24 December 1959

It was a strange and beautiful thing, to share Christmas mass with Lucien. The ritual of it felt familiar, the quiet incantations, the story of the Christ-child, the scent of the incense and the flickering of the candles, the faces of her neighbors, sleepy but holy, somehow, bathed in that glow; all of it felt right, felt to Jean as if this Christmas Eve was unfolding just the way it was meant to. What was not familiar, however, was the sound of Lucien's voice beside her. She had never known, before tonight, that he was a more than competent singer, but sequestered as they were at the back of the church it was his voice she heard above all the others, soft and warm, gently moving through the hymns. It was his voice she heard, responding during the call and answer, his bulk beside her, and his presence warmed her through and through.

Jean had been quite alone in this back pew for years now; Jack had not set foot inside the church since he was fourteen, and young Christopher had left home not long after that. The joy of worship, her love for her God, her comforting faith; there was no one to share in these things, when Jean sat alone, well back from everyone else, isolated from them in more ways than just the physical. Not so, tonight; tonight there was a warm body sitting by her side, reminding her that she was not as alone as she once had been, that she need not be alone ever again, if she did not wish it.

Every piece of the service had been written on her heart over the course of her many years of devoted attendance, and when the time came Jean and Lucien rose with the rest to speak the Our Father. It was the habit of the people in that place and that time to join hands when they prayed that particular prayer. For years Jean had no hand to hold, no one to who would turn to her and murmured softly peace be with you when the prayer was finished, but tonight was a night of changes, a night of revelation, a night of celebration, for as everyone else in the sanctuary joined hands Lucien looked down at her, and offered her his own.

That hand, broad and strong, worn and scarred; that hand of his had traced every line of her body, had brought her shuddering into bliss, and he offered it to her now gently, without expectation, an offer of comfort, of solidarity, an offer to stand beside her now, and perhaps always. She looked at that hand, and knowing what it meant, knowing how things might change between them and wanting it so badly that she ached with it she took a deep breath, and laced her fingers through his, and his answering smile was brighter than the sun. They prayed together, heads bowed in that place, and though Jean spoke the words as clean and clear as ever she did not close her eyes, for she could not tear them away from the sight of her hand, wrapped in his. There was something right about that, too, she thought, something holy in the way they fit together, something faithful and steadfast in the heart of this man who gave no thought to his own reputation, but sought only to love her.

The prayer was a brief one, and when it was ended the congregation turned to one another, a low hum of voices filling the sanctuary - peace be with you; and also with you - but no one spared a glance for Jean and Lucien. He did not release his hold on her, but nor did she pull away; they simply stood, together, their hands linked, and when Jean looked at him he was smiling, still.

"Peace be with you, Jean," he said softly.

"And also with you," she answered. "Lucien."

He deserved that much, she thought, the sound of his given name falling from her lips, and not a frosty Doctor Blake. He deserved that much, and more besides; this gesture of his, coming to her here, of all places, holding her hand, on Christmas Eve, was monumental, and it moved Jean more than she could say.

They settled back into their seats, and still he held her hand, and her thoughts began to race.

For months now he had been carefully, tenderly wooing her, had revealed his heart and history to her and allowed her to do the same. She knew him, now, better than she had dreamed of doing before. Those letters of his spoke of his dedication, and filled her heart with hope. Not now, she had told him, not yet; she was not free to courted as another woman might be, would not be truly free until at last she could turn the pub over to someone else. But Lucien had heard those words, and promised her, for you, Jean, a man could wait a lifetime. If she told him that the time had not yet come for them to begin explore their connection to one another once more, she knew he would respect it. But in that moment, sitting in that church, holding his hand, Jean realized she didn't want to wait.

She would have to wait, to be his wife - if, indeed, that was what he wanted, if she still wanted the same, a year from now - but there was no reason, really, why she should have to wait to hold him. Her own reputation as the formidable, unconquerable madam was dear to her, but they had so far managed to keep their connection secret in the town - Derek Alderton's interference notwithstanding. Why should he not come by of an evening, as he used to do; why should she not take him upstairs, now and again? If anyone saw and remarked on it they could be assured that the good Doctor had paid handsomely for the privilege, and leave none the wiser. He had paid for her before, and so, she thought, it would not really be a lie; she would simply consider the previous transactions as down payment on future pleasure. He did not balk at her work, he respected her boundaries, he treasured her dearly; why should they not be allowed a little happiness, just between themselves? He had shown her, at every turn, that he believed there was still a chance for them, and with his letters, with his words and his actions and his heart, he had begun to convince her.

The service was winding down; communion would come next, and then a prayer and the final dismissal. Jean often left while her fellow parishioners made their way to the altar; Sacred Heart could not abide the scandal of a whore taking communion in full view of all and sundry, and she was not entirely sure the priest would consent to let her, knowing that she continued in her sinful ways, not as repentant as he would like for her to be.

We could leave now, she thought, her heart beginning to race at the very idea. We could leave together, and go somewhere quiet, and talk to one another, as we used to do. It had been months, now, since they had actually talked to one another, and the thought of a quiet corner, and his gentle voice, and his warm eyes, spent only on her, was a tantalizing one.

In that moment there was nothing she wanted more than simply to be with him, and so she squeezed his hand. At her touch he looked down at her sharply, and she smiled, wanting to reassure him, thinking only how she loved him.

"Let's go, Lucien," she whispered.

He rose at once, and while the rest of the congregation stared straight ahead, awaiting their turn to approach the altar, Lucien and Jean slipped out of the sanctuary, still clinging to one another's hands, their departure unnoticed by anyone.

They emerged into a warm, gentle night. It was very late; the service had begun at midnight, and they'd been inside for nearly an hour. Beyond the church not a soul was stirring; even the leaves in the trees were still, and the stars sparkled above their heads like fairy lights. There was something enchanted about that moment, the silence, the beauty of it, something sacred about Lucien standing beside her, holding her hand. Hope had brought her this far, and she only prayed it would carry her through, just a bit longer.

"Lucien-"

"Jean-"

They spoke one another's names at the same moment, and Lucien laughed at their eagerness, reaching out with his free hand to tuck a wayward lock of her hair behind her ear. The easy intimacy of that gesture, the gentle care with which he touched her, gave her all the confidence she needed to speak. A part of her wondered what he would have said, had she let him go first, but she would never know for certain, for in the moment she could not hesitate, could not wait, even for a second, lest all her hopes turn to dust in her hands.

"Lucien," she said. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Though the words were innocent enough there was an insinuation in them, and Jean knew that Lucien would hear it. They were standing together in the carpark outside the church, all alone, and the only way for Jean to provide him with a cup of tea would be to bring him back to him to her home, in the still of the night, on Christmas Eve. Or Christmas Day, technically, she supposed, seeing as one day had passed into the next while they sat in the church. She was a woman, inviting a man she cared for, back to her home in the middle of the night, with no one else to see. It was not only tea she intended to give him - it was Christmas, after all - and she knew that he would hear her words, and understand the offer she was truly making. She rather hoped he might rejoice in it.

"I would love one," he said.

And that was that.

They decided between themselves that Jean would drive; they had both taken their cars to Sacred Heart, but Lucien would feel a bit foolish trailing along after her in his father's old Holden. This way no one need see his car parked behind the Lock and Key come morning - if, indeed, he were lucky enough to stay that long - and he need not part from her, even for a moment. Reluctantly he took his hand from hers, as they both clambered into her ancient truck, and settled onto the seat beside her, watching as she fired the old engine up and guided them smoothly through the deserted town back to her home.

He was not entirely sure why she had asked him to come home with her, but he was not about to let such an invitation go to waste. Perhaps she had come to realize, through his letters, the flowers he'd sent her, the way he'd turned up at the church, how complete his devotion to her truly was. Perhaps she had come to see that they could be happy, with one another, that hope was not lost. Perhaps she wanted him; perhaps she only intended to give him a cup of tea. Whatever the cause, whatever lay in store, Lucien was more than willing to follow where she led.

For once he kept his mouth shut, as they drove to the Lock and Key. There was something reverent about the silence, and he dare not ruin it with words. Instead he watched her, the glow of the occasional streetlamp washing over her beautiful face, the soft drape of the widow's veil over her perfect curls, and soaked in the air of possibility that seemed to hang between them. It felt to him rather as if they were hurtling through the darkness into the light of a new day, as if everything between them were about to change, and he was desperate to see what might happen next. He had been trying, with all his might, to show her that she was worthy of love, that her imagined sins did not have to mean the end of all her happiness, that if she would only give him the opportunity he could love her with all of his heart, all of himself, for all of his days. It seemed to him as if by some struck of luck his efforts were not in vain; it seemed to him that she must have found it in her heart to hope, and he wanted to take that hope, and nurture it, and see it blossom into love.

Soon enough they reached the pub, and Jean killed the engine, stepped out of the car before he had a chance to reach for her. She moved like a woman on a mission, he thought, and he scrambled to follow after her.

The second he was beside her he called her name, once, softly, and she slowed for the briefest of moments. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, and when he looked at her he could not help but think that she was the loveliest woman he'd ever seen in his life.

"Come with me," she whispered, taking his hand.

He would have followed her anywhere, and so he only nodded, and let her lead him inside.