XXXIII

When Lucien returned to Jean's home, he found her in the bathroom vomiting into the toilet. He put his bag aside and kneeled down beside her. He held her hair back from her face and soothingly rubbed her back. When she finally finished heaving, she was gasping for air. Her face was covered in tears and spittle and snot. Not the most attractive thing in the world, but certainly one of the more human things. He tore off some toilet roll for her to clean herself up.

"Thank you," she moaned. "I'm sorry for all of this."

"Nothing to apologize for, Jean," he assured her.

She slumped against his chest, and he did not hesitate holding her close. He pressed another kiss to her forehead. She was clammy but did not seem as feverish as she had before. He really did need to do a proper examination of her and take her temperature by thermometer and not just through kisses. Though the latter felt much nicer.

"Come along, darling, let's get you back to bed. I'm going to get you some water. Can't have you getting dehydrated on top of everything else," he said.

Jean just moaned in a rather pathetic manner. He felt for her, he really did. It's certainly no fun at all being sick. He helped her to her feet, though Jean seemed very unsteady. So, he just picked her up and carried her back to bed. He was more than capable of it, and she was in no state to be able to walk. She was so sick that she did not even make any sort of protest against being carried like that.

He put her back in her bed and tucked her in. "Stay here. I'll be right back," he said. She did not reply beyond another grumbling moan.

Lucien walked down the hall to locate the kitchen. The cabinets were painted a deep forest green. A very attractive effect. He wondered if the house had come that way or if Jean had chosen the color. He found a glass and filled it with cold water for her. He also wet a towel to hopefully bring her temperature down more.

On his way back to her room, he noticed the sitting room with very elegant and feminine furniture. The walls were a pretty blue. And her bedroom, he'd noticed, was a pale pink. All of it was extremely lovely and girlish which made him think that Jean had perhaps designed it all herself. He knew that this was the first house that had ever been hers alone, and after years living in his father's house, getting to have a space that was all her own must have been quite freeing. He wondered briefly which room in the old Blake house had been hers and if she'd decorated it for herself. The bedroom furniture she had now seemed vaguely familiar; perhaps she'd taken it with her from Ballarat.

"Jean, I'm going to look you over now, if that's alright," he said upon returning to her room.

"Alright," she agreed. She struggled to sit up but managed it on her own.

Lucien went about listening to her heart and lungs to rule out pneumonia—thankfully her chest sounds were clear. He took her temperature and found she still had a slight fever, as he'd thought. Her heartrate and blood pressure were fine. All in all, it was clear that she did have a mild case of influenza. "Jean, when did you first start feeling sick?" he asked.

"I think yesterday, actually. I was a little nauseous at breakfast after we got up. And then I think the fever started sometime in the night. I was entirely out of it all morning," she responded.

He nodded. That all made sense. "I am pleased to report that you'll live. And it seems like it might be out of your system in another twenty-four hours or so. But I'd like to try to help your fever break, and I want to get some nutrients in you, if we can. So lets keep you sitting up and I'd like you to slowly drink down this water and keep the cold towel on the back of your neck."

"On my neck? I always put a cold compress on my boys' foreheads."

"That works just as well, but its hard to keep something on your forehead when you're upright," he pointed out. He helped situate her properly, and he pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. "I'm going to find something gentle for you to eat."

She nodded in thanks. "The breadbox on the countertop is full. I don't know if I could manage much more at the moment."

"Alright. I'll be back in a moment."

Jean stayed in her bed, allowing Lucien to take care of her. The water he gave her to drink was a very welcome comfort. She could feel the cold go down her throat. The cold towel on her neck certainly helped as well. She wasn't feeling as sweaty and awful as she'd been before. She probably could manage a bit of toast.

She put the glass, now half-empty, on the nightstand. In spite of everything, Jean smiled. Lucien must have been a brilliant doctor. But she wondered how long he'd actually practiced medicine if he'd joined the army before the war and joined the priesthood after the war. She could imagine that old Doctor Blake had been so proud when his only child had gone to medical school and become a doctor as well. That might have been an interesting turn, if Lucien had stayed a doctor. He and his father might not have had such a dire falling out. Would he have come to Ballarat when his father was sick? Would Jean have met him under different circumstances? And if so, would they have still fallen in love?

It was silly to think of 'what ifs,' she knew, but it was interesting to think of nonetheless. And though she still could not believe she had been foolish enough to fall in love with a priest, she had a feeling that she might have fallen in love with Lucien no matter what he was. He was still himself, regardless of his profession. He was kind and gentle and brilliant and fiercely interested in justice. Yes, he was a bit arrogant and selfish at times, and he likely would have had fits of drunkenness and depression and anger no matter what he'd done after the war, what with all he'd experienced with his family and in that camp. Yes, Jean was rather sure she'd have fallen in love with him no matter what.

Lucien returned with a plate of toast for her. "What are you smiling about?" he asked, noticing the expression on her face.

"Love, actually."

A smile spread over his own dear face. "Oh?"

"Yes, I was just thinking of how interesting it is that we should have fallen in love as we have, but I can't really imagine I wouldn't have fallen in love with you after having met you and spent time with you no matter what," she told him.

He sat on the edge of her bed beside where her legs lay in front of her. He put the toast on her lap and reached out to stroke her cheek. "I think you're probably right. I know I couldn't help falling in love with you. I know we both tried not to. But some things are somehow inevitable."

Jean patted the vacant side of her bed. "Come sit with me," she requested.

Lucien stood and crossed to the other side. He took off his shoes and thankfully rid himself of the cassock and collar before coming to sit on the bed beside her. She preferred it that way. He was just her Lucien this way, in his shirt and trousers and looking like the man she adored.

"Thank you for coming to take care of me," she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

He shifted so he could wrap his arms around her. He kissed her forehead again. "I think your temperature's going done. Try to eat some toast and be sure to drink down all that water," he advised.

"Yes, doctor."

That remark earned a gentle chuckle from him. "No one else I'd rather take care of," he assured her.

"But don't let me keep you if you have duties to attend to."

"No," he assured her, "it's Boxing Day and I'm not expected anywhere at all. Regular hours and classes and things other than Sunday Mass don't start up again until after the new year."

"So I get you all to myself till then?"

"Always, my darling," he vowed.

Lucien knew he may have said too much, but he could not help himself. He loved her with all his heart and he wanted her to know. He would give anything to be with her. How exactly they could manage that, he wasn't quite sure. But he'd find a way. Together, they'd find a way. He could not give her up, that much he knew. Love was difficult sometimes. It was not always meant to be for two people who loved each other to be together. It took work and sacrifice to try and make a life together. Sometimes it was against all odds that two people could be happy.

"You're thinking rather loudly," Jean commented.

"I was thinking about my parents," he told her.

Jean hummed softly. "I was just thinking about your father, actually."

"Were you?"

"Yes, just about what it might have been like to know you when I lived in his house."

That was an interesting thought. One he'd not had before. Well, he could think of things that might have been another time. "Dad didn't tell you much about my mother, did he?"

"Not much, no. Any mention of her was met with a very deep sadness. I think he grieved for her till the day he died. When he did speak of her, it was with a reverence that I couldn't quite imagine."

"No? Did you not remember your husband with that reverence?"

Jean fell quiet for a moment. "I don't think I ever thought of it like that. The way your father felt for your mother and the way I felt for my Christopher, I never really identified with him on that. They were married just slightly longer than me and Christopher, but I knew him all my life. We fell in love gradually, growing up together. I don't think it was the same with your parents."

"No, not at all," Lucien replied. "They met in Paris and he whisked her back to Australia to be married. And for most of my life, I never really understood their relationship. Even as a child, I could see that they were in love. I just…I don't think I could ever figure out why. But I think I understand it now."

"You do?"

Lucien pulled her slightly tighter in his arms. "They were just so very different. She was always happy, always so full of life and music and art. A free spirit. Full of deep emotion. And Dad was never like that, even when she was alive. Cold and strict, for the most part. But I think sometimes two people can be so radically different yet meet their match in their very souls."

"That's a beautiful way to think of it."

"There was a part of Thomas Blake's soul, maybe the part of him that was a piano virtuoso and wanted to travel to the artistic heart of Paris, met an artist there who had something inside her, that part that believed so strongly in the teachings of the church and kept our house in pristine order, fell in love with that uptight Australian doctor. And for however a brief time, they were each other's whole lives."

Jean smiled, nuzzling against him. "I think you're probably right."

"I never understood that before now. Because I think I've found the match for my soul in you, Jean."

"Yes," she murmured softly. "You're definitely right."

It was then that Lucien realized that Jean had fallen back to sleep. He gently moved things off of her and helped her get settled back into bed.