24 December 1959

"Here's to you then, you grumpy old bugger," Lucien said, raising his glass in toast.

Matthew barked out a laugh before raising his own glass, letting them clink together.

"Here's to me," he said, grinning, as he and Lucien took a drink together.

It was not the most miserable Christmas Lucien had ever celebrated, but it was one of the quieter ones. When he was very small, Christmas had been maman's domain, and she had taken great joy in decorating every inch of the house, singing along while his father played carols on the old piano, working with their housekeeper to whip up enough of Thomas's favorite biscuits to feed an army. The wonder of those Christmases, the twinkling lights, the gentle sense of peace that seemed to color every moment, had never left him, even after maman did, but it became only a memory. The next few holidays after her passing were a grim affair; Thomas had not done much in the way of decorating, and the house was not full of the scent of fresh-baked treats, and no music floated on the air. Tension had grown up between Lucien and his father; Lucien spent more time at school than he did at home, only returning for his brief holidays and always thinking longingly of the moment when he would at last be allowed to leave Ballarat behind him. They did not know one another, really, Lucien and Thomas; as a young boy Lucien had changed and grown by the minute, and each time he returned to his father's house he felt himself a stranger there. But Thomas's word was law, and he did not want a son who argued and asked questions; he wanted a son who would obey. Holidays became marked by that tension, by the quarrels that inevitably broke out, by Lucien's growing resentment for his father. Lucien was eighteen, the last year he spent Christmas with his father; after that he left for brighter horizons, and did not return.

Christmas at university had been a rowdy affair, and Christmas in the army doubly so. Christmas with Mei Lin had been wonderful, and Christmas with Li even better; there was nothing like a child, he thought, to bring the joy and the wonder back to the season. He had not marked Christmas while he was in the camp, and the years after that...well, those years had been bleak, and full of trouble. In 1958 he'd celebrated Christmas in Edinburgh with old friends, his glass full and snow falling softly beyond the window, and he had thought of his family, and lamented.

So much could change, in just a year.

The good rapport he had begun to restore between himself and Jean had left his heart light, and he had in a fit of whimsy determined that he ought to have a Christmas tree. Mrs. Penny had been delighted by the idea, and had assisted him in decorating it, and had baked enough biscuits to put his memories to shame. Christmas Day fell on a Friday, this year, and so Lucien had insisted that Mrs. Penny take the entire week off, and not return to him until the following Monday. She had laid in a store of stew and materials for making sandwiches and a few other odds and ends, no doubt worried about how he'd feed himself for such an extended period, but Lucien knew just how many biscuits were currently stored in tins in the larder, and he knew he'd be just fine. He had more than enough to see him through, more than enough to share with Matthew this Christmas Eve.

"What will you do with yourself tomorrow, then?" Matthew asked.

Originally Lucien had intended to have Matthew and Dr. Harvey and young Danny round for tea on Christmas day, but an idea had come to him, and he could not shake the sense that there was somewhere else he ought to be on that day. Jean loved Christmas, she'd told him so herself. She'd been receptive to his advances, and as far as he was concerned it was high time they saw one another face-to-face once more. What better moment, then, than Christmas Day? What could be better than turning up at her door, with a bouquet and a present held in trembling hands? Perhaps she'd just send him away, but somehow Lucien thought not. Somehow, he rather thought she might invite him in, and the thought of sharing tea with Jean in her comfortable parlor on Christmas Day, while the girls danced laughing through the corridors, while every heart was full of love, was quite the most beautiful thing he could imagine.

"Oh, I think I'll just have a quiet day," he said glibly. "Might go visit mum."

That was not a lie; he did intend to go and visit his mother's grave in the morning, to leave flowers by her stone before making his way to Jean's. It was only right, he thought, on Christmas.

"And you, Matthew?"

Though Matthew's face gave no evidence his feelings the tips of his ears turned a little pink, and Lucien was grinning before he even spoke.

"Alice has asked me round for lunch," Matthew said stiffly.

"That's wonderful," Lucien answered earnestly. It was wonderful, that Matthew and Alice were getting on so well, that Matthew would be able to spend his Christmas with a lovely woman who was just as brilliant and just as lonely as he was. Perhaps, Lucien thought, they could ease one another's loneliness. Perhaps he and Jean could do the same.

"I've never much cared about Christmas," Matthew told him. "Not since I was young, and mum used to drag us all to church."

Neither Matthew nor Lucien was particularly devout; apart from his father's funeral Lucien had not stepped foot in a church for years, and he was certain Matthew was the same. Jean, though, Jean was a different sort; she was planning to go to midnight mass that evening.

It comforts me, she'd told him in one of her letters. The old familiar songs, the candlelight, the sense that, just for once, all is right with the world.

Would it feel that way to him? Lucien wondered. To step into the sanctuary in the still of the night, to see the long shadows cast by the flickering candles, to smell the incense, to sing the songs whose words had been inscribed on his heart so long ago he could not recall a time when he did not know them; would that bring him peace? Would it feel more like Christmas if he stood before an altar, blessed by the music? Maybe it would, he thought. Maybe it would, if Jean was there.

What would she do, he asked himself, if he turned up there? She could hardly throw him out of the church. Though he had all but convinced himself she would not turn him away should he show up at her door on Christmas morning some doubt lingered, as she had not offered him any invitation. But the church was not her home, was not a place he'd been barred from visiting; it was neutral ground, and Lucien had been baptized there, same as Jean. He had every right to attend a service, if he wished. And perhaps, he thought now, perhaps if he did go the church, if he did slide onto the pew beside her, if they did stand together to sing, and to pray, perhaps she would see in his actions how he cared for her, how he listened to her, how he adored her. For months now Lucien had written to her in a flood of words; perhaps, he thought, the time had come for actions.

"What is it?" Matthew asked him, his eyes narrowed warily.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Lucien said, lying.

"You've got that look on your face. The one that says you've just had an idea I'm not going to like."

No doubt that was true; they'd been working closely together for nearly a year now, and Matthew was the best friend Lucien had in this town. If anyone could read his face - apart from Jean - he was certain it was Matthew.

"I was just thinking I might go to church," Lucien confessed.

"Why the bloody hell would you want to do that?"

Lucien laughed. "Come now, Matthew," he said. "It's Christmas!"

Jean had chosen her dress very carefully. Christmas was a special time of year, and she wanted to celebrate the occasion with all the pomp that it required. The night was warm, still, though the hour had grown very late, and in deference to the summer temperature the dress she chose had short cap sleeves that showed off her arms - but not too much; she was going to church, after all. It was a deep, rich shade of emerald green, and fit her quite well. With her hair set, her makeup perfect, she had clasped a small string of pearls around her neck, and then she had gently draped her black widow's veil over her curls. Black pumps, reserved for special occasions, and a matching black handbag completed her ensemble, and when her preparations were complete she made her way out of the pub, the voices of her girls following after her. The Lock and Key was closed to customers on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - even whores deserved a holiday, Jean thought - and so she had prepared a veritable feast for the young ladies, and they were enjoying it now, eating and drinking their fill while the wireless played scratchy and loud in the background. It was a cheerful, merry scene, and quite at odds with what she found once she stepped inside Sacred Heart.

The number of the faithful shrank, year by year, but Christmas was a different story. The pews were almost all full; everywhere she looked she saw her neighbors decked out in their finest clothes, mothers and fathers prodding their children to keep them awake, to get them to behave, a low murmur of voices filling the sanctuary as no one dared speak above a whisper. She crossed herself reflexively at the font, and then took a seat in one of the empty pews at the back of the church. A few people looked her way, eyebrows raised in surprise or furrowed in disapproval, but their stares did not linger, and Jean did not return them. She kept her gaze focused on the altar at the front of the church, the reason why she had come. The people who filled this place may have turned their backs on her, but she knew that God never would, and it was for God she had come, to celebrate the gift of the Christmas season and lift her voice in song. A few judgmental hypocrites would not keep her from the tenets of her faith.

"Is this seat taken?"

Jean nearly jumped out of her skin; she had been paying so little attention to her surroundings that she had not noticed his arrival, and he'd scared her half to death. But as she looked up at him, heart pounding in her chest, it was relief that overwhelmed her, not fear. For reasons she could not even begin to grasp it was Lucien who stood beside her, Lucien who had come to her in this most holy place, Lucien's smile she saw now, and not the glares of her fellow parishioners. No doubt some of them had marked it, that Doctor Blake was speaking to the local brothel keeper, but for once Jean could not find it in herself to care. Had Christ himself not spoken to prostitutes, broke bread with the tax collectors, taught compassion for every man and woman, no matter how low? As far as she was concerned Lucien's kindness was more in keeping with the spirit of the season than the outrage of her neighbors, and she returned his smile gladly.

"No," she said, and as she spoke she slid to the left, making room for Lucien to come and sit beside her.

She did not know, yet, why he had come. She knew his feelings where the church was concerned were hardly charitable. And yet, he had come; he was sitting beside her, in the stillness of the sanctuary at midnight, had chosen to join her here, in prayer and singing and celebration. It was the first time she had seen him since she told him not never...only not yet, and her heart fluttered in her chest, knowing that she had revealed to him the depth of her own regard for him, and that he had heard those words, and come to her. He had not come knocking on her door uninvited, had not tried to insinuate himself into her bed. He had come with his hat in his hands - literally - to sit beside her in church, had sacrificed his own evening and his own sensibilities just to share this night with her, and in that moment she loved him for it.