from one another, and yet she understood his sorrow, at least in part, for she knew what it was to love a child, and be spurned by them. Jack would not answer her letters, and he never rang, as young Christopher sometimes did, had not darkened her door in years, and might not ever again. He was lost to her, out in the world, making his own way, and his mother grieved for him, and worried for the choices he'd made, just as she knew Lucien must worry for his Li.
"I'm so sorry," she told him softly, her fingers still carding gently through his hair. She was sorry, more sorry than she could say; his letter had been full of hope, and she could see now all those hopes had been dashed.
"I do have a photograph of her," he said, his eyes still closed. "It's in my wallet now. And she said I could write to her, if I wanted to. She doesn't want me to visit again, she seemed almost angry with me for turning up in the first place, but she's allowed me that much. I still have a chance, I think, to patch things up between us. Though for the life of me I don't know where to begin."
"You've made a start already," Jean assured him. "You went all that way just to see her. Surely she can see how important she is to you, how much you care."
Lucien's eyes finally opened, and he smiled up at her, softly, warmth and affection written in every line of his face.
"Yes," he sighed. "And I will write to her. There's so much left to say."
Jean knew a thing or two about that, as well. There were so many things she longed to say to her children, explanations she longed to give. Young Christopher disapproved of her work and Jack felt himself slighted at every turn and neither of them knew, truly, why she had made the choices she did. They didn't know how close their family had come to calamity, how Jean had done whatever she could to provide a good life for them, how she had come to the Lock and Key hoping to keep them fed, to give them a chance for something better than she'd ever had. And somehow she felt they didn't understand, truly, what losing their father had done to her; they'd been children when he died, and though they missed him, though they both grieved for him, she had never let them see how his death had nearly broken her in half. There was so much they did not know, and perhaps, she thought, the time had come to tell them, just as it had come for Lucien and his Li.
"How much time do I have left, Jean?" he asked her then.
Jean frowned; she did not want to think about that now. She did not want to shoo him from her room, did not want to clean herself up and go downstairs to make supper for the girls, did not want to sit in her corner booth and brood on Major Alderton's impending return, and the rejection she knew she must make, despite his appealing offer. All of those things, the bloody, practical details of her life, they left her feeling cold, and sad. It was Lucien she wanted, curled up safe and warm in her bed. It was this peace, this connection to him, the warmth of affection, the simple, open life of an ordinary woman she wanted. She wanted to cook a meal just for them, and sit beside him on the sofa, wanted a garden and a bed that was not meant for her alone. She wanted peace, but Lucien had asked, and in the asking had reminded her that such things were not meant for her.
Gently she reached out, caught hold of his hand and lifted it up so she could check his watch.
"You're ten minutes over time, Doctor Blake," she told him sadly.
The seconds had never moved so quickly, with any other man. Most of them didn't even need a full hour; they did what they came to do, and they left. Not so with Lucien, Lucien who seemed to fill every breath with the pursuit of her satisfaction as much as his own, Lucien who had surged within her, doing his best to hold off his own release for as long as he could, just to watch her, to be with her. She had never longed to stop time before, but for Lucien she would gladly have broken every clock and hourglass in the pub, would have cast his watch out the window and pulled him down to her if she could, if only she were brave enough.
The rules are there to protect you, Mrs. Harker had told her when she was just beginning. Rule number one: you can always say no. That's to keep you safe, if you get a bad feeling about a fella. Rule number two: keep feelings out of it. Remember, Jeannie, this isn't love, or courtship, or walking out or anything like it. This is business. Even if a man promises to take you away and give you a better life, you must remember that's a promise he can't keep. You were a whore when you met him, and that's how he'll always see you. It'll save you some heartache, if you don't get too attached.
Jean had broken rule number two, she knew. It was too late to keep feelings out of it; every time she looked at Lucien her heart swelled with love. He was a dear man, a sweet man, and he had never once treated her with anything less than respect. He fascinated her, enthralled her, drew her in as a moth to a flame, and worst of all she wanted him. But what she wanted could not ever be; she could not be his wife, and likewise she could not let him take her over, could not lose her hard-won independence, the control over her own life she had worked so hard for. There had been a few girls, over the years, who had thought they'd found a way out, been set up in neat little flats or sprawling houses, made mistresses to one man and one man only, their every need provided for, and every one of those stories had ended in heartbreak, when the men grew bored, when they found a newer, younger girl, when they realized they did not have to pay the price of keeping up a mistress when they could marry a respectable lady and have their fun for free. Some of the men grew too controlling, believing they owned their new girl out right, taking and taking from her, tightening the noose around her neck, her new home a gilded cage from which there was no escape. Those girls had been lost to darkness, their hopes dashed, and Jean did not want to become one of them.
Already she allowed Lucien too much freedom. Had allowed him to have her too cheaply, to stay with her too long, had allowed him to have her without an appointment, to take her without a condom. Already she had given him too much of her heart. It was folly, to allow things to continue in this way. This thing between them was sure to end in tears and grief, and yet she had given him all these gifts willfully, with her whole self, for he had brought her joy when she had been so very long without it. The prudent thing to do would be to put an end to things between them, and soon.
But not just yet, she thought. Though she had told him his time was through Lucien had not moved, was only watching her, still lying comfortable and warm in her lap. They had spent such a lovely time together today, and his heart was hurting, and she would not make things worse by wounding him now. Soon, she thought. But not today.
"Off with you, then," she told him gently, her fingertips trailing against his face, taking some of the sting out of her words.
Lucien grinned, a bit ruefully, and pressed a kiss against her stomach before rolling away from her, rising to his feet and casting around in search of his clothes. All the while Jean lay, naked and warm and sprawled across her bedsheets, watching as he slowly dressed, hid his powerful, beautiful body from view. One piece at a time the expanse of his tan skin disappeared, until at last he was presentable - though he tucked his tie in his pocket, and did not bother to button up his waistcoat.
"How do I look, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked her, a note of teasing in his voice. And why shouldn't he tease her, she thought, why shouldn't he look happy; he had found his pleasure, and they had spoken softly to one another, and he had no idea of the dark thoughts that raced through her mind.
"You'll do," she answered primly.
Lucien laughed and crossed the room to stand beside her at once, leaning over her and pressing a kiss against her forehead, and the tenderness of that touch left her aching in ways she did not even want to contemplate.
"You stay there," he told her as she made to rise. "You look comfortable. I know the way."
And so Jean settled back against the pillows and watched him go, saw him smile as he closed the bedroom door behind him, and sighed, her heart heavy and full of grief.