16 October 1959

Dear Jimmy

Lucien stared at those two words, frowned, and reached for the whiskey glass close at hand. It was perhaps a bit early in the day to begin drinking, but it was Friday, and he had no further appointments, and besides, he felt rather in need of some fortification. Mrs. Penny was still puttering about in the kitchen but she'd be gone soon enough, and then Matthew Lawson would come round for dinner, and then Lucien would spend the next two days entirely alone. A little whiskey was warranted, he thought.

It had been over a fortnight since he'd finally found the courage to mail his letter to Jean, and yet no word had come from her. Though he had his moments Lucien was not foolish enough to cling to hope where there was none; he had said his piece, and begged her to answer him, and she had not. The silence spoke for her; in that silence he heard her regrets, and her anger, and her grief, and he knew that no little note from him would be sufficient to undo the pain Jean had suffered over the last twenty years. She had been, as every man and woman must be, shaped by the challenges she'd faced in her life, and perhaps it had been naive of him to think that love alone would be enough to make her forget all the struggles and all the losses she'd endured before they met. No matter how he loved her he could not change their circumstances.

And so he had undertaken to respond to Jimmy's letter at last. He might have waited too long to answer; it had been a month since he'd received that letter, and the position Jimmy spoke of might not be vacant any longer. But even if it wasn't, there was still a chance Jimmy might be able to find some occupation for him, and it was occupation Lucien needed, some way to distract himself from the ache in his chest, some way to banish the memories of Jean's smile and her gentle hands. Try though he might, however, the words would not come to him. It seemed the logical thing, to leave behind the pastoral festering town of Ballarat in favor of the blessed modernism of London, to find himself a more prestigious position and a healthy pay rise, to rejoin the world he'd been hiding from. And yet, though Ballarat seemed to have nothing at all to recommend it, Lucien did not truly want to leave.

Perhaps it was Matthew, who kept him here. Perhaps it was Alice, clever and strange and always a delight to talk to. Perhaps it was the enticement of the occasional murder to engage his fondness for riddles, or perhaps it was the way he felt he could take a deep breath here, unhindered by the endless press of humanity that swallowed him in larger cities. Perhaps it was Agnes Clasby, brittle and fierce, who'd box him round the ears if she heard he intended to leave. And perhaps, more than anything else, it was the postman, and the thought that maybe finally, maybe today would be the day when a letter came from Jean.

Once more he tried to put pen to paper, once more he failed, sighed, and took a drink. Perhaps writing this letter was a task best kept for another day.

His suspicions seemed to be proved in a moment, as between one breath and the next there came a gentle knock upon his office door, and then Mrs. Penny was peering around it. She watched him warily; she had been treating him as if he were made of glass since that August day when she'd discovered him drunkenly cursing and banging on the piano, as if she feared he might at any moment dissolve once more into the madness that had claimed in the wake of Jean's rejection.

"Mail for you, Doctor Blake," she said from the doorway.

"Yes, please, thank you," he answered, rising to his feet. She took that as permission to enter the office and met him halfway, passing him the letter and then scurrying off again as quickly as she could, closing the door behind her with a soft snap.

As she departed Lucien took a moment to examine the letter he held in his hands. The envelope was plain, and bore no return address, no indication as to the identity of its sender. The markings and stamps upon it indicated it had come from within Ballarat, which gave him hope, and the neat penmanship with which his own named and address had been carefully inscribed upon the front gave him more hope still. Oh, he had no notion what Jean's handwriting looked like, but he'd eat his own hat if that letter hadn't been written by a woman.

He carried it back to his desk in trembling hands, carefully opened it and retrieved the handwritten pages, and then sank into his chair with them.

Dear Dr. Blake, the letter began, I hope you will forgive me for the long delay in my response.

The letter had been written by Jean; time seemed to freeze, as he realized what it was he was holding, that it was her words he was reading upon the page. He hardly drew breath as he read, his heart pounding with a desperate, wild hope.

To tell you the truth, I don't quite know what to say. I think you and I both know it would be foolish to pretend we are no more than friends. A man like you and a woman like me could never be only friends, particularly in light of how much we have shared with one another.

Lucien felt suitably chastised by that; she was right, of course. They could hardly be friends, now that he knew how it felt to be inside her, now that he knew the taste of her skin beneath his lips, now that he knew the sound of her voice crying out his name in rapture. He had no intention of being only her friend, not when he loved her, longed for her as deeply as he did, and perhaps it had been unscrupulous of him to suggest such a thing in the first place, knowing he did not mean it. Jean, of course, had seen through him at once.

Against my better judgment, I could not let your letter go unanswered. You set aside your own pride to write so earnestly to me, and I suppose it's only fair that I extend you the same courtesy.

Firstly let me say, I think you know that I enjoyed our time together as much as you did. I think you know I would never have opened my door to you at all if I did not care for you. However badly things may have gone between us, I felt that must be said. But life is not always fair, and the things that we want are not always the things that we receive, in the end.

You asked me in your letter whether I would have accepted your invitation to dinner. Perhaps your assumptions are correct; perhaps I would have said no. But you never asked, Doctor Blake, and so we will never know what I might have said.

Lucien was momentarily stunned. He had always assumed that there was no chance of Jean's accepting him, that there was only one way for him to reach her. Had she not told him so herself? He couldn't remember, now. So much of their relationship had been based on assumption and inference, rather than outright discussion, and the waters they tread had grown too murky for him to see through their depths.

Does that shock you? It shocked me, as I considered it. I realized that if you had approached me, not as a customer approaches a whore but as a man courts a woman, I might not have turned you away. It might have been quite nice, to be wooed. But you see, even you, Doctor Blake, who so earnestly claims to have never considered me a whore, understood that such a courtship is not meant for the likes of me.

Even if you had, though, sent me flowers and taken me to dinner and walked with me through the park, I think we still would have ended the same way. What you have not ever seemed to understand, Doctor Blake, is that what we want can never be. Can you imagine the gossip, if you were seen out with me? Can you imagine the humiliation should I take your arm at some society event and find myself in a room full of men who have purchased the use of my girls? Some of the men you enjoy drinks with at the Colonists' have had me, Doctor Blake. Oh, that was many years ago, but few men forget their conquests, I think, and they would have laughed at you, and sneered at me. And what woman wants to see a doctor who is known to associate with prostitutes? What man would send his wife to such a physician? You stood to lose your livelihood, and your reputation, stood to ruin the good standing of your family name, and for what? How did you foresee us carrying on, Doctor Blake?

Lucien's heart sank. He had hoped that his letter might have given Jean some courage, might have reassured her of the depth of his regard for her, but these words were not dripping with affection, were not an invitation for his return. In fact, he felt rather like a schoolboy being lectured. And she had a point, he could not deny that; he had completely disregarded the potential for disaster inherent in their relationship, had not spared a moment's thought for how difficult things might be, if their connection to one another became public knowledge. Matthew Lawson had tried to warn him, but Lucien had shrugged off those well-intentioned words, and now it seemed he was paying the price for his foolishness.

You're right, that there's rather a lot we never said to one another. You're right, too, that we have only known each other such a little while. And whatever we might feel, whatever we might hope, a few short months and a few hours in bed do not amount to love.

But they can lay the foundation for love, Lucien. And much as it grieves me to say it, much as it goes against logic and everything I have ever learned about myself and my business, I think we were on our way to love, you and I. You said the words. Perhaps you said them in haste, because you wanted to convince me to stay. Perhaps you meant them honestly. Perhaps you find love easier to name than I do. But I think, truly, I might have loved you, in time.

That is why I have been avoiding you. You're a clever man, I'm sure you noticed my absence each time you've come to check in on Lorraine. I could have loved you, but the world we live in will never allow it, and it will go easier for us both, if we don't have to see one another.

Lucien's mouth hung slack-jawed as he read. He wanted to rejoice, to know that Jean had felt so much for him, that she had been as deeply affected by their connection as Lucien had been himself, but there was a terrible sort of finality to her words that left him reeling. How could she turn her back on love? Just for the sake of her pride, his reputation? Those were obstacles he felt they could overcome, if only Jean were willing, but it seemed she was not willing at all.

And it must be said, too, that I did not leave you only because of your unkind words regarding Major Alderton. I know you meant no offense, and I have thought often of our conversation that day. You spoke in haste, and it must seem to you that I left in haste. Please know that I didn't. I had given much consideration to our future, and saw no way forward for us. It was not only that conversation that made me call an end to things between us. It only moved things along.

That brought Lucien scant comfort. At least he knew she did not hate him for what had happened between them that day, but he now held evidence in his hands that she had already set her heart against him, and that was a bleak thought.

You asked me if I have set my heart against you, her next line read, and his heart gave a funny little leap, for it felt almost as if she had read his very thoughts in that moment, as if she stood in that room with him.

It is not my heart that turned aside from you. It is not my heart that fears we could never be. It is not my heart that tells me that love is beyond my grasp. My heart longs for you, Lucien. It is my head that cannot be swayed.

I fear I've said too much. I fear that further communication will only hurt us both. But your letter moved me, and I had to answer you. I miss you, Lucien. For all the pain our friendship - if that is the word you wish to use - has brought to us both, I miss you. You gave me hope, at a time when I thought hope was beyond me. I know now that it is, but that does not make the loss of that hope any easier to bear.

You say you wish to know me. After this letter I hope that you will know me better, and understand me. If you wish to write to me again I will hear you, Lucien, but I ask that you continue to only visit the pub in your role as a doctor. Spare us both the hardship of meeting face-to-face, and yet being unable to reach out to one another as we used to do. Those days are behind us, Lucien, whatever lies ahead.

Yours,

Mrs. J. Beazley

Lucien leaned back in his chair, holding Jean's letter against his chest. Anger filled him, anger at the circumstances that had left her so hopeless, anger at his own foolishness in not pursuing her more gently, anger at Derek bloody Alderton for forcing his hand, anger at the way life's cruelties had left Jean so despondent. She spoke to him of love, and hope, told him that she missed him, and yet she could not see, as he could see, that they were not beyond salvation. Perhaps the time had come for him to show her.

Lucien refilled his glass, threw aside the piece of paper he'd intended to use for his letter to Jimmy, and placed a fresh page on the desktop in front of him. Jean's letter, he felt, merited an immediate response.