14 August 1959
Lucien prowled the perimeter of the parlor like a tiger in a too-small cage, puffing absently on a cigarette and trying to still the tremor of his hands. The cigarette was more of a prop than a necessity; he needed something to do, some way to focus himself, and his anxious circuit of the parlor took him by the ashtray on the mantle above the fireplace every few paces, anyway.
The arrangements had all been made. He'd rung the pub on Tuesday afternoon - having obtained the number from Jean much earlier in their acquaintance, to spare them both the long uncomfortable silence that had followed their first assignation - and he and Jean had settled the details amongst themselves. Mrs. Penny had been instructed to depart the Blake house at noon on Friday, not to return until Monday morning, and she had done so gladly, though not before laying a large container of stew in the refrigerator, along with tomatoes and chutney, so that Lucien could make himself a sandwich. Lucien's skills in the kitchen were limited; he could manage toast and eggs, bacon in a pinch, a sandwich if the ingredients had already been purchased, but that was far as it went. No doubt Mrs. Penny knew this, and worried for him, and he appreciated her concern - and her well stocked larder - for it spared him precious moments he would otherwise have spent agonizing over how to feed Jean.
There was food, and whiskey, and wine, and a bottle of sherry purchased special, just for Jean. The only time he'd seen a glass of alcohol close to her hand it had been sherry, and he hoped that he had been right in assuming it was her drink of choice. Not that he had any intention of sitting around getting drunk with Jean - there was tea aplenty, as well - but he wanted, very much, for her to be comfortable here. In his home.
They had decided that Jean would join him at 5 o'clock on Friday evening, and stay until Sunday morning. It would be very early on Sunday when she left him, for Jean intended, as ever, to attend Sunday mass at Sacred Heart, but Lucien could not begrudge her an early departure when it was preceded by two blissful nights spent with Jean in his arms. Two nights without interruption - he had feigned regret when he cancelled his standing Friday night supper with Matthew, but if the superintendent suspected anything he had kept those suspicions to himself - two nights without a care for the hourglass, two nights, and one full day, to be spent, simply, with Jean.
Oh, there was much for them to discuss; he intended to tell her the story of Derek Alderton, how he'd met the man, how they'd come to be friends, how he suspected Derek of carrying on with his wife behind his back, how the war had banished any such concerns, how the camp had nearly been the end of them both, how they'd held one another together after, how angry Derek had been when Lucien chose to leave the army - to leave him - and start afresh as a civilian. It would do him good, he thought, to spill that truth out at Jean's feet, and together they could devise some sort of plan, as regarded Derek and how they ought to deal with him. That particular question - what on earth do we do when he comes back? - had plagued Lucien for days. He could hardly keep watch over the Lock and Key night and day, but he dreaded the thought of Jean facing Derek on her own, without him there to protect her. It would be no difficult thing for Derek to turn up in Ballarat and make his way to the pub before Lucien ever got wind of it, and what might happen then...well, it didn't bear thinking about.
But that's for tomorrow, he told himself, for perhaps the hundredth time. Derek would be a problem for Saturday; they could sit together on the sofa in the sunroom, could sip their tea and talk together, and pay no mind to anything but one another. Such troubles were best saved for daylight, and before they ventured down that road Lucien wanted, very much, to enjoy some time alone with Jean. When she arrived he planned to invite her inside, to give her a little tour of his home, to pour them each a drink to enjoy in the sunroom before eating dinner together. He'd never eaten more than a biscuit in Jean's company, and he was rather looking forward to the casual intimacy of sharing a meal with her, sitting together, smiling at one another across his table. Having Jean here, in his home, with him; what a beautiful thing that would be. Perhaps, he thought, it would be enough to show her how deeply he cared for her, how desperately he wanted her, how good things might be between them. She held out no hope of a normal life, he knew, did not believe the normal rituals of courtship and affection applied in her case, but he rather thought she deserved such things, and he meant to show her over the course of the weekend that there might be another way for them, that perhaps circumstances were not so dire as she believed.
And so he smoked, and fretted, until the clock struck five, and in the next breath he heard the sound of a knock upon the door. How very Jean, he thought; she had an inviolable sense of timing, honed no doubt through the course of her years with the Lock and Key, and she valued courtesy far too deeply to ever turn up late anywhere. Quickly Lucien stubbed out his cigarette, wiped his palms on the legs of his trousers, and rushed to greet his visitor.
When he opened the door he stood for a moment, looking at her, grinning like a fool. How lovely she was; she wore her pale pink blouse and smart brown skirt, and a simple gold necklace glittered at the base of her throat. She stood proud in her sensible suede pumps, her hair as neat and perfectly curled as ever, and in her hands she clutched a small fabric suitcase that looked as if it had not seen much use. She was lovely, and standing on his doorstep, intent on spending the weekend with him; he could think of nothing better.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Beazley," he said winsomely, stepping aside and holding the door open for her.
"Good afternoon, Doctor Blake," she answered, smiling; oh, but he loved that smile.
She stepped through the door and he closed it smartly behind her, and then turned to face her, this lovely creature whose unexpected arrival in his life had changed everything about him for the better. No doubt she was waiting for some instruction from him; she stood still, both hands wrapped around the handle of her case, watching him hesitantly, though her smile remained in place. It was Lucien's dearest wish to banish any sort of uncertainty between them, and so he moved at once, and relieved her of her case.
"Allow me," he said, relieved when she relinquished her hold on it without a fuss, "let's just pop this in here, shall we?"
His bedroom was just there, and so he opened the door, and stepped inside to stow her case out of the way. Silently Jean stepped up beside him, and he paused for a moment, wondering what she was thinking; her eyes scanned the room, taking in the mess of his dressing table, his heavy wooden trunk, his bed with its neat navy coverlet. What did she see when she looked at this room? he wondered. Did it meet with her approval? Had he made a grievous misstep in assuming she meant to spend the next two nights in his bed? They had agreed to meet to discuss Derek Alderton and yet no word had been spoken regarding any other business, he realized suddenly with some alarm. She had charged him no more for two nights than she had previously done for one brief hour; did she not intend on...were they not going to…
"Is everything all right, Lucien?" Jean asked him gently.
He smiled at her, a bit tightly, not wanting to give voice to the thoughts that consumed him.
"I'm just so very glad you're here, Jean," he said, and then he took a chance, and leaned across to brush his lips against her cheek.
Jean wrinkled her nose.
"You've been smoking," she said. There was a note of disapproval in her voice, but her eyes were sparkling with mirth, and he relaxed ever so slightly, relieved to hear her teasing him.
"Guilty," he answered. "But I won't, if you'd rather I didn't."
"I never cared for the smell," she told him, and he filed that information away, intent on humoring her, and not offending her again.
But no further words came to him, then. They had made it this far; she was standing in his bedroom, and the sun was still shining brightly through the windows, and he had hours upon hours to spend with her, and so very many things he wanted to do, but he hardly knew where to begin. What if she didn't want to see the house, what if she didn't want a drink, what if she didn't mean to sleep with him at all, what if she simply wanted to discuss Derek and then take her leave, what if he offended her now and ruined this beautiful dream before it had ever even begun?
"Lucien," Jean said his name softly, and then she reached out, caught hold of his hand, and gave him an encouraging smile. "Will you show me the rest of the house?"
If she would have let him he would have kissed her lips in that moment, but he remembered the rules very well, and so only lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her there gently in a gesture of gratitude and affection. It seemed her plans, at least for now, were right in line with his own, and he marveled at that, how well they seemed to fit together already.
"I'd be delighted to," he said.
And so he did.
Anxiety nipped at Jean's heart as Lucien led her through his home, despite her best efforts to keep it at bay. This night, and the following day, and the night after that, this was all the time she would have left with him, and she tried to tell herself to relax, to enjoy it, to save her worries for later. But oh, it was hard to put off her concerns with his fingers laced through hers, his eager smile taunting her. It was plain to see that Lucien was glad to have her here, and despite her grief over the impending loss of him Jean found that she was glad, too, that she had been given this chance to enjoy him, one last time.
The house was overwhelming, though. The perimeter was surrounded by a stout fence, planted with tall green hedges, and an imposing wrought iron gate opened onto the drive. The grass was green and bright, and now that she was inside it seemed as if the house went on forever. The little house she had shared with Christopher and her boys, that place she always thought of when she thought of home, was not half the size of Lucien's residence. His little bedroom had seemed modest enough, but then he led her upstairs, and she passed from room to room, wide-eyed and somewhat alarmed. No one had slept up here since the district nurse moved out, but each bedroom was fully furnished, the shelves stacked with books and knick-knacks. After that he'd taken her downstairs, showed her the sitting room, the parlor, the kitchen, the locked doors to the room he'd referred to as the studio with a note of longing in his voice, then the surgery, the reception area, his own office, until they made their way to the sunroom and finally stopped while Jean tried to calm her racing heart.
It was a beautiful home, but far too much space for one man on his own. It was no wonder, she thought, that old Doctor Blake had taken on boarders; he must have felt like a solitary pea, rattling around in an empty pot. Lucien, though, had done no such thing, and he lived alone in this palatial home, with no one to share it with, and seemed completely blind to the opulence of it all. He had two bathrooms, when Jean's old farmhouse had boasted none at all inside, and that kitchen...oh, it was the sort of kitchen she'd dreamed about, when she was young. The sunroom was beautiful, too, though the trellises and tables stood empty, no plants in sight. She could see the back garden through the glass walls of the sunroom, the disused flowerbeds beside the neatly tended grass, but Lucien did not seem to spare a thought for the grim sorrow of a bare patch of dirt, seemed utterly unconcerned that this home, with all its promise of life, stood so unfulfilled. It was, she thought, a troubling reminder of the differences in their stations, and an unwelcome one.
It wouldn't do to let herself be consumed by such thoughts, and she knew it. It wasn't her place to dream about how this house could be made into a home, and it wasn't her place to worry for Lucien, trapped alone inside it, and it didn't matter, really, if he never recognized the gift he had been given in this house, or how he had let it go to waste. Come Sunday it wouldn't be her place to think of him at all, and so she only squeezed his hand, and returned his smile when he caught her gaze.
"I was thinking," he said. "It's a lovely afternoon. Would you care for a drink, before dinner?"
"That would be lovely, Lucien, thank you," she answered as warmly as he could.
"Just a moment, then," he said, and slipped away from her, and she let him. It would be nice, she thought, to sit on that sofa and share a drink with him, watching the early evening sunlight filtering through the trees. It would be nice, and she would enjoy it, and the rest of her worries would keep, a little while longer.