14 August 1959
"My compliments to your housekeeper," Jean said, smiling. Oh, but she had the most beautiful smile.
They were sitting together comfortably at his table, their bowls empty, their glasses nearly so. They had enjoyed a wonderful stew courtesy of Mrs. Penny, and a rather wonderful evening of conversation courtesy of Jean's gentle wit and easy manners. The longer they sat together the more natural it became, simply to talk to one another; Jean had told him a little of her girls, what sort of women they were and what sort of hijinks they got up to when no gentlemen were around, and Lucien had told her a little of Matthew, and the new pathology registrar Doctor Harvey, a slightly odd but by all accounts incredibly skilled woman whom Jean had said she'd quite like to meet. Had circumstances been different Lucien would have arranged the introductions with all haste, for he thought they might actually warm to one another, these two ladies who while very different shared a cleverness and a curiosity about the world, but he remembered himself and held his tongue, and salvaged their delicate rapport. Such moments were inevitable; little reminders of the life Jean led and the restrictions placed upon her person as a result lay scattered like landmines all around him, but so far they had dodged them all neatly, and were getting along quite well with one another.
"I would promise to send her your regards, but I think she might faint dead away if she found out I'd spent the weekend alone with a woman," Lucien told her.
A misstep, perhaps, to raise the specter of Mrs. Penny's disapproval, but Jean glossed over it smoothly, no trace of disappointment on her face.
"Best to spare her the shock," she said, still smiling. If she were smiling Lucien supposed nothing could be amiss, and so he relaxed once more.
The meal was winding down; the food had been quite good, and he'd been perhaps a bit heavy-handed with the drinks, and they were both of them warm and content. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and the world outside his kitchen door was all in darkness. It would be hours yet before either of them were ready for sleep, and while Lucien knew very well how he would prefer to spend that time he was in no particular rush to take Jean to bed. Sitting with her was lovely enough all on its own, and the anticipation of what was to come was delicious in its own right.
"Do you cook much, at the pub?" he asked her curiously. He rather thought she must have done, at least a little, for while he knew that she employed two young ladies to handle the food for the customers he had seen her serving her girls lunch with her own two hands when her cooks were not in residence. The food must have come from somewhere, and he quite liked the idea of Jean being the one to make it, sustaining those women she loved so deeply with the efforts of her own two hands.
"I do," she allowed, taking a sip of her sherry. "Breakfast and lunch, every day. I know it might be terribly old-fashioned of me to say but I rather enjoy it."
Perhaps it was terribly old-fashioned of her, but Lucien liked it just the same. Jean liked her knitting, and she placed a great deal of importance on manners, and she took pride in caring for the people she loved. There was an elegance about her, a goodness that called to him, made him want to prove himself worthy of her time, her affections.
"Do you?" he asked, wanting, very much, to hear her speak a bit more about herself. The question seemed to catch her off guard, as if she had not been expecting him to care at all about what she enjoyed or why, but he rather got the sense it was a pleasant surprise.
"Well, yes," she said. "It's...it can be familiar, chopping things, mixing things, all the little steps. But it's...well, there's a sort of magic to it. Taking all these different pieces and making something new, something that can feed people, and make them happy, everyone sitting down together and sharing a meal. Cooking always reminds me of my mother, and the time we used to spend together in the kitchen. And it makes me think of my boys, too."
Jean's boys, young men now, out in the world and far from her side; what would they be like, he wondered, should he ever meet them, these young men she adored so completely despite their apparent disinterest in returning to her? She must have led quite an old-fashioned life, before the war, he realized; living on a farm, tending to her family, she probably spent most of her day in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning and chasing after her boys. And it seemed to him that she lamented for it, the loss of the life that had been.
"My wife wasn't much of a cook," Lucien said, the words tumbling out of his mouth without any conscious direction from his mind. Jean didn't seem to take offense at this reference to his past; she sat straight-backed and proud in her chair, still, but she was watching him, her eyes warm and bright over the rim of her sherry glass, and her attention encouraged him to continue.
"Her family was quite well off, her father was part of the local government in Singapore. They always had servants, and Mei Lin wasn't encouraged to do any sort of housework. And of course I never learned, myself. We would have been quite helpless, left on our own."
Jean hummed, and smiled, and he wondered what she was thinking, whether privately she thought him a fool for being so incapable of looking after himself. It never seemed to matter to anyone else - indeed most people seem to take it as a given, that Doctor Blake would not know how to cook his own meals or wash his own laundry - but somehow it seemed to matter to him, now, sitting with Jean. Jean who was so capable, who was so skilled at so many things, Jean who was dependent on no one at all save herself, and had done a fine job of making a life all her own, free from the input of others.
"But I will have you know, Mrs. Beazley, I'm quite handy at breakfast time."
While he was at university one of his lady friends had taken pity on him, and taught him a few different ways to cook eggs. Every gentleman ought to know how to cook a proper breakfast, she'd told him. And any woman who finds herself in your home come morning will be grateful for the effort.
"I look forward to a demonstration of your skills tomorrow, then," Jean told him archly, and then laughed at the shocked expression on his face. He had of course been planning to cook for her come morning, but he had not been expecting her to tease him about it, and he found himself quite delighted.
"First, I think we ought to take these drinks and go somewhere more comfortable, eh?" he asked. They could retreat into the parlor, he thought, and he could turn on the wireless, and they could listen to the music, and talk, and maybe, if he was very lucky, they might even dance. It was a prospect he looked forward to eagerly.
"Oh, Lucien, we really ought to see about these dishes first."
Before he could protest she had risen smoothly from her chair, gathered up her own spoon and bowl, reached for his without hesitation, balancing the lot of it with all the easy grace of a woman long accustomed to service.
"Please, Jean," he said, standing up himself. "I don't want to put you to work, the dishes can keep-"
"If we leave them in the sink all night I'll know they're there, and I never approved of a messy kitchen. It will only take a moment. And it'll be faster if you help."
There was no arguing with her, and so Lucien joined her at the sink, took up a clean dishrag and leaned against the counter with his hip brushing hers.
She really was quite lovely, up close like this. The little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips were soft and warm, added a gentleness to her delicate features. Her soft, dark hair fell charmingly over her pale forehead, and the simple golden necklace she wore drew his attention to her collarbones just beneath the open collar of her pale pink blouse. Lovely, he thought, smiling. Everything about this moment was lovely, and tender in its easy familiarity. Jean handed him a dripping bowl and he took it without need of further direction, dried it carefully and tucked it into the cabinet, turning back to her just in time to receive the next offered dish. She was right; it took no time at all to clean the paltry remains of their meal, and when it was through she took the rag he offered her, wiped her hands dry with a satisfied sort of smile on her face.
"There," she said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Not at all." On impulse Lucien leaned in and kissed her cheek once, softly, and smiled at the warmth of her skin beneath his lips. He wanted her; with every piece of himself he wanted her, but they were in no hurry tonight and so he did not push for more, did not draw her into his arms or try to steal a proper kiss. Instead he stepped away, retrieved his whiskey glass with one hand and held the other out to her.
"Now then," he said. "Come with me."
She arched her eyebrow at him, curious, but did as she was bid, taking up her own glass before lacing her fingers through his own, allowing him to lead her into the parlor.
"You have such a lovely home, Lucien," she said as he gestured for her to sit on the sofa; she settled herself there comfortably and Lucien himself went to see about the wireless.
"My father always did have a taste for the finer things in life," he told her. Thomas Blake enjoyed expensive scotch, and expensive art, had brought home a beautiful Parisian bride when no girl in Ballarat had ever caught his eye. His hand-tailored suits were exquisite, and the handle of his cane was ivory. The house, the car, the sofa and the matching armchairs; all of it had been Thomas's choice. Lucien wouldn't have picked any of it, but he found himself growing more comfortable in his father's life by the day.
By some stroke of luck the moment the wireless clicked into life the strains of As Time Goes By began to fill the room, and Lucien smiled, thinking how perfectly everything seemed to be falling into place. He wanted, very much, to dance with Jean, and he could think of no finer tune to compliment such an endeavor.
"Dance with me, Jean," he said, setting his whiskey down on the sidetable and approaching her at once, holding his hand out to her.
She smiled up at him, radiant in the dim light from the lamp, and his heart began to race as she took his hand, let him help her to her feet, let him pull her in close. It was not the first time they had danced, and they fell together more easily now than they had done before; his right hand wrapped around her left, his left at her hip, her right settling against his back, her chest against his chest, their hips slotting into place. Slowly he began to lead her, swaying, her feet following his gracefully. After a moment Jean sighed, and seemed to melt against him, and he pulled her closer, turning in a slow circle there in the parlor while the music washed over them. He could just catch the faintest hint of her soft floral perfume, and the warmth of her in his arms soothed him, filled him with hope.
"This is wonderful, Lucien," she whispered, turning her head, letting her cheek rest against his shoulder while still they swayed, softly, her hair tickling his chin.
"You are wonderful," he told her. For she was; she delighted him, inspired him, comforted him, and he could not recall having ever felt quite so complete as he did now, with her in his arms.