1 October 1959

It was taking rather longer than Jean had anticipated, sorting through the details surrounding Lorraine's illness. Lucien had come round once a day, to check in on his patient and administer her treatment, but after that first day Jean made a point of finding something else to do whenever she heard the sound of his gentle knock upon the back door. Let Maureen take him upstairs, let Lorraine greet him herself; he knew his business, and had no need of her assistance with it. After their first meeting Lorraine had warmed to the good Doctor considerably, and no longer needed Mrs. Beazley to hold her hand. Which was just as well, as far as Jean was concerned, because standing in the same room with him was unendurable to her.

He had been so kind, that September day when he first arrived to look after Lorraine, but it was his kindness that devastated Jean so, for it was his kindness she had begun to fall in love with, and it was his kindness she could not reconcile with his apparent lack of regard for her. How could he be so kind, and yet suggest she take Derek Alderton to bed? How could he be so kind, and yet watch her with yearning in his eyes, as if he did not understand that what he wanted could not ever come to pass? Jean could not bear the indignity of submitting herself to a man, losing her freedom, her chance to make her own choices, and she certainly couldn't bear it for the sake of a man who had so carelessly offered her to another, and if such indignity could be borne the town would eat them both alive for their foolishness. It was for the best, that she not see him again, but each time he set foot in the pub a weak, desperate piece of her heart began to cry out for him, and so she avoided him, most entirely. It would be easier to forget him, if she did not see him at all.

At least, that's what she told herself.

The pub had been busy over the last fortnight, and Jean had been busy. By the grace of God none of the other girls had shared a customer with Lorraine. It was a stroke of luck, but not an entirely improbable one; most of the customers were regulars, and most of them had a favorite girl. Oh, they'd take another if their preferred girl was otherwise occupied, and some of them liked a variety, and some only set foot in the pub once. It seemed that Lorraine had been blessed; her customers had either been one-offs, or thoroughly dedicated to her. Once Jean had the list of names it had been her most uncomfortable duty to seek the gentlemen out; those who came regularly Jean had taken aside as soon as they walked in the door, and sent them trotting straight out again to see Doctor Blake. The ones who were not regulars, the ones who had only seen Lorraine once and never returned, well. They were on their own.

Jean had been worried, initially, about the reputation of the pub, but while a few of the gentlemen had been a bit wild-eyed when they left her none of them had caused much of a fuss. Perhaps they thought it was their comeuppance for sleeping with a whore, a consequence they'd visited upon themselves. Perhaps they'd been too concerned about what they planned to tell their wives to spare a moment for casting blame. Whatever the cause, business carried on, and for that Jean was very grateful.

One point of concern in all of it, however, was the revelation that Lorraine's soldier had not been to see her in a month. He'd disappeared around the time she first started showing symptoms of her illness, and never given her any sort of explanation for his sudden absence. Maureen had - through methods Jean did not question - discovered that the soldier was the only man any of the girls had ever talked to about the Doctor's visits, that Lorraine had been loose-lipped as a result of her fondness for him. Knowing that, Jean thought it likely that the soldier was the one who had passed that information onto Derek Alderton. He had been seeing Lorraine for months before the Major turned up, and so Jean thought it terribly unlikely he'd been planted there specifically to spy on Lucien, but the knowledge that he had disappeared not long after the Major's threats, around the same time Lorraine fell ill, left Jean uneasy and full of doubts. Each time the door opened her gaze snapped there at once, wondering if was Lorraine's soldier or Major Alderton come to wreak havoc, but there had been no sign from either of them.

Their absence did not reassure her; she did not believe, not for one moment, that Major Alderton had given up his chase. He had seemed almost maniacal in his dedication to harassing her, had gone to such lengths to make life unpleasant for Lucien, that she rather got the sense it was a mission he would pursue whole-heartedly until at last it all came to a bitter end. It had been early August when last she saw him, and now it was October, but the passing of the days only made her anxious, as she worried over what might happen when next he showed his face. Perhaps learning that Lucien was no longer welcome at the Lock and Key would be enough to send him on his way. But if it wasn't…

Well. She'd deal with each new problem as it came.

And, in fact, a problem came for her on a cool Thursday morning. Jean had been clearing away the last of the breakfast things when Maureen found her in the kitchen, an envelope clutched in her hands.

"Mrs. Beazley?" she said apprehensively. "This just arrived for you."

Jean took her time stacking away the last dish, wiping her hands dry on her apron. The last letter she'd received had been from Major Alderton, bearing the not entirely unwelcome news of his departure. Would this letter announce his return? If so, she'd rather burn it than read it.

"Does it say who it's from?" Jean asked before she took it.

Maureen shook her head, watching Jean in nervous anticipation.

Jean shared those nerves. A letter with no return address did not bode well, as far as she was concerned, but loath as she was to read it she knew that she must, so at last she reached out, and relieved Maureen of the burden she carried.

"Let's see what it says, shall we?"

Maureen crossed her arms over her chest, watching Jean closely, as if she meant to protect Jean from the contents of that letter with the strength of her own two hands, and Jean loved her for it. The address of the Lock and Key and Jean's own name were written neatly on the front of the envelope in thick black ink, and the stamps and markings upon it indicated that the letter had come from within Ballarat, which Jean found intriguing. Who would bother sending a letter, when they knew where to find her? Why not just come inside?

She got her answer the moment she unfolded the letter.

My dear Jean, it began, and she knew at once who had sent it, and grief rolled over her in waves. Lucien had come to the pub every day for nearly two weeks, but Jean had refused to see him, and now he had done this thing, had written her a letter, would force her to hear him, no matter how much she did not want to, no matter how deeply she feared the impact that letter might have on her own wounded heart. It was cruel of him, she thought, to force her hand in this way, and for a moment she considered throwing the letter away unread. But there was a piece of her heart that loved him still, and it was that piece that won the day. Jean would hear him out.

"Not to worry, love," she said to Maureen. "It's personal. Nothing to be afraid of."

And then, before Maureen could ask a question, Jean marched smartly out of the kitchen and straight up the stairs with the letter clutched in her hands, hardly daring to breathe until her door was closed and locked behind her, and she was curled up in her favorite armchair. She could not bear the thought of having an audience while she read this particular missive.

My dear Jean, the letter began.

Words cannot express how deeply I regret my foolishness, and the pain I have caused you. I know what I have done, and how I seem to have proved your every fear founded. It is that, more than anything, I regret. I regret making you believe, even for a moment, that anyone - least of all myself - could think of you as no more than a whore.

A gasp escaped her as she read, seeing those words written down so plainly. It hurt as much now as it had done in August, perhaps more so for it seemed he had, somehow, looked into the very heart of her, and seen her deepest fears. That she was not worthy of love, that she had tainted her very soul with her choices and would never again know happiness, that a life of peace and the little garden she dreamed of would be forever out of her reach as penance for her sins. How could he have read her so plainly, when she was sure she'd never shared those doubts with him? That he should find her deepest insecurity and write it boldly upon the page left her shaken, and she read on, wondering whether she ought to hate him or love him for this insight.

But it seems to me that I have been remiss. I was blinded by the happiness I found with you, and did not perhaps speak as plainly or as often as I should have of my own thoughts. And it seems to me I did not allow you to do the same. The way we fell in together…it was not planned, Jean. I did not pursue you only for pleasure. I was trying to find some way to be near you, and it seemed to me that this was my only course of action. Tell me, truly, if I had offered to take you to dinner, would you have accepted? If you would have, then more fool me. I believed you would not.

And I do not regret one single moment we spent together. Every second with you was a gift.

Jean read the letter hungrily, hardly daring to breathe. Later she would look over it again and weep, to hold this declaration of his affection in her hands while she knew that they were not meant to be; later she would weep, to think how she felt much the same, that their every meeting had been precious, that he had brought her joy and a taste of love, but in the moment she only devoured his words, focused only on the way his hand had scrawled the letters across the page.

But we have known one another for such a little while, Jean, and I have wounded you. There is so much about you I didn't yet have the chance to learn, and it is your heart I wish to know, as well as I know your body.

Later she would read that line again and blush at the memory of his hands against her skin.

You compel me, Jean. You, whole and entire, not just the piece of yourself you allowed me to share but all of you. If you do not wish to speak to me again I understand, I do. But I could not give up this one last chance to tell you how deeply I care for you, and how much I wish to know you again, to know you better still, to share all of myself with you and accept whatever you will allow in return. If you do not hate me, if you are willing to be my friend, as we once agreed, then please, write to me. If you have set your heart against me, only tell me so, and I'll not bother you again. But if you don't, I beg of you, write to me as one friend to another, as a friend who has been wronged, and I will write to you as a friend who wishes only to make amends.

I remain yours, most completely,

Lucien