30 November 1959

For once, Jean Beazley could say honestly that everything is just fine, thank you very much. Lucien's dedicated care had ensured that Lorraine made a full recovery, and while the girl was not yet seeing customers - and likely never would again, if the way she cursed her soldier was any indication of her feelings on the matter - her spirits were greatly improved, and for that Jean was grateful. No lasting damage had been done to her business, and the steady stream of customers brought a steady stream of coins to Jean's pockets, each one a promise tucked away for a better day. No word had come from Derek Alderton, and in truth Jean had all but forgotten the man. Why should she think of him now, when he had made no move to reach her, when he had not shown his face, when all was quiet and peaceful in Ballarat, and Jean was happy?

Letters had been flying thick and fast between Jean and Lucien since mid-October. Though she had initially thought to put an end to that means of communication she found she had become almost addicted to his words, and with each letter she received her heart only softened more towards him. In the letters he was forthright and sincere in a way they had never managed to be when speaking face-to-face. With all the sweet curiosity of a new lover he filled his letters with questions, questions about her childhood, her family, about her latest trip to the Rex - Jean did enjoy a good film - about her. For each answer Jean gave she received another in turn; while she told him about Christopher, their courtship and their marriage and the was his death had brought her world crashing down, Lucien told her of his own wife, how he had wed her, told her stories of his darling little girl, told her a little about the end of his own world, when the Japanese came. Through those letters Jean learned more about Lucien than she ever had in bed, and she treasured each and every one.

One particular Monday afternoon Jean was standing behind the bar, laughing with her girls while they enjoyed a spot of lunch, when a wild-eyed young man came walking through the front door carrying a large vase full of bright, expensive flowers.

"Pardon me?" he called uncertainly, lingering near the doorway. He was blushing to the roots of his sandy-blonde hair, and his eyes darted around as if he could not find a safe place for them to land. Some of the girls laughed, but Jean took pity on him.

"Can I help you?" she asked, walking out from behind the bar and wiping her hands on her apron as she went.

"I've got a delivery here," he said. "For a Mrs. Beazley?"

His expression told her plainly that he feared he'd wandered into the wrong place, and the frank stare Elizabeth directed his way left him stuttering. Poor love, Jean thought, grinning.

"That's me," she said.

"Right. These are for you, then."

The lad had no sooner placed the vase in her hands than he turned and bolted, and Jean did not spare another thought for him; she was too distracted by the beautiful flowers she now held. This was no dozen roses; the vase was full to bursting with a variety of blooms, all brightly colored and cheerful, the vase tied with a blue ribbon. Whoever had purchased these flowers had paid dearly for them - and, knowing what she did about the florist's judgmental attitude, they'd likely paid double for the delivery, as well.

"Go on then, Mrs. Beazley!" Elizabeth called out from the bar. "Who are they from?"

The other girls echoed her question, delighted by this most unexpected of surprises. No one sent flowers to the pub, and certainly not to Mrs. Beazley; in the early days of their courtship Christopher had occasionally turned up at her door with his hands full of wildflowers, but after they wed Jean grew flowers in her own garden, and he never bothered, any more. She had never received such a gift, but she fancied she knew who might be behind it, and try though she might she could not find it in her heart to be cross; the flowers were too beautiful, and the gesture was too sweet, and her heart was too weak with longing.

"Let us see!" the girls chorused, and so Jean returned to the bar, smiling.

As she stepped behind it she placed the flowers on the bar, and the girls crowded around, sniffing at the petals and crowing about how lovely they were. It was that, more than what the flowers represented, that sent a pang of sorrow lancing through Jean's heart; these girls were young, and lovely, and full of life, and yet romance remained out of their reach, their world so narrow and so devoid of hope. They deserved better, she thought. We all do.

"There's a card," Maureen murmured from the end of the bar, gesturing towards to the little white placard stuck in the middle of the flowers. Of all the girls she alone had not gone all soft and mooney over Jean's delight; she watched the flowers warily, as if she suspected they might show teeth and bite the next hand that reached for them.

"Oh, Mrs. Beazley, you have to know who it is!"

"Tell us!"

"Read it, please!"

The girls would not let it pass, and so Jean reached for the card. For a moment she was afraid; the flowers could just as easily have come from Major Alderton as from Lucien, a warning and not a declaration of affection, but as she read the card her doubts were dispelled in a moment.

Every woman deserves flowers, it read, and you more than most. I remain, completely, yours.

There was no name - he was clever enough not to draw such attention to himself - but the handwriting was familiar, and dear to her, after having read so very many of his letters. It was Lucien who had done this thing; Lucien, who had heard her say that dinner dates and walks through the park and flowers were not meant for her, and who had sent them to her anyway.

The girls cooed over the card, laughing - Elizabeth reckoned it was from Doctor Blake, and everyone agreed, and Jean did not try to convince them otherwise - and as they did Jean thought about the man who had sent them, and why. Lucien remained determined that they might find a way forward, together. Lucien told her, over and over, how he valued her company, how he believed she was more than she gave herself credit for, and now he had gone and done this thing, this sweet, wonderful thing, just for her.

Is he right? Jean wondered as she looked at the flowers, as Lucien's card was passed from hand to hand, as Maureen watched, frowning. The life she wanted, a quiet home, a bed with Lucien in it, a garden for flowers, a moment's peace; could she really hope to claim such joys for herself? She wanted to, wanted to believe him when he told her that their circumstances were not as dire as she claimed. She remembered his fine house, and his soft bed, remembered his kitchen and his empty sunroom begging for the touch of a gardener's hand, and she remember the way they had sat together at his table, comfortable and happy with one another, and the seeds of hope Lucien had planted in her heart began to blossom, ever so slowly.

Dear Doctor Blake,

I have received your gift, and I have been moved by your kindness. The flowers are beautiful, and they are sitting on my writing table now, providing me with quite a lovely view. It has been a long, long time since last I had any flowers I did not purchase myself. But you know that already, don't you? That's why you sent them.

I know what you mean to do, with these letters, with your gifts. You mean to show me that there is a chance for us, still. With every word we've written to one another I have come to know your heart, and you mine. I know that your heart is gentle, and that you are full of a kind of optimism I admire. I would like to believe, as you do, that a happy ending lies in store for us both.

But how are we to arrive at such a point? I have told you often of my dreams of moving to Adelaide, and I have nearly enough funds saved up for such a venture. Another year, or two, or three at the most, and I might well be shot of this place. Maureen can take it over for me, and she can run it as she sees fit. She's a clever girl, she has a good head for business. I will not worry for my girls, with her in charge.

That is my dream, Lucien, and it is within my power to make it a reality. But what of you? You have made no offers, nor would I accept them from you, when we have known each other no more than six months. I could not trust my person, my future, to a man I had known so briefly, nor could I so easily sell my independence. It has been a very long time since I have had to answer to anyone save myself. Perhaps you have not considered a permanent state of affairs between us, Lucien - if you have, please don't tell me, for I could only think you mad - but permanence is the only temptation that might sway me. I could not take such a risk lightly.

No doubt you're wondering, then, why I bother mentioning it at all. This is why, Lucien. In a year, or two, or three at the most, I will be free. I will be free to make a life of my own choosing, in whatever manner I see fit. By then young Christopher may not even be stationed in Adelaide any longer; by then I might seek to make a home for myself elsewhere. If you are dedicated to this dream of yours, Lucien, if you are determined that we should try to make a go of it, together, I ask you then, please, to wait. Wait for me, Lucien. Write to me, as you have done. I will send for you, when next the girls have need of a doctor, and I will not hide from you when you come. If you will wait for me, then, one day, perhaps, we can both of us start anew.

This is perhaps more than you bargained for. I hesitated even to write it. But you have left me hopeful, Lucien. You have given me cause to dream of something better. I told you I could not see a way forward for us, but the way has been made clear to me, now. My answer to you is not never. It is only not yet.

In your last letter you asked me what we are up to, here at home. The truth is that I have very little to report. Your friend has not come to call. Lily has left us, and a new girl named Anna has come to take her place. Tomorrow is the first of December, and with December comes Christmas. It is quite my favorite time of year. I will decorate the upstairs of the pub, and I will buy small presents for my girls, and I will go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Does that surprise you, still? It comforts me. The old familiar songs, the candlelight, the sense that, just for once, all is right with the world. I know you do not care for the church, but it remains a part of me, always.

Write to me, when you can. Tell me if you solved your murder, and tell me if you are glad of it. Tell me what you will do for Christmas. And tell me, please, if you will wait for me, or if you think me mad for even suggesting it.

All my love,

Jean

As Lucien finished reading Jean's latest letter he found himself smiling so broadly his cheeks ached from the strain of it. Somehow, some way, at last, Jean had begun to see, as he did, that their predicament was not hopeless. She had asked him to wait for her; he rather felt as if he had been waiting for her all his life, and another year would not cost him so very dear. In fact, he was certain that it would not take so very long; his pockets were deep, and his heart was full of love. He began to pen his response at once.