23 January 1960
Lucien's hand was resting gently on Jean's thigh beneath the table.
Such a small thing, the touch of a hand, and yet Jean could not help but smile behind the rim of her teacup to feel him touch her so gently, so easily, to feel the way her heart warmed at the very thought of him. it was a Saturday night, and when the sun rose it would be her birthday, and Lucien would join her for a private celebration after Sunday mass, and Maureen had threatened to bake a cake, and oh, how everything had changed over this last year. Her smiles were more frequent, now, her hopes for the future no longer fragile wisps of smoke but the solid foundation of a life, built by Jean and Lucien together, and not Jean alone.
Most every day since Christmas he had found time for her; some nights he came round early, and joined Jean and the girls for supper. Some nights he didn't come until late, but he would sit next to Jean, and drink his whiskey, and they would talk quietly together while they kept watch over their girls. Some days he sent her flowers, and her heart rejoiced in it. One Saturday he had come round with a pile of books, and he and Jean had spent the afternoon lazing around her suite together, he lost in some research, she knitting and listening to the wireless, the pair of them content simply to be together. One Saturday she had gone to him, and he had been so terribly delighted that they spent the entire day in his bed, and at the end of it he had driven her to the Lock and Key himself, and stayed there right through Monday morning. One Saturday he had packed a picnic, and they had spent the most beautiful day together, far from the prying eyes of Ballarat.
It was plain to Jean what he was doing; he was wooing her gently, determinedly, the way he had done from the very beginning. Lucien had kept no secrets where his heart was concerned; he had told her that he loved her, that he dreamed of a life with her, and he had with every word and deed proved the truth of his devotion. And Jean welcomed those gestures from him, truly she did, for every moment spent in his company reminded her of what it was to dream, reminded her that it was not too late, that she was not too far gone for love, that not every venture must of necessity end in disappointment. He had reminded her what it was, to love again.
"Would you really want to leave Ballarat?" Lucien asked her softly as they sat together in Jean's usual corner booth, removed from the bustle of the pub and yet observing it all so closely. Lucien's face was half-hidden behind the day's copy of The Courier, and Jean's hands were busy with her knitting and her tea, but under the table he touched her, gently, and she soaked in the warmth of that touch.
"I don't know," she confessed, watching as a young man in a fine suit flirted with Maureen. "Ballarat is my home, Lucien. I was born here, I raised my children here. My parents are buried at Sacred Heart."
And I never go to see them there, she added in her mind, but Christopher's stone is there, too, and I don't like the thought of leaving him behind.
"And it's your home, too. You have your father's beautiful house, and all your patients, and you enjoy your work with Matthew. I'm not sure it would be right, to walk away from all that."
This was a conversation they'd been having on and off in a casual sort of way since Christmas; they both knew that the day when Jean would be free to leave the Lock and Key was still some time off, as despite his attempts to speed up the process she firmly refused to accept any further funds from Lucien. He seemed to understand her reasons for that, her need to do this one thing on her own, to maintain this bit of independence for herself, even if she did intend to one day join her life to his. If he meant to marry her - and she was quite certain that he did - Jean meant to enter that marriage with funds of her own, and not rely on her husband's good graces for every penny she might need. An unusual prospect for a lady of Jean's generation, perhaps, but it was a point on which she would not be moved, and he seemed to admire her for it, and not hold it against her.
"You told me you worried it would make things difficult for us, if people saw us together," Lucien pointed out.
He was not wrong on that score; Jean had been worried - was still worried - about the damage she might do to Lucien's reputation. But perhaps, she thought, if she sold the pub, and set herself up in a little cottage for some time, perhaps if word got around that she had turned aside from her business, if Lucien had the chance to court her properly, openly, if she was able to make confession and if the priest would consent to marry them in the church, perhaps, with time, the whispers would fade. Oh, there would be excitement in the beginning, she was certain, but the gossips moved on quickly, always on the hunt for the latest piece of information. In time she and Lucien might be no more interesting a match than Patrick and Susan Tyneman had been. Perhaps.
"I still think it might," she said truthfully. "But what they say doesn't matter, does it? We know the truth."
"Indeed we do," Lucien said, his wide grin carefully concealed behind the newspaper.
"Besides, young Christopher has to go where the army sends him. I'd hate for us to move all the way to Adelaide just to find out he was being transferred somewhere else. It would be nice, I think, if we settled right here at home, and your house has more than enough room for visitors."
"It does," Lucien agreed. "Your boys could both come to stay, if they wanted. And perhaps one day my Li might come, as well. It would be nice to have some company. The house is too big to sit empty."
"Did you ever think of taking on boarders?"
Jean asked her question idly, lost in the darting rhythm of her knitting needles. It was very nice, she decided, to simply sit and talk with Lucien, to hear his gentle voice, to know that she was safe with him, to know that all he wanted was her, that unlike so many men who had made her acquaintance over the years it was her heart he longed for, and not only an hour's pleasure.
"I did want Nurse O'Brien to stay," Lucien confessed, "but she couldn't so long as I was the only person in the house. It's something to consider, though. I could rent out the rooms upstairs. But I would need some help looking after all of them."
This last he added with a cheeky glance in her direction, and Jean smiled herself at the thought. It might be quite nice, she thought, to rent out a few of the rooms to some young people, to have someone to look after, some way to fill her days when the pub no longer consumed her every waking moment. It might be quite nice, she thought, to build their own sort of family.
"Well," she said, "it's something to consider, isn't it?"
"Perhaps we could get a dog, as well?" Lucien asked, somewhat hopefully, and Jean could not help but laugh at his boyish eagerness. What a sweet, hopeful soul he could be; oh, Jean knew about the darkness that lingered in his past, knew the grief that sometimes kept him up at night, still, knew the damage his recklessness could cause, but he was, at his core, the best of men. All around them the evening's activity bustled on, and though Jean kept her eyes on her girls and their customers her heart was not in it, for she was in truth too wrapped up in Lucien, and too lost in how much she loved him.
"I intend to do something about your poor neglected garden, Doctor Blake," she told him primly. "And I won't have some mutt undoing all my good work." His face fell, slightly, and so she reached under the table and covered his hand with her own. "So you'll have to see that he's very well trained."
Lucien's smile returned at once.
"And a cat, perhaps, for the lady of the house?" he suggested.
That was a thought Jean liked very much; the desolate, empty sunroom could with a bit of effort be turned into an oasis of beautiful flowers and comfortable chairs, and the idea of passing an afternoon there, sipping her tea, reading a book, with a little cat curled up on her lap, was a charming one. The lady of the house, indeed, Jean thought; she was lady of this house, in command of everything that happened beneath this roof, but it would be different, being Mrs. Blake. Her responsibilities would change, and in some ways the burden of them would lessen. It would be, she thought, the most beautiful sort of retirement, and she longed for it, with everything she had.
And so they passed the remainder of their time together, chatting quietly to one another. Lucien could not stay the whole night through; Matthew Lawson would be coming round to his for a nightcap, and besides, Jean had church in the morning. But he would come back, after, and they would celebrate her birthday together, and Jean was so looking forward to his return that she did not lament the thought of his departure.
"It's time, I'm afraid," Lucien said at last, glancing at his watch. Using his newspaper for a shield he planted a gentle kiss against her cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow, my darling."
"Yes, you will," Jean answered, grinning.
Lucien folded his newspaper, swallowed down the last of his whiskey, and plopped his hat on his head at a jaunty angle before setting off into the night. He waved to the girls as he went and received several cheeky grins in return; they universally adored him, for which Jean was very grateful. Altogether her life had grown so very pleasant that she could hardly contain her smiles, could hardly restrain the beatific glowing of her heart, so recently restored to happiness.
Saturday nights were quite busy, and so she was rather glad that Lucien had chosen to come to her earlier, rather than later. Most of the customers were well known to Jean and so were not cause for alarm, but a few of them were strangers, and it was those men Jean watched most carefully. Young Paul was manning the door this evening, a strapping lad who used his pay from the Lock and Key to support a budding career as a professional boxer. He stood leaned against the wall beside the door, and his threatening scowl was more than enough to keep the gentlemen in line - though of course Jean's entire business had been predicated on pursuing a more refined sort of customer, and so the gentlemen who visited this pub were hardly likely to brawl in the first place. Still, though, a bit of extra muscle on the door was a comfort.
As the night wore on nearly every girl had made her way upstairs, engaged with some man or other; Maureen had had one already, and washed her face and come back down to take up her spot behind the bar. Though Jean generally preferred to keep her position in the corner, she began to consider simply going to the bar and chatting to Maureen; no one else could have her until one of the other young ladies came to relieve her, and the gentlemen currently gathered in the dining room would simply have to wait their turn. They were well aware of the rules, of course, and entertained themselves in idle talk, or card games, or simply sat alone with their eyes trained on the stairs, waiting. No trouble seemed to be in the offing, and so Jean couldn't see any harm in it, her going to talk to Maureen. As she and Lucien solidified their plans for the future Maureen would need to be brought into Jean's confidence on the matter, as it was Maureen Jean intended to sell the pub to. She needed to know what lay ahead.
But Jean had no sooner tucked her knitting back into its bag than the little bell above the door tinkled merrily, announcing the arrival of a new visitor. Reflexively Jean looked up, only vaguely interested in seeing who it was, but the moment her eyes landed on the newcomer's face her heart began to race and her hands began to tremble. There was no time to run; he had seen her, and he smiled, a terrible, soulless smile, and began to cross the room to her booth at once. Like a rabbit caught in the gaze of some terrible predator Jean remained locked in place, her mind whirring as she tried to devise some means of saving herself from this impending calamity. Behind the bar Maureen slowly abandoned the glasses she had been washing, and drifted with every appearance of calm detachment towards the telephone.
"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley," the man said as he drew level with her booth.
"Good evening, Major Alderton," Jean answered.