25 December 1959
Jean woke slowly, floating on a warm sea of contentment. Her body was loose and soft beneath the heavy weight of Lucien's arm, her heart light and, for once, at peace. She had made her choice; Lucien had offered her hope and a dream for the future and she had reached out and caught hold of that dream with both hands. Whether that dream would ever come to be, and what shape it might take in the end, remained to be seen, but for now, for this moment, Jean was happy. Lucien was with her, and he had not paid for the pleasure, nor would he ever again, if Jean had anything to say about it. Never again would she accept payment for her body; that was a gift that would from now on only be given, freely, with the full desire of her heart, and never purchased. Her heart had chosen Lucien, and she took joy in that choice.
He was warm at her back, his arm draped around her waist, his breath washing slow and steady over the tender skin of her neck. Slowly, very slowly, her eyes fluttered open; it was Christmas morning, and she did have plans to celebrate with her girls, but there was a little time, yet, for her to simply enjoy being with Lucien. There was time yet to hold him, to talk to him, to run her fingers through his hair, to kiss him - for having discovered the beauty of his kiss there was nothing Jean wanted more than to indulge in it again - but as her vision came to in focus she found a most unexpected sight waiting for her.
There on the bed, just in front of her face, was a small box tied with a pretty ribbon. It was Christmas morning, after all, and so there could be no doubt that this little box was a present, intended for her, but how it had come to be there remained a mystery to Jean.
"Lucien?" she whispered softly. She had thought that he was asleep, for he was lying very still and his breathing was deep and even, but as she spoke his name she felt him smile and press a kiss against the back of her neck. He had not been sleeping, then; he must have found some way to slip out of bed and place this little present in front of her before sliding back into place behind her. Perhaps it was the gentle movements of his body that had woken her in the first place; she couldn't say for certain. How he had done this thing was a matter of no consequence; what was important to Jean, in that moment, was the realization that he must have been carrying this little box on his person. When he had gone to Sacred Heart the night before, looking for her, intent on sitting beside her in mass, he must have slipped the box into his jacket pocket first. Had he imagined they might spent the night tangled up in one another's arms? Had he been counting on receiving the invitation she had extended to him? Somehow, she thought not. Somehow, she felt certain that he must have been intent on giving her this gift the night before regardless of what she offered him in turn, and that knowledge comforted her, warmed her heart. His every word and deed spoke of his regard for her, and she felt herself falling more in love with him with each passing second.
"Open it, my darling," he whispered against her skin.
And so she did, reached for that little box with unsteady hands. He was peering over her shoulder, now, watching as she lay naked beside him, carefully untying that fine ribbon, and so Jean did not move, simply remained right where she was, safe in his embrace. Once the ribbon was untied she carefully laid it aside, and then opened the box.
As its contents were revealed to her Jean could not help but gasp. Inside the box there lay a beautiful jade brooch, in the shape of some exotic flower. Small, sparkling stones - they can't be diamonds, she told herself, can they? - had been set in the juncture of the petals, and the brooch itself had been cast from gold. It was a princely gift, incredibly lovely, no doubt purchased dearly, finer than any other piece of jewelry Jean had ever owned.
"Thank you," Jean whispered, feeling tears beginning to gather in the corners of her eyes. It was such a lovely gift, but even more lovely, to her mind, was the fact that he had thought to give her a gift at all, that he had done this thing for her sake. That he had been thinking warm thoughts of her, and of Christmas, and procured a gift, just for her.
"It's beautiful," she told him. But of course, he was beautiful, too, and his love of her was a beautiful thing, and she delighted in it. The brooch was lovely, and she knew that she would wear it at the first possible opportunity, and treasure it always, but it was not the sort of thing that one might purchase at a shop in Ballarat. It was too beautiful, and too unique; no lady in Ballarat would have anything half so fine, except maybe Susan Tyneman, and she would prefer a much more traditional piece. Where then, she wondered, had he come by this thing?
Jean rather felt she might know the answer.
"Was it hers?" she asked him softly.
She was grateful that she was not looking at him, grateful that she could not see his face as she asked her question. She did not know what she wanted the answer to be, or how she might feel if he told her yes. If it had belonged to her, the woman Lucien had loved and lost, if it was one of the few pieces of her that still remained to him, and he had chosen to give it to Jean, that would be, Jean thought, a monumental gift. It would be, she thought, a gesture of respect, his way of showing her just how much she meant to him, how much he intended to share with her, how deeply invested he was in their future. It would be like giving her a piece of his own heart. And yet, she thought she might lament, in some way, to know that this beautiful thing had once belonged to someone else, that his wife might have once worn it proudly, that were it not for her death she would wear it still, and Jean would never have had the chance to hold Lucien at all.
"No," he said, and she felt the smallest bit of relief. "No, I um...I bought it before the Japanese invaded." She had been right, then; he had not purchased it in this town, or indeed on this continent. It was a rare gift, indeed; no other woman in Ballarat could boast a gift so fine. "And I thought it might make a good present one day." His voice was thick with emotion, and Jean understood it well. He had purchased this thing for his wife, down payment on better days, a piece of hope stored away, to be treasured until the time was right. His wife had never returned to him, and this gift had never been delivered into her hands, and Lucien had held it, for nearly two decades now, waiting for the time to be right. Waiting for the woman he loved, the woman who would deserve such a precious gift. He had been waiting, and he had chosen now, this moment, to deliver it into her hands. "And indeed it has," he whispered, kissing her neck again.
Indeed, it had made for the best of presents, for Jean understood precisely what it meant, precisely what Lucien had given her. He was not waiting, any longer, holding out hope for a better day, a different day. It was Jean he had chosen, Jean he wanted, Jean he loved, and he had placed that love in this little box, and delivered it to her. Trying very hard not to cry, then, Jean carefully closed the box and laid it on the bed beside her, and then she turned in his arms, and kissed him soundly.
It was later, much later, after Lucien and Jean had lost themselves in one another once again, after Jean had slipped out of bed, naked as the day she was born, and returned to shyly offer him a gift of her own, a small box containing a pair of silver cuff-links, inset with a golden B. Yours were looking a bit scuffed, she'd told him, smiling, and Lucien had been so delighted he could not help but kiss her, deeply and with abandon. She, too, had thought of him this Christmas, and purchased for him a fine gift that spoke to how well she knew him, how she cared for him, and his heart rejoiced in it. That gift told him that she must have been thinking, even before he turned up at the church, that she would find her way back to him, and he was more grateful for that than words could say.
After all that, however, Lucien had found himself in rather urgent need of the loo, and so he had slipped from Jean's bed and tugged on his trousers before making his way out of the room. Her suite boasted its own private bathroom - for which he was also very thankful - and it was there he went. Once he had attended to his business he was determined to fall back into bed with Jean and stay there for the rest of the day, but as he crossed the parlor there came a knock upon the door.
For a moment Lucien simply stared at it, bewildered. Jean was still naked and soft in bed, and he was certain she had not heard the knock. Ought he to answer it? What might happen, should the girls find him there?
If any of them were awake last night, they'll know I'm here already, he thought wryly. Neither he nor Jean had been particularly discreet, the night before. Or indeed that morning. It would take Jean some time to get dressed, and surely she was comfortable right where she was, and whoever had come calling it could only be one of her girls; surely, he thought, it would be all right for him to answer the door.
And so he did. Despite the fact that he was barefoot and bare-chested and his hair was quite unkempt he stood tall and proud, and opened the door just far enough to see who stood on the other side.
It was not one of the girls; it was all of them. In their dressing gowns and their satin pajamas, their hair as rumpled as his own, twelve young ladies crowded the corridor, each of them carrying something; there were trays heaped with plates and teacups, and platters of toast and bowls of scrambled eggs, and two teapots, that he saw, and as he stared at that flock of pretty birds, utterly confused by their appearance, they began to breeze past him, laughing.
"Merry Christmas, Doctor Blake," several of them murmured, their eyes wicked and full of mischief.
"Merry Christmas," Lucien managed to stammer in response, stepping back to allow them entry to the parlor and watching them in wild-eyed befuddlement.
What on earth? He thought as he watched them lay their burdens down on the low table in the center of the room, laughing and chatting together as they began to prepare a veritable feast for Christmas breakfast. Jean had told him that she intended to cook for the girls, as she always did on Christmas Day, but it seemed the girls had done her one better, and cooked for her instead.
"Merry Christmas, Doctor Blake," Maureen said, coming to a stop beside him while the other girls flitted about the parlor, arranging the chairs into a more conversational grouping.
"Merry Christmas, Maureen," he answered, somewhat lamely.
"Jean's always so good to us," she said, by way of explanation. "We wanted to do something nice for her. We all just want her to be happy."
There was a directness to the way that Maureen looked at him then that made those words sound more like a threat than anything else.
"So do I," he told her earnestly.
"Good, then," Maureen said. "Best go and fetch her, I'm starving."