25 December 1959
When Lucien left her, pressed his lips against the rise of her bare shoulder and promised to be back in just a moment, Jean just smiled and let him go, sinking back against her pillows exhausted and yet full of joy. They'd gotten very little sleep, the night before; it had been quite late when they first returned to the Lock and Key, and it had been quite some time before they drifted off to sleep, and then they'd woken with the sun a bare few hours later, and fallen into one another again. It was worth losing a little sleep, Jean thought, to have him there with her.
As she lay, warm and comfortable and at peace beneath the duvet, her eyes wandered to the little table beside her bed. The hourglass and its damnable black sand did not sit there now, nor would it ever again, if Jean had anything to say about it. Gone were the days of counting the seconds, kicking Lucien out of bed when all she wanted was to hold him just a little while longer. He had with kindness and gentle hands purchased the only thing in the Lock and Key that could not be bought with money; her heart was his, now, irreversibly. The tender way he held her, the way he kissed her, the quiet words he whispered in her ear while they lay tangled up together told her that he understood very well the gift that he had been given, and that he would not squander it.
There were other gifts, sitting on that little table. There was the small box containing the beautiful brooch he had given her, that promise of better days made real, now. And there was the small box that held the cufflinks she had given him; B for Blake, of course, but also, to Jean's mind, B for Beazley, evidence of their connection to one another he could wear out in the world without anyone the wiser, a reminder for him, and for her, of the promises they had made with words and hands and tender devotion. He was hers, as much as she was his.
It was not lost on Jean that they had both chosen to give one another jewelry. It was not rings and vows they exchanged, but somehow it felt almost as monumental, to Jean. When she invited him back to her home, when she led him up the stairs, when she took him to bed without need of payment, she had stepped beyond her rules at last, and chosen, for his sake, to allow herself to love, and everything that came with it. She could dream, now, of a home with him in it, a garden where he would sit beside her, a future they made together, not on her terms or on his but on theirs. She was trusting him with everything she had, choosing to bind her life to his. The word marriage had not been spoken - and if he was clever it would not be spoken at all until the pub was sold - but their arrangement seemed to have the same finality nonetheless. He had pursued her relentlessly, had chosen her, when he could have had someone else, anyone else, more cheaply and more easily than her. And she had chosen him, when the call of her independence and her fear of disappointment had for so long stopped her from choosing anyone at all. Everything was about to change.
All unthinking the fingers of Jean's right hand sought out her left, running circles round and round the gold band she still wore there. When she wed Christopher she had been certain there would never be anyone else for her, and when he died she had sworn to it. Though she'd entertained more men than she would like to consider over the intervening years she never gave to them what she had given to her husband; her trust, her hope, her faithfulness, her heart, she had reserved for herself. Now, though, now she had lavished those gifts upon another at last.
I wonder what Christopher would make of him, she thought. Christmas always made her think of him, of the few short years in which their family had been whole, and celebrating the holiday together. It made her think of Christopher's hands, gentle on Christmas morning, and her boys, small and excited over the meagerest of parcels, the twinkling lights of the tree, the joy and the rightness of sharing that day with her family. She did her best to make Christmas pleasant for her girls - and would in fact need to leave her bed soon, to cook their breakfast as was her tradition - but the Christmas season had always been full of lament for her, without Christopher and the boys. Now, though, now she would share it with Lucien, and joy had returned to her at last.
As she lay there lost in thoughts of love and Christmas and lazy, hazy dreams for the future, a strange sound resolved itself; voices, in her parlor. She was not afraid, exactly; Lucien was out there, somewhere, and he would not have let anyone save one of her girls into her own private suite without causing far more commotion than this. But she was concerned, for she did not have the first idea why any of her girls would come to her now, so early on Christmas Day, and she did not relish the thought of lying naked and vulnerable in her bed while Lucien confronted them himself. As the seconds passed the voices did not fade away, but seemed only to grow louder, and Jean had very nearly resolved herself to rise from her bed and go see what was afoot when her bedroom door cracked open, and Lucien slipped through it.
He really was the loveliest man, she thought. There was no one more handsome, more brave, more kind than her Lucien, and what a picture he made, wearing only his trousers and a somewhat foolish grin.
"The girls have a surprise for you, my darling," he said, coming to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. Jean reached for his hand idly, hardly even realizing she'd done it, and he twined their fingers together at once, smiling down at her softly.
"What, all of them?" she asked faintly.
"Indeed," Lucien laughed, and leaned forward to brush a gentle kiss against her forehead. "Christmas breakfast has come to you this year, not the other way round. Come on, let's get dressed, and then we can go and eat."
"They cooked?" Jean asked incredulously. Lucien was already stepping away, shuffling around in search of the vest and shirt she'd peeled off him the night before.
"They did," he said, grinning. "There's eggs and toast and tea and all sorts. They brought it all up here so we can eat together in the parlor."
"Right, then," Jean said, trying very hard not to cry. It was overwhelming, really, to receive so many blessings at once. The reminder of how her girls cared for her, just as much as she did for them, the thought of all of them sitting together cozy in her parlor, like a proper family, the thought of Lucien in their midst, welcome and at home with them...it was too beautiful, truly, and she could hardly find the words to express the joy that filled her heart.
It was a tight fit, and several of the girls ended up sitting on the floor around the low table in the center of the room, but somehow they managed it. Elizabeth and Lorraine had dished out the food and passed out the plates while Maureen and Harriet poured the tea and saw to it that everyone had a cup. With plates balanced on their knees and wide grins everyone began to tuck in; Lucien did so with gusto, for in truth he had worked up quite an appetite, and happiness always made him hungry.
He was sitting next to Jean on the low sofa, Maureen tucked in on the other side of her. There was barely enough room for all three of them to squeeze in but they managed it; Maureen and Jean did not take up so very much space between them. Every face was smiling, and though several of the girls eyed him curiously there had so far been not one single mischievous remark about his presence, for which Lucien was very grateful. If they had commented on it he was determined to meet their teasing with gracious humility, but he worried for Jean's sake. This new accord between them was so very fragile, and he could not bear to see anyone give her cause to doubt herself once more. Having only so recently wooed her he was loath to begin the process again; he could not bear it if she turned away from him once more, not after everything they'd shared over the last twelve hours.
"All right?" Lucien asked her softly, around a mouthful of eggs. The girls were chattering away, telling stories of comrades long lost to the recesses of time, of old family Christmases, of plans for the new year, but Jean had been rather quiet, and he needed to hear from her that she was well.
At his question she turned and looked at him, wearing a sweet, tremulous smile that made him long to kiss her, though he restrained himself for the sake of her sensibilities.
"Never better," she told him softly, and her tone was so very earnest that he knew then she was being sincere. Gingerly holding his plate in one hand Lucien reached out with the other, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and she returned the gesture with her eyes warm and full of love.
"Doctor Blake," one of the girls said then, and his eyes darted away from Jean's face, guilty at having been caught out mooning over her. To occupy himself he began once more to eat, watching Jean's charges warily. The girl who had spoken was blonde and pretty - well, they were all pretty - and she was smiling at him broadly. "Are you going to be our new daddy then?" She delivered her question with a teasing grin, and Lucien nearly choked on his eggs.
The girls all laughed, a tinkling chorus of merry little bells, and Jean laughed along with them, much to his relief. He knew what the girl was trying to say; Jean was as good as a mother to all of them, and while the blonde may have only been trying to make him blush her question was actually one he had asked himself; how permanent was this thing between himself and Jean to be? How much would she allow him to share her life? Would these girls welcome him with open arms, now that Jean loved him, now that she had allowed them all to see that love for themselves? Lucien was quite certain Jean would never have entertained a customer on Christmas Eve, and even more certain she would not have allowed a customer to share in their holiday celebrations. His very presence spoke to the depth of her regard for him, but still, some questions lingered.
"Your new step-father, perhaps," Jean said cheekily. "If you'll have us?"
This last she directed to Lucien himself, a flicker of doubt in her glorious eyes. He knew that to have Jean he would have to accept all of her, her checkered past, her tarnished reputation, her doubts and her fears, and her girls, all her little birds, who were as dear to her as her own children. He could not have one small piece of her; it must be all, or nothing. Knowing what he did about Jean, the choices she had made, the gentleness of her spirit, the strength of her heart, left Lucien with only one possible answer.
"Always," he said, "if you'll have me."
"Always," Jean answered, and then she leaned over and kissed his cheek to seal that vow, more holy than any made in any church, while the girls cheered and laughed and their breakfast grew cold on their plates.