14 August 1959
Lucien was sure he had not ever felt more content in all his life. His muscles were heavy and loose, the strain of holding himself together for the sake of Jean's pleasure having been soothed entirely by the warmth of the water lapping gently at the sides of the bathtub. He was leaning back, his head resting against the edge of the tub, and Jean was in his arms, her head against his shoulder, the soft skin of her belly warm beneath his hands. She lay in the cradle of his legs, his knees bent on either side of her body, the supple curve of her bum enticing against his - unfortunately - spent cock, and the room was quiet, and still, steam still lingering in the air, fogging the mirror above the sink. It was not terribly late, yet, but he was tired, and satisfied, and he wanted for nothing, in that moment.
In fact, he was quite sure that Jean had fallen asleep, so complete was her silence, so relaxed was her body, nestled there with his own. Let her sleep, he thought, let her rest, for she is safe here, with me. It was all he wanted in the world, to have Jean safe, and with him, and he would not dare disturb her, not for any reason. The days were long at the pub, the nights longer still, and Jean worked hard every moment, he knew. Even when she sat for long stretches at her post in the corner of the dining room she was tense, alert, her hands constantly moving and her mind cataloging every face she saw, every word she heard, constantly weighing the probability for danger and mindful always of her girls and their safety. Here, she need not worry. Here, Lucien could shelter her, provide for her, watch over her, in ways he could never dream of doing at the Lock and Key.
It was foolish, he knew, to think such things. The pub was Jean's lifeblood, the center of her world, dear to her as a child, and come Sunday she would leave him for it once more. Come Sunday he would not be able to enjoy such pleasures as he had this evening, could not share with her a quiet drink, or a quiet meal, or a tumble in his bed unhindered by the passing of the sand through the hourglass. It would be back to business, constantly on the lookout, purchasing her company one hour at a time. That was a bleak thought, but he banished it with more hopeful imaginings. Perhaps, he thought, this weekend could be about more than just devising a plan to deal with Derek Alderton. Perhaps this was his chance to show her how happy they might be together, how comfortable they could feel with one another, a chance to catch a glimpse of a future they might share, together, far away from the darkness of the world that she had known for so long.
Oh, it would not be easy to convince her, he knew. They had met in May, and it was only August; they had known each other for far too short a time, and Jean would not trade away her independence and the life she'd made for herself for the sake of a man she'd known a bare few months. But perhaps this might be a beginning, he thought; perhaps he could plant the seeds of his love of her within her heart now, and slowly water them over the coming weeks with all the steadfast affection he felt for her, until those seeds could bloom into joy, and love.
He loved her, of that he was certain. Only fools rush in, that was how the old song went, and he knew he was one of those fools, knew that she had captured his heart the moment he first saw her, despite the precarious nature of their circumstances and all the threat for catastrophe that came with their connection to one another. And yet he could not doubt that the way he felt for her, this warmth, this yearning, this contentment at having her near, was love. Jean was not a fool, and she would not give herself so freely, but he likewise knew she would not be here if she did not feel something for him, would not have allowed him access to such much of her private self if she did not trust him already. What she needed, he thought, was a little bit more time, and he was content to give her as much of it as he was able, to be there for her, always, until she came to believe, as he did, that they were made for one another, that they could have a different life, a better life, together.
And so ran the course of his thoughts, until the last of the heat seeped from the bath and he began to think longingly of his bed. Slowly, teasingly, he dragged his hand across the softness of her stomach until he was cradling her breast in his hand. Perhaps she was not asleep as he had thought, for the moment his palm brushed against her soft pink nipple she hummed, and turned her head to press her lips against his neck.
"Come on then, my darling," he said softly. "Time for bed."
Jean hummed again, but did not protest, only sat up straight, stretching her arms above her head, the catlike movements of her lithe body making his heart sing as he watched her. Without the warmth of her against his chest he was quite cold, however, and so he clambered somewhat awkwardly from the bath, reaching at once for a towel. While he dried himself Jean drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, watching him fondly from her position in the bath.
"I've been wondering," she said then, and though she looked as tired as he felt her eyes were sparkling with mischief. "You're in rather fine shape, for a doctor."
Lucien smiled at her, running the towel over his damp hair and affording her an unobstructed view of his body, scars and all. He knew that she was teasing him, knew what she was asking him, but much as he wanted to join her in her levity the answer was actually rather grim, and he was hesitant to give voice to that truth. But she deserved it, he thought, this woman who had so tenderly touched his scars, treated every piece of him and his history so gently, and he wanted, very much, to share himself with her.
"There was never enough food to eat in the camp," he told her softly, and though her eyes went wide - with horror or compassion, he could not say - he forced himself to continue. "And I was kept in...a very small space, for a very long time. By the time the war ended we were all quite weak. I never wanted to feel that way again. I got myself back into fighting form as soon as I could, and it just became a habit, I suppose. Though Mrs. Penny's fine cooking is beginning to take its toll," he added ruefully as he tied the towel round his waist. He had followed a strict regimen, after the war, and stuck to it as best he could, supplemented here and there with chopping wood for the fire and the like, but his belly had grown soft, as he himself had grown soft, here in the comfort of Ballarat.
He reached out his hand and Jean took it, let him steady her as she rose to her feet and then stepped carefully from the bath.
"I like you just the way you are," she said, one hand coming to rest against the slight roundness of his stomach, the other reaching up to muss his damp hair, a fond smile on her lips.
"And I very much like you," Lucien said, letting his own hands ghost over her shoulders, down along the elegant curve of her spine, "just the way you are."
He kissed the tip of her nose, and she smiled, but then she shivered and Lucien remembered that she was dripping wet and stark naked in the chilly bathroom air, and he reached at once for a towel. Gently, reverently he dried her off himself, let his hands wander over all the sweet, soft parts of her with which he had become so well-acquainted, and when he was done he was more certain than ever that he loved her, most completely.
"Let's go to bed, Lucien," she said into the stillness, and so he smiled, and took her hand, and let her lead him back to his room.
Jean woke first; it was to be expected, she knew, for the habits of a lifetime were hard to break and she had always been an early riser. What had been unexpected, however, was how well, how deeply she had slept, with Lucien there beside her. When they first lay down together she was certain she would not sleep a wink, for the troublesome thoughts that plagued her, for it had been so very long since last she'd fallen asleep beside anyone; she was quite certain she had forgotten how. And yet it seemed she had been wrong on that score, for one moment she had been lying on her back, listening to the gentle sound of Lucien breathing in the darkness, and in the next the first light of dawn was streaming through the crack in his curtains, rousing her softly into wakefulness.
They had twisted and turned together in the night; Lucien lay flat on his back, snoring lightly, and Jean had wrapped herself around him, one arm thrown over his chest, her leg cast over one of his strong thighs, her head on his shoulder. That arm would surely pain him when he woke, Jean knew, and while she felt a bit guilty about that she could not deny that she was really quite comfortable, surrounded by the heat of him. They had fallen asleep completely naked, the nightdress Jean had brought for the occasion left unused and unneeded in her case by the door.
For a moment she considered leaving his side, wrapping herself in the fine navy dressing gown that hung on the back of his bedroom door and padding silently from the room. She could go and make herself a cup of tea, and watch the sunrise from his lovely garden. It would be a pleasant way to pass the time until he woke, she thought, but she did not want to leave him just yet. Besides, Lucien had promised to make her breakfast, and she did not want to deny him the opportunity to wake with her beside him, to charm her with his easy smiles and dash off to the kitchen. No doubt it would alarm him should he wake alone, and she did not want to cause him any distress. Not just now. Not yet.
Softly Jean sighed, lifted her hand and let her fingertips dance light as a feather across his lips. Lucien did not move when she touched him, and so she let the pad of her thumb come to rest against his chin. He really was a beautiful man, she thought, and he had been so kind to her, so lovely in every possible regard, that the thought of leaving him seemed laughable. How could she even consider giving this up, she asked herself, this handsome man, this rich man, this man with his fine home crying out for a woman's touch, this man who could promise her the world, this man who had done nothing but try to care for her? What sort of a fool would she be, to walk away from the joy he promised her, the warmth of his hands, the tender welcome of his home?
The wise sort, she thought. It was only a dream; she had woken in a moment of bliss, but such bliss was not meant to last. It was only the first blush of love, the heady early days of any romance when both parties were conciliatory and enraptured, and it would not stand the test of time. He would grow bored with her, or worse confess that he had no intention of making any sort of commitment at all, and only wanted to take his pleasure when it suited him without the trouble of having a woman underfoot. He had dangerous enemies, and a tendency towards recklessness that would no doubt soon grow weary of her staid ways. It will not last, she told herself. Better to end it now, before things get out of hand.
She would leave him, come Sunday, for the last time. But she had one whole day and one night left to spend with him; they could talk about Derek, and make their arrangements, could touch one another to their heart's content and then when the sun rose again she would rise with it, would make him tea and tell him softly that whatever they wanted could not ever be. She would tell him how much she had enjoyed - not enjoyed but loved - every moment spent in his company, how he was not to blame for her decision to leave him, how she only wanted to do what was best for both of them, and spare them each the coming heartache. He might not believe her, might rail against her, but once the thing was done it would not matter, really, whether he hated her or not. She would not see him again, in any case.
Jean was torn from her musings on the futility of her heart and the beauty of his face by a rather more pressing need, and so she slipped silently from the bed, pulled on his dressing gown and made her way to the loo. The dressing gown drowned her completely, and smelled softly of him, and she took comfort from the warmth of it. They had a little time left, still, and when she finished in the loo she would slide once more beneath his sheets, and hold him. It was enough.