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Jean smiled at Susan Tyneman and said, "So… we're moving along quite well, and you're responding very well to the stitch we put in the neck of your womb. So far, no adverse effects, and you've seen nothing that troubles me. Everything looks on track this time, Mrs. Tyneman."

Susan nodded hesitantly and smiled. "I hope so," she said softly. "Patrick will be very pleased if it comes to pass that we have another child. He's been most insistent."

"I know," Jean said comfortingly. "Men can be very demanding and they don't realize the strain they put us under mentally and physically to give them what they want. But I'm doing my very best to make sure you can have the second child you want so badly."

"What about you, Dr. Randall?"

Jean smiled wryly. "Ah, yes, well…"

"Your husband was in Malaya, wasn't he?" Susan inquired. "Have you heard anything?"

Jean shrugged her shoulders and diplomatically said, "I'm sure he'll turn up eventually."

"Don't you worry about him?"

"Of course I do," Jean said, neglecting to mention that he was currently just in the other room with Leigh as she played with her dolls. "But if I dwelled on him every moment of every day, I would have no time to worry about my daughter, or myself, or the fine ladies of Ballarat and your children," she explained gently. "So my dearest husband must come second or third or even tenth in my mind at any given moment in time, even though I do love him dearly and would give anything to have him with me."

"Well, I'll say a prayer that he comes home safely to you – and speaking of coming home safely, Lucien Blake has come home after flouncing off and saying he was never ever coming back to Ballarat. Can you imagine? I mean, of course, you live here and he's Dr. Blake's son and all – speaking of, are you and dear Leigh going to have to find alternative accommodation now that he's returned?" Susan inquired.

"I shouldn't think so," Jean said.

"Well, it's not very appropriate for you to lodge here if he's staying for very long, even if you are married," Susan huffed. "Not to mention, what would your husband say?"

Jean forced a smile and said, "I'm not entirely certain he would mind as much as everyone else seems to."

"I saw Lucien Blake in the green grocer's this morning," Susan commented. "Once he fills back out, every available woman in Ballarat will be knocking on this door, trying to get his favor."

Jean's fingers clenched around her pen in a death grip. "Yes, well, be that as it may," she began, but her voice trailed off into silence. She took a deep breath and then murmured, "I'll need to see you again in two weeks, Mrs. Tyneman."

As she saw her patient out, Jean felt slightly guilty about lying – admittedly by omission – about Lucien and her marriage, but she had only ever revealed it to Thomas, and now, to Maureen and her husband. She had kept her maiden name to practice under, fiercely, stubbornly clinging to her identity as it had always been before, and had ignored the gossip and whispered rumors that she had never actually married; that her daughter was illegitimate, that she was a fallen woman returned to her hometown with nothing but her name and her training to hold her up. But it was so much more than that; she had never wanted to assume that Lucien would want to stay put in Ballarat: she knew he hated the town, the closed-mindedness of its people, the very way the air smelled, and he would want to get away at his earliest opportunity. She didn't need to thread roots by taking his name, staking a claim on the fortunes and his father's house, and everything that went with it. By remaining herself, she had always been free and her life had been, to at least an outsider's perspective, gloriously unencumbered by restraints.

She had not lied, not really, but there were things she hadn't said. She hadn't said how proud she was to be Lucien Blake's wife; how much she cherished the little silver wedding band on her finger because it was the ring he had chosen in haste for their quick wedding. She hadn't ever voiced how frightened she had been that he wouldn't come back to her; that losing him might be the one thing that would break her spirit completely. And she had never, ever spoken aloud how much their daughter looked like her father, because that way lay madness.

And in a way, she was glad she had given them that freedom and that space, that she had not put undue pressure on them, because her husband was as skittish as a newborn colt, wild and unbroken. He wasn't the man she remembered so fondly, who she adored beyond measure; he had changed, fundamentally, and at times, she barely recognized the man stalking around the house as her Lucien.

"Mummy, I'm hungee," Leigh announced from behind Jean as she locked up, surgery done for the day.

"Are you now?" Jean inquired, turning to see Leigh holding Lucien's hand. "Are you hungry, too?" she asked, raising a brow.

"No, I just wasn't certain if she got a snack before dinner or if that would spoil it, so I thought I would ask," Lucien said.

"We usually share a piece of fruit after surgery with her," Jean said softly, "either grandpa or mummy, depending who isn't out at the hospital or on home visits. And we take turns making dinner – tonight we'll have chicken, because that's what you picked up at the butcher's this morning."

"How is your leg?" Lucien asked.

She dismissed him with a shrug. "It will mend," was all she said. She bent down and offered Leigh her hand and a smile. "Come on, love, let's go get a snack – do you want to share an apple with daddy while mummy starts dinner?"

"You're meant to be using your crutches –"

"Lucien, I am not a child, and I wish you would stop treating me like I am," Jean said warningly. "Are you going to share an apple with Leigh or not?"

"Mummy, are you angwy wif daddy?" Leigh asked worriedly, her eyes open wide as her little hand clenched hard around Jean's.

Jean sighed and internally kicked herself. "No, love, I'm not angry with daddy," she murmured. "Let's go get your snack, all right? And you can tell me all about what you've been doing while mummy was working."

Lucien put his hand on the small of Jean's back, but she pulled away from him, still unsure of where they stood with each other after three days in each other's presence. She smiled just a little, and walked with Leigh into the kitchen as the little girl chattered happily.

Jean startled awake, listening for the tell-tale signs of Leigh's distress that she was used to hearing in the night when she awakened in such a manner; she left her door open so she could always hear her daughter, and had done since she'd been a tiny babe in arms. But the slamming click of a door downstairs disabused her of the notion that the little girl was at fault of causing Jean's nocturnal disturbance, and Jean rose tiredly, reaching for her robe and jamming her feet into her house slippers. She had heard Lucien's soft cries of distress the night before and had gone down to him, stroking his sweaty brow and whispering reassurances until he had calmed back into restless sleep, but she hadn't heard him in anguish this evening.

It was pitch black in the garden, aside from the red glow of his cigarette, and it was quiet aside from the sloshing of alcohol in a bottle. Whiskey, if she had to guess; she had thrown away many such bottles already. "Lucien?" she murmured.

"Go back to bed, Jeanie," he said, his voice rough with lack of sleep and too much to drink.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently.

"Define all right." His laugh was bitter and a little sad. "I'm alive, but does it even matter? I close my eyes and I'm right back there. I might as well have never left." He puffed on his cigarette then took a long swig of whiskey. When he looked back at her, she could see the anguish, the pain etched in the lines of his face. "And you… you just go on like a juggernaut, never even stopping for breath, like some kind of a brilliant machine, never stopping. You're a force of nature, Jean. My god – if I could be more like you…"

She barked a laugh of disbelief. "I don't hardly know what to do with myself if I ever slow down," Jean admitted into the darkness, afraid to give the words life. "I'm a terrible mother; I don't know what to do with Leigh most of the time, and she follows me around like I'm the be-all, end-all – and if it's not me, it's your father. I think there's something wrong with me, honestly. I… I didn't really like her until she was about a year old and could start doing things on her own." She crossed her arms over her chest and exhaled very slowly. "I had a very hard birth; she was breech and it took 44 hours in total, and even though she was early and small, she managed to break my tailbone and crack my pelvis. It took months to heal and I feel very guilty that I didn't… I didn't bond with her like I should. And I…" She swallowed hard, looking down at her feet, away from him. "I thought very seriously for a time, when I was very ill and had been bedridden for six weeks with a nursing baby and no end of the pain in sight, that she would be better off without me. That you would be better off without me."

"Jean –"

"So I got better and kept going and I don't stop because then I don't have time to think about what a failure I am," she whispered.

"You aren't."

"You can't say that; you haven't been here." There was no accusation to her tone, just quiet resignation; she didn't hold him responsible for his absence, but there were consequences for it just the same.

"She's happy and healthy, and she loves you and father desperately," he pointed out with a hint of envy in his tone.

"She should adore her father like that," Jean murmured, "but she barely knows what a daddy is, only what we've told her: a man who loves her mummy and her and will do anything to make sure she's safe and loved." The resignation quickly turned into frustration and she gestured for him to hand over the whiskey. When he did, she took a delicate sip, wincing as the alcohol burned a trail down her throat, making her cough.

"Careful, darling," Lucien warned, "it's rather –"

"Vile," Jean proclaimed. "I'll stick with sherry, thank you very much." She handed it back to him and made a face. "How can you drink that?"

He shrugged. "You get used to it. I think it's rather delightful, myself."

They lapsed into silence again, only broken when she murmured, "Tell me something about the camp."

He startled, then shook his head, finishing off the bottle in a long chug that would have disgusted anyone else. She reached over and touched his arm, imploring, knowing that if he didn't breathe life into at least one of his secrets, he wouldn't sleep again that night. Lucien let out a heavy sigh and looked away, closing his eyes.

"A good thing or a bad thing?" he asked finally.

"Just… something. Anything."

His voice was very quiet when he finally began to speak, the words halting and lacking confidence. "The last few months, there wasn't enough food, so we had to ration the daily meal out to those who we thought might survive. I was put in charge of health checks to determine food rationing."

Her heart fluttered in her chest and her hand flew to her mouth in surprised horror. "Lucien," she whispered, digging her fingertips into the lean flesh of his tricep, holding on tightly, "you cannot blame yourself."

"Then who is to blame?" he asked. "I chose, Jean – I was forced to play God, and look where it got me. Back home, safe and sound, when there are thousands buried in unmarked graves –"

"Lucien," she breathed into the darkness, squeezing his arm hard. He had known such horrors that she knew he would never share with her, that he would never voice aloud, and that this was the one that he chose to impart to her meant that he was scared – of life, of death, of his own inadequacies to handle himself, and dear god, did she understand him in a way he didn't truly comprehend. "It wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault," she whispered, leaning into him, begging him to believe her.

He took a ragged breath and finally put his hand over hers where it clasped his arm. "I wish I could believe that, Jeanie," he mumbled, awkwardly stroking her knuckles before retreating again. "You'd best get back to bed or you'll be very grumpy when you wake up in the morning."

Jean said, "I'm awake now; let's go sit in the den and talk a while. Much easier without your father's prying eyes and Leigh interfering."

They talked of nothing and everything until the sun came up, laughing over shared memories and Lucien learning about his daughter. Jean avoided telling him anything about herself; there wasn't much to tell: she worked and she took care of Leigh, and she went to mass, praying fervently for the safe deliverance of her husband from the jaws of the enemy. Now that he was home, she would have to learn a new dance with him in her life again.

But she didn't know him, and he wasn't her fun-loving delightful Lucien anymore. He was practically a stranger, this man with a straggly beard (her Lucien had never had a beard, and she continually found herself surprised by how much it suited him, even though it was in desperate need of grooming) and wraith-like gauntness as he moved through the house like a spirit of doom.

Oh, though, how she loved him still. The gentleness of his hands, despite their barely healed cuts and bruises, the soft caress of his voice, rough with emotion and practically dripping with restrained passion when he spoke her name with such reverence (no one said her name like that – how was it that he was the only person that made her very name sound like a prayer?), the way he touched her like she was the most precious object on earth, far more important than anything in the Louvre or the Royal Collection or any of the museums they had visited in their giddy London courtship, laughing and pointing at the ancient objects with their myriad uses and phallic symbols.

But she was just as skittish as he was, their kisses barely more than chaste and their touches restrained to little more than enough to make a point. She didn't know, anymore, how to be his wife – if ever she had in the first place. And that familiar sense of inadequate dread filled her belly like a stoked fire, raging hotter and angrier than ever before; she was a poor mother and now she would be a poor wife. She would save her tears and her fears for the dead of night, when she could smother them in her pillow and pray for better days ahead.

It all came to a head in the middle of the night; Lucien had drunk at least three bottles of whiskey, and was plunking away carelessly on the piano, and it was a wonder he hadn't woken Leigh. Jean was grateful, for once, that the little girl could sleep through almost anything, as she stumbled downstairs tying the sash of her robe and feeling quite put out as exhaustion won out over everything else: he had been home a fortnight and she hadn't had a full night's sleep since he'd arrived, between his nightmares, his nocturnal wanderings, and his drunken escapades.

She came up behind him and rested her hand on his shoulder, surprised when he grabbed her wrist and squeezed it hard. "Lucien!" she gasped, struggling against him.

He released her and backed away, staring at her wild-eyed. "Jean?"

"It's a little late for the piano," she forced out, taking two steps back away from him. "Why don't you go to bed, sweetheart?"

"Are you hurt?" he asked anxiously, reaching for her, increasingly distressed when she backed away again. "Jean, did I hurt you? I'm sorry – god, Jeanie, I didn't mean –"

"You didn't hurt me," she assured him. "But you're drunk and you need to go to bed, Lucien, before you hurt yourself. Please."

"Are you frightened of me?" he asked, the desperation in his voice nearly breaking her heart.

"No, but I'm frightened for you," she murmured. "You need to sleep and drinking so much isn't helping that at all, Lucien."

He snorted a laugh. "It's the only way I can sleep," he said bitterly. He shook his head as if shaking away cobwebs of confusion, then murmured, "Are you certain I didn't hurt you?"

"I'm fine," she murmured, carefully staying away from him, keeping her rapidly bruising wrist out of his sight. "Lucien, please come up to bed, love."

He sighed in resigned defeat and nodded, following her out of the room and upstairs.

The next morning, it was quiet: too quiet. Leigh got up and got dressed and met Jean downstairs for her breakfast of toast and eggs and juice, but when Lucien didn't come down, Jean went in search of him and found his room empty, save an envelope on the pillow with her name on it.

She tore into it and read the contents with a sinking kind of anger in her chest.

My dearest;

What I did last night was unconscionable. I love you and my actions have not reflected that. As of right now, that changes. I am going away to protect you and Leigh, since I cannot be responsible for my actions under the influence of alcohol, nor can I be strong enough to quit drinking. I am sorry I am not strong enough for you, and if you wish to seek a divorce on the grounds of drunkenness and cruelty, you would be well within your rights.

Please do not come for me; it will only make this harder for the both of us.

Lucien R. Blake

Jean looked for Thomas quickly, then noticed that the car was gone; so he was in on it, too, then, this plot to steal Lucien away, leaving her bereft. That he had decided so decisively that he was not to be trusted with her safety galled her and made her sick; for without trust, without painful truths, where would they find themselves again?

"Get your dolly, love," Jean insisted. "We've got to get to the train station before daddy leaves."

Leigh looked up at her, her small freckled face blank with confusion. "Daddy's going away?" she whispered. "He said he wasn't gonna."

"He won't if we get to the station quickly," Jean promised. "Get your dolly and come on now, love."

"I don't need dolly – I need daddy," Leigh said in no small amount of distress.

Jean scooped her up and carried her out to the truck, carefully tucking her in the seat and said, "You sit as still as you can manage, love, and no getting up to look out, all right? Mummy's going to drive very quickly so we can get to daddy, yes?"

"Yes, mummy," Leigh said, sniffling.

"Good girl," Jean praised, starting the truck and praying they got there in time before the train left for Melbourne. She didn't dare think he'd gone in for the one to Adelaide that would have left an hour ago; the thought was too much to bear.

Once at the station, she held Leigh tightly in her arms and ran out on the loading platform, desperately wishing she were just a bit taller so she could see more. "Daddy!" Leigh cried out, kicking her little legs. Jean set her down and she tore through the crowd, shrieking for her father until she ran right into him, arms wide. "Daddy, don't go! Don't!"

Lucien looked up to see the crowd parting around Jean. She hated making a fuss, she hated an atmosphere, and she hated more than anything making an undignified scene, but this? This called for all of those things and more besides. "I thought I said –"

"Since when have I ever listened to you?" Jean pointed out gently, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. "And maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why you want so badly to leave me – us. Because I'm not… I'm not –"

"It's not you," Lucien assured her, letting their fingers twine together. "You are fierce and strong and I love you for it, Jeanie – my god, if I had half your strength…"

"You walked out of that camp alive," she reminded him. "You came home to me. You are my husband, Lucien. You didn't hurt me on purpose."

"No, but I hurt you and I promised I never would."

"Lucien," she whispered, "you didn't mean to. Please come home. No more whiskey, no more sleeping alone – we face this together, or not at all. You can't keep pushing us away."

"What if I hurt her?" he asked, looking down at Leigh in distress.

"You won't," Jean murmured.

"You can't promise that, Jean –"

"I'm not promising it; I know you won't hurt her," she declared simply. "Lucien… if you go away, I'm afraid you won't ever come home again, and I can't bear that thought – and Leigh very much wants her daddy to stay."

"What about you?" he asked, his eyes searching her face. "What do you want, Jean?"

"I want you," she said. "I want my husband. I need you," she corrected herself when the original answer didn't seem enough to satisfy him. "Lucien… please. Please."

"I'm broken, Jeanie –"

She nodded, taking his hand, holding it tightly. "So am I, Lucien," she whispered. "There's no shame in it. I love you so much; please come home, dear heart, and we can talk about this – all of it. I don't want a divorce, and you don't need the whiskey as much as you think you do. I promise."

Leigh looked up at Lucien and said, "Daddy? Wiww you come home pwease? Mummy's gonna make bithcuits."

Lucien released Jean's hand so he could get down on a level with his daughter, and Jean loved him even more for it, if that was possible. "Oh, my sweet girl," he said, his voice softening with love, "I would like nothing better than some of your mummy's biscuits."

Leigh's smile was wide and happy, and she threw her arms around Lucien's neck in a tight embrace. He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her close; Jean was so glad that their child loved him with such ease and devotion. "Mummy, daddy's comin' home," she announced.

"Yes," Jean said, smiling softly, suddenly very aware of the good citizens of Ballarat who were staring at them and gawping. Because, yes, this was very much going to be news worthy of the Courier – so mayhaps she should give them something to talk about?

She pulled Lucien down for a gentle, tender kiss that was definitely more than any couple – married or otherwise – should exhibit in public, and it left him flushed and a little flustered. "Jean?" he stammered.

"I love you, Lucien Blake, and you are mine," she whispered. "I will fight for you. I will fight for us."

He was very nearly in tears and she smiled reassuringly, hoping he understood how much she meant every word she was saying. "Jean, I – I love you so much," he choked out.

"I know," she assured him, giving him another light kiss. "We'd best leave before they think you're actually going to board the train to Melbourne. Did your father stay after he drove you or…?"

Lucien cleared his throat and shook his head. "No, he… he knew what I intended and said he wouldn't be a party to such foolish behavior and if I wanted to take my life into my hands, more fool I."

Jean's smile grew. "Yes, well –" They stepped down and nearly ran into the Tynemans, who were headed up the platform to board the train. "Hello, excuse us, sorry…"

"Dr. Randall, Dr. Blake, good morning," Susan Tyneman said with a smirk on her lips and a sly hint of a gaze in her eyes. "I see someone is going to Melbourne –"

"I was going to go away," Lucien said, "but my daughter has persuaded me that I'm needed at home."

"We're gonna make bithcuits," Leigh said excitedly. "Right, mummy? Daddy's gonna hewp."

"Yes, I do hope so," Jean said, "even if all he does is stir and lick the spoon." She smiled vaguely in Susan's direction, then added, "After all, my husband must be good for something." Jean squeezed Lucien's hand and murmured, "Let's go home, love."

He had the good grace to wait until they were out in the truck before he asked, "What on earth was that in there with Patrick Tyneman and his wife?"

Jean forced a small smile and said, "She's a terrible gossip and has had you pegged as marrying every eligible woman of substance in Ballarat for the last fortnight – and I've had to restrain myself from clawing her bloody eyes out." She glanced over at him and huffed when she saw him smiling. "What's so funny?"

"You do care," he said with a goofy smile. "I thought –"

"Just because I didn't fall all over you like some simpering schoolgirl doesn't mean that I don't love you," she said sharply. "I thought you knew me better than that."

"Jeanie, I…"

"Don't you ever run away again," she said. "Please." She breathed in raggedly, a single tear sliding down her cheek as Leigh began to chatter, drawing Lucien's attention away from her. Tomorrow, there would be repercussions for her bold, decisive actions, but today… today, she was going to rebuild what she could of their lives and try to start taking tentative steps forward. Because if she didn't, would there even be a tomorrow for them?