8 August 1959

"Doc left, then?" Maureen asked as she came stalking back into the kitchen, wearing a pair of dark navy trousers and a loose-fitting blouse in place of the negligee she'd been sporting minutes before.

The sound of her voice startled Jean, helped her to shake free from the never ending circles of her thoughts twisting around and through one another, the tense battle between what her rational mind knew she needed and what her heart wanted put off, for a time, but not concluded. No victor had been named in that war, as yet, but Jean knew she was rapidly running out of time to make her decision.

"Yes," Jean answered, watching as Maureen took up the stool Lucien had only so recently vacated. At twenty-six years old Maureen was still so young, to Jean's eyes, but she was old for this business, had seen and endured more than any woman should before she'd even turned thirty. They were kindred spirits in that way, Jean and Maureen, for Jean had been a mother at twenty-one, a widow by twenty-seven, a whore by twenty-nine. She knew what it was, to grow old before her time.

But Maureen's face was lovely, still; her blue eyes sparkled, and her auburn hair shone, and there were no wrinkles around the corners of her clever mouth. The girl never missed a trick; her steady gaze took in everyone and everything around her, her quick mind storing every detail away, down payments on future returns. Of all the girls it was Maureen who seemed to like Doctor Blake the least, perhaps because she was the one who knew best how quickly a man's attentions could turn to ruin. She'd seen it often enough, over the years, and she could recognize the signs Jean's battered heart refused to see.

"Stayed the night, did he?" Maureen asked coolly.

Jean was still standing at the counter, putting the finishing touches on the eggs, two plates already piled with toast and a fresh cup of tea for Maureen ready and waiting. As she spoke Maureen reached for that cup, knowing it was meant for her; every time they enjoyed breakfast together - which was most every day - Jean poured her tea in the china cup painted with pale pink flowers. Jean herself preferred the blue one.

"No," Jean answered, wanting to disabuse her charge of that notion at once. "He just stopped in to say hello."

Another lie, another sin to repent the next time she went to confession. Lucien had taken the letter with him when he left, and while Jean had decided to take the risk and tell him the truth, she desperately did not want to lay her burdens on Maureen. The less people knew about Major Alderton's offer the better, she thought, and what Maureen did not know she could not be called to account for. The best way to keep her safe would be to keep her in the dark, and so Jean told her lies, knowing she would repent for them later but seeing no other way.

It would seem Maureen didn't believe her; the girl frowned, and took a sip of her tea, watching Jean closely. Men didn't stop in the pub at first light just to say hello, not when Jean was still dressed in her frumpy pink robe and the front door was still locked from the night before, and Maureen knew it.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," Maureen said softly. There was something troubled, almost hurt in her tone, and it was Jean's turn to watch her, to take in the way Maureen stared sullenly at her tea, and wonder what it meant. What must be running through that girl's head, Jean wondered; what must this all look like to her? She knew that Jean had taken the Doctor on as a customer, and she knew that he came round in the evenings for tea and a chat more often than he came for...the other thing, and Jean could only imagine what sort of conclusions she'd drawn.

"Maureen-"

"You haven't taken a customer since I came here, Mrs. Beazley. And then the Doc shows up, and I know you're keeping secrets, and then there's those two Army blokes. Something's not right and if I'm going to stay here I want to know what it is."

The eggs were finished and so Jean took her time in serving them, trying to gather her thoughts. If I'm going to stay here...did Maureen mean to leave her? She had no parents to speak of, had been raised by a cruel aunt she'd fled the moment she turned sixteen, had survived a few harsh years in Melbourne before she caught a train to Ballarat and turned up at Jean's door. No one else had ever looked after Maureen, and she'd learned early on to rely on herself, and not wait for someone else to save her. If she felt she could not trust Jean then yes, she might flee, and much as Jean longed to see Maureen settled in a happier, more meaningful life she did not want them to part on such terms; Maureen was as dear to her as her own daughter, and she could not bear the thought of bad blood between them.

"I don't quite know where to begin," Jean said, handing one of the plates over to Maureen. The girl placed her teacup on the counter and balanced her plate on her knees, picking idly at her toast. Maybe it would be better, Jean thought, if she told Maureen now. Maybe it would do her good to confide in someone, and at the very least Maureen could provide another set of eyes and ears in the pub. There was still the troubling matter of how Major Alderton had found out about Jean's connection to Lucien in the first place, and perhaps, she thought, Maureen might know a thing or two about it, might be able to provide some insight into how that had happened.

"Doctor Blake is just a customer," Jean soldiered on, settling herself on the stool beside Maureen with her teacup cradled in her hands. Though she'd made a bite of breakfast for herself she found she couldn't stomach the thought of eating, just now. "But you're right, I have allowed him some...leniency. I wouldn't have accepted just anyone and I think you know that."

"I do," Maureen said. "That's what worries me. There's no way this ends well, and I don't want to see you hurt."

The concern in the girl's voice quite touched Jean's heart, for while she had devoted herself to the care and keeping of the young ladies beneath her roof for years she could not recall when last anyone had worried about her.

"I can look after myself," Jean told her gently. "I will end it, if I think he's getting carried away."

Only he's gotten carried away already, and I didn't end it at all. God help me, I don't know if I have the strength.

"And those Army blokes? I told you I didn't like the look of the one I had, and the other one came round again just to see you. I saw your face while he was talking to you. You looked scared."

Somehow Jean had quite forgotten that Maureen had been behind the bar when Major Alderton came round the second time. But of course she had been; it was Maureen who'd poured the sherry the Major brought to her table, the sherry she'd never drunk, knowing it had been paid for with his coin.

"Yes, I'm worried about those two," Jean allowed carefully. She didn't want to divulge too much, but she knew that Maureen would see through any further lies, and she did not want to risk alienating her, not now. "Major Alderton, that's the name of the man who was here last night. He wants to cause trouble for the Doctor. He found out somehow, about our appointments."

"But how?" Maureen asked, abandoning her toast in favor of winding her fingertips anxiously round the edge of her plate. "You were careful. We're the only ones who knew anything about it."

By we Maureen meant every girl in the pub; they all thought it rather charming, Jean knew. The girls thought Doctor Blake was handsome, and they were not all as skeptical of romance as Maureen. The dashing Doctor sweeping the poor madam off her feet, taking her away to a better life; that was the kind of fairy story they told themselves, but Jean knew better, and so did Maureen.

"Someone must have said something," Jean told her. But who? And why?

"I'll bet it was Raine," Maureen said darkly. "She's taken a shine to that Lieutenant who comes round on Tuesdays. And that first time Doctor Blake came to visit, that was a Tuesday."

How on earth did Maureen remember that? Jean had forgotten it herself, the details of time and date seeming insignificant in comparison to the titanic events that had been unleashed afterward.

"Do you think you could find out for me? Discreetly?" Jean asked. "I don't want trouble, but it would help to know how the Major found out about...all this."

"Of course," Maureen answered at once. "If it was Raine I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it. She just likes to talk."

That she did, and Jean knew it well. But if Lorraine had said something to her Lieutenant, and he'd carried that news back to the base, Jean imagined it was only matter of time before someone else found out, someone a little closer to home; if Matthew Lawson ever learned what Lucien had done Jean was sure he'd be out of the police surgeon's job at once, and then what would become of him? His reputation in tatters, his livelihood at risk, and all because of her, because she wanted him too badly to tell him no; she couldn't bear the thought.

"I do have one more favor to ask," Jean told her then.

"Oh, I'd do anything for you, Mrs. Beazley," Maureen answered dryly. She would though; they both knew it.

"I need you to run things for me next weekend. I'll be gone Friday evening to Sunday morning."

"Gone?" Maureen repeated incredulously. Jean couldn't fault her for her disbelief; it wasn't as if Jean ever took a holiday. The Lock and Key was her lifeblood, the entire operation supported by her own two hands. Over the years Jean had never taken ill with anything more serious than a cold, and she had been known to sit sniffling at her booth rather than spend an evening away from her girls. But that had begun to change, as of late; she'd twice now asked Maureen to keep watch over the pub while she entertained Doctor Blake, and now she was asking for quite a bit more than an hour of Maureen's time. She'd have to oversee all the work on Friday evening, would have to make sure the girls got something to eat on Saturday, would have to sit idly by on the two busiest nights of the week, turning down her regular customers in favor of manning Jean's post in the corner. As much as Jean hated to ask this of her, however, she imagined it as a trial run of sorts. She was placing a great deal of trust in Maureen, leaving her in charge and unsupervised for so long. If Maureen handled it well, if she took to being the boss, well, then Jean could rest assured that when it finally came time for her to step away from the Lock and Key for good she would be leaving it in good hands.

"I'll pay you a good wage for both days," Jean said, somewhat evasively.

"But where will you be?"

Jean should have known better than to hope Maureen would not press for details.

"I'll be with the Doctor. He has a phone, so you can ring me if there's trouble. I'll leave the number for you."

"You'll be at his house? Mrs. Beazley -"

"I think this is the last time I'll see him, Maureen," Jean cut her off softly.

It had to be the last time; she'd come to that realization as they talked, the matter settled at last. Lucien was risking too much, carrying on with her, and she could offer him so little in return. He could hardly marry a whore, and she could not give him what he wanted. You were a whore when you met him, and that's how he'll always see you; Jean could almost hear Mrs. Harker's voice echoing in her mind. Men came to her for one reason, and one reason only, and yes, Lucien was good, and kind, and looked at her sometimes as if she were the most precious thing in his world, but deep down he was the same as the rest. What if I don't want to save you? What if I want to buy you instead? He had purchased the use of her body, and while he had no doubt enjoyed himself Jean could see what he could not. This thing between them was exciting to him because it was illicit, and Lucien was the sort of man who needed that excitement, that risk, that puzzle to solve. He had not offered her marriage, after all, and what overtures he'd made outside their allotted hour had involved his hands on her hips, his lips close to hers, seeking that physical pleasure. Same as the rest. It was sex he wanted, she was sure, whether he realized it or not, not a grandmother fast approaching fifty who spent her evenings knitting and sipping tea. He would grow tired of her, and then what would she have left? When the bloom went off the rose, and she was left without the love he heart longed for, when all her worst fears were proven well-founded, she would be alone, again.

It would be best, for both of them, if this were the last time. They could make a plan to deal with Derek Alderton when he returned - Lucien would still want to confront the man, Jean was sure, regardless of the state of his relationship with her - and she could hold him, one last time, and then she could tell him, carefully, that the risks were too great, and her mind was made up. It would hurt, she knew it would, but it was better to hurt a little by her own choice now than to be shattered by him later.

At least, that's what she told herself.

Perhaps Maureen had heard the note of regret in her voice, for she did not protest any further. As far as Jean was aware Maureen had never felt anything for any man at all, had always guarded her heart so fiercely and laughed at the very idea of romance. She was steady, and practical, but there was a bitterness in her. If wishing could have made it so Jean would have given Maureen a love of her own, for she felt the girl deserved that much, to know what Jean had known, when she was young and lying next to her husband, the comfort, the security, the peace, that came with love. Those evenings when she'd been standing by the sink, washing up after supper, and her children had been playing at her feet, and Christopher had caught her by the waist, spun her in his arms and danced her round the kitchen while her heart sang with joy; that was love, and Maureen had never known its like, and Jean never would again, and she grieved for them both, in that moment.

"I am sorry, you know," Maureen told her then. "For what it's worth. I know you...liked him. You deserved better than this."

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," Jean said, fighting back a sudden rush of tears, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I've got you, don't I?"

"I think you're the only person I've ever really loved, Mrs. Beazley," Maureen told her then, and one of those tears did escape her, spilling silently down her cheek. "You deserve to be happy."

"So do you, love," Jean told her. Impulsively she leaned across and kissed Maureen's cheek, and then wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. "Eat your breakfast," she said, then, trying to sound businesslike, trying to restore some sense of normalcy in the wake of their unusual candor. "Don't let it get cold."

Maureen smiled at her, and some of the grief in her heart lessened, then. It would be difficult, damn near impossible to let Lucien go, but it would be for the best. And in the end, Jean would still have her home, and her girls, and the life she'd made for herself, and surely, she told herself, that would be enough.