XI:
She had just finished plaiting her hair and was rubbing lotion into her hands when Lucien came into her bedroom, one hand stroking his beard slowly and looking for all the world like he felt he didn't belong there any more than she did. "Hello," Jean murmured. "Why don't you change and we'll go to bed?" she suggested gently.
"I'll only disturb your rest," he said in a dismally contemplative tone.
"No more so than you have been doing," she replied. "I leave the door at least a crack so I can listen for Leigh in the night, but if you would be more comfortable with it closed –"
"Leave it open," he said. "And can we open the window?"
"Of course," she murmured.
"I'm sorry to disrupt you so much –"
"Lucien, it's all right," Jean assured him gently. "Get changed and come to bed. I'll open the window." She got up and cranked open the window a couple of inches, just enough to let the breeze waft through, and turned back to find him half-dressed, his back partially bared for just a moment. She inhaled sharply, and he stilled like an animal caught in the bright lights of a car just before a collision. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.
He paused, then swallowed. "It doesn't hurt anymore, if that's what you mean."
"No, that isn't what I meant," she said. "But I'm glad it's not painful anymore."
There was a long moment of silence between them as he changed into a pair of loose shorts that showed off the scars that covered his legs, and she felt her heart lurch in dismay – he must have been in so much pain for so long… and to not say a word about his own pain, but to only worry about those whose pain he had inflicted?
"Lucien," she whispered, reaching for him, but he shrugged away.
"Please don't," he said. "I don't want your pity, Jean."
"Well, you don't have it," she said, "because I don't pity you. I worry about you; isn't that what your wife is meant to do?" She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest in frustration. "Don't let's start this again, Lucien. We're only going to sleep, not crossing the Rubicon."
"Might as well be crossing the Rubicon," he muttered, wrapping his arms around his torso protectively.
Jean came over and very carefully, very gently wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking her face into his chest. She smiled a little when his arms came around her, anchoring her to him. "Then we'll cross it together," she reminded him. "I love you, Lucien."
He sighed heavily, like a shudder running through his whole body. "I love you, too, Jean." His voice was low and sad, and she gently rubbed his side, trying to distract him from his seemingly unending torrent of doubt and grief.
"Come to bed, dear," she insisted softly.
"Jean, I – I can't do this," Lucien choked out.
"You can," she whispered. "It's all right."
"You can say that –"
"Lucien," she scolded in the gentlest tone she could muster, "I need you to come to bed. No more dragging your heels, no more excuses. We are not a toddler looking to stay up and play, and we have things to do tomorrow," she reminded him gently. "Things that require at least a small amount of sleep." She rubbed his stomach, then patted it. "Come on. I'll be right here; I can be your own version of a stuffed toy to cling to in the night if you need it."
He laughed at that, a deep hearty laugh that sounded like he hadn't used it in years, and it brought a smile to her lips. "First you call me a toddler, now you refer to yourself as a stuffed toy –"
"Whatever form of bribery it takes, dear heart," she said with a longing kind of affection stuck deep in her tone that she could not hide or strip away. "Do I need to tell you a story, too? Will that make it all better?"
This time, his laugh was bitter and self-recriminating. "No, I fear I cannot get off that easily," Lucien mumbled.
"Come to bed and I'll tell you a story just the same," she murmured, gently urging him closer to the intended objective with platitudes and soft desires based on rewards instead of the darkness and pain that reigned supreme in the recesses of his mind.
Curled up together atop the sheets and blanket (because he didn't seem to be able to abide anything resting on top of him), she held him close like a mother would a child, and whispered to him about a little girl with fierce dreams and a strong will who danced beneath the stars in the fields in the middle of the night and read Dr. Blake's medical books by the time she was twelve. A girl who longed to be free of the dirt and her poverty, who had done whatever it had taken to get away from that life to be right where she was in that moment, holding him, loving him. How every moment of her life had been designed to break her, but had only made her stronger, and how she would use that strength to help him.
But the soft snore from her breast told her that he had fallen asleep, finally, listening to the soft, soothing cadence of her voice; he felt sufficiently safe in her arms, the sound of her voice soothed his tortured soul enough to allow him that much rest. And she was glad of it.
It was then that she realized that the words didn't matter, so long as she said them – she could be reciting Shakespeare or reading from the phonebook. It was enough.
She ran her fingers through his curly, unruly hair and wondered if he would allow her to cut it, or if that was a step too far in the wrong direction. But that was a question for another day.
She stirred to a delightful feeling of warmth and comfort that she hadn't felt in ages; he had pulled her flush against his belly, curling tightly around her, their legs curved together like the crescent moon. His breath was hot and moist against her shoulder through the thin cotton of her nightdress, and she found herself wondering how much of the position had been about his comfort and how much of it had been about her own. For she knew she slept fitfully, as well – maybe not with as much disruption as her husband, admittedly, but she had more than once startled out of sleep to find herself walking around the house or moving about without reason. Had she begun to embarrass herself with one of her fits and he had to restrain her?
His hold tightened, and he curled even more into her. "Jeanie?"
"Are you awake then?" she whispered.
"Have been," he whispered back. "You all right, darling?"
"Never better," she murmured, truthfully.
"Good," he replied. Then, after another hesitating moment, he repeated, "Good."
"And you, my love?" she whispered into the darkness, letting her fingertips dance over the flesh of his arms, wrapped as they were so tightly around her body.
He was very quiet for a very long time, then he said, "I don't know."
"That's all right," she assured him gently. "I'm just happy you're here."
"I shouldn't be," he said simply. "I should have died there, any number of times."
"But you didn't," she whispered. "And you're here – that's what matters now, Lucien."
She could feel him stiffen against her, the memories getting to him. "I stole quinine from the stores," he said very quietly. "Thought I might have gotten away with it; the men started getting better, and then… as soon as they did, as soon as my services were no longer needed so very desperately, I was taken away by the guards, stripped to my underwear, tied to a stake, caned within an inch of my life…" His voice trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was very thin and reedy, like he was fighting tears, but none were forthcoming. "I was left on the stake for two weeks, no food, no water. They were hoping I would die, but… I was too bloody stubborn to die. I had this beautiful girl waiting for me at home, and she was having my baby – and I didn't know if I had a son or a daughter, and I'd be damned if I was going to die without finding out."
Jean bit her lip, not knowing what to say that could ever not sound like pity or a condescension. She couldn't fathom the hell he had lived through, what he had survived to come back to her, but this window into his tortured psyche was enough to make her sick to her stomach. How could anyone do that to her sweet, loving, gentle Lucien? Her darling man whose hands were built to love and to heal – how could anyone injure him so?
He laughed bitterly. "Remember I said there wasn't enough food? There was plenty for them. Always enough for the captors, never enough for the captives." He was shaking, his normally strong body weakened by fear and shame. "We would take turns raiding the food stores. I had the misfortune of being caught – it was no one's fault: they changed the guard rotation, and we hadn't known. I only made it out with a tin of pineapple, Jeanie. Just a tin of pineapple." His hold on her was so tight that it was almost punishing, but she could still breathe and if it made him feel safer to hold her, she would not complain. She held her breath, stifling a gasp of horror and pain when he said, "I was whipped and caned, then put on display on that bloody stake again for a week. And just when I thought I was going to maybe escape the worst, they threw me into a hole in the ground for forty days." He released his hold on her then, scrambling away from her like a wild animal in the dark, all wild eyes and feral teeth glinting.
"Lucien," she whispered.
"A tin of pineapple, Jean." He paced furiously, limbs swinging wildly around him, out of control. "I can't – my – I just – a tin of bloody pineapple."
He was unraveling in front of her eyes; she got up and turned on the lamp, bathing the room in light again. Just that tiny gesture calmed him slightly: darkness was not his friend, and no wonder sleep did not embrace him. 40 days in a dark hole would drive anyone mad. She vaguely remembered being locked in the broom cupboard beneath the stairs for being naughty as a child, after being thrashed, and a shudder ran through her. She reached out to touch Lucien, but he jerked away, eyes frantic and wide with panic.
"Shh," Jean whispered, "I'm not going to hurt you. Lucien, you're home now – you're home now with me and you're safe, I promise. I promise, my love." This time, when she reached for him, he did not pull away, but he did not welcome her touch either. She stroked his arm until he allowed her to pull him into her embrace, and by then, he was weeping. "Sweetheart… you don't have to be strong. You've suffered more than any of us can fathom," she said. "You do not have to hide that from me. Do you understand? I am your wife, Lucien – I'm meant to share your burdens."
"But I promised," he sobbed in anguish.
"My love, I don't understand," she murmured, stroking his arm, holding him gently.
"I promised never to hurt you –"
She swallowed hard; such youthful promises, and he still clung to them like they were gold and shiny gems, just out of reach, something to aspire to. "Lucien, oh, my darling sweet boy," Jean breathed. "No, sweetheart – please. You cannot, mustn't, hurt yourself because you think something is going to hurt me instead. The world isn't kind, Lucien – we both know that very well. But we must be kind to each other, yes? To do that, you have to tell me… you have to hurt me so I can help you, love – I love you so much, darling. I want to help you. I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't."
"It's not fair of me to –"
"You need someone," she murmured, "and I know you better than anyone, Lucien. I know that you don't mean to be cruel or unkind when you walk away in the middle of saying something, I know that you haven't been yourself at all since you came home… and I know that your heart is overflowing with love if only you'll let yourself feel it again." Jean smiled sadly and leaned into him. "I know you don't feel worthy of love, my sweet boy, but I will be here every day to give it to you, regardless, and so will our little girl. Because she doesn't know any better – she doesn't know the horrors of war, only the bounties of love. And you're a part of that now, Lucien. You're her father; she loves you. Your father loves you. I love you." She paused, bit her lip. "You ridiculous man," she added, the words without sting, soft, gentle, teasing as they had ever been.
"Why are you so good, Jeanie?" he whispered brokenly. "Why are you so good to me when I am such a bad, bad man?"
"You aren't," she murmured. "And if it takes the rest of our lives to prove it, I will be with you every step of the way, every day, Lucien Radcliffe Blake." She stroked his chest and whispered, "Now… I could use a cup of cocoa. Would you like one, love? Or would you rather have a cup of tea?"
"I'd rather a bottle of whiskey," he said plaintively.
"That isn't an option, I'm afraid," she declared firmly.
"I think tea, then," he said, his voice very low. "I need the loo, rather."
She patted his belly and smiled. "All right – come down when you're done and I'll have your tea and biccies ready," she promised softly, "or at least on the go."
"You're too good to me, Jeanie…"
"Nonsense," she whispered, accepting his gentle kiss, still unused to the scrape of his beard on her skin. "I love you," she reminded him.
"You shouldn't. You don't know what I've done."
"No, I don't. But you're my Lucien, and it's enough." She kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair, a sad smile on her lips. "Ridiculous man," she added for good measure.
He smiled sadly and went down the hall to the bathroom, while she went down to the kitchen and busied herself making their drinks. He came into the room and slid his arms around her waist, leaning into her as they stood in front of the auger, swaying gently without music as if dancing. They had never needed music, them, had always made their own, a sweet bit of an uncharted melody strung between them, high and tight, light as a feather and lithe as a dancer – something ethereal and delicate, like the first bloom of a rose.
"I love you," Lucien breathed in her hair, kissing the top of her head.
She smiled, stroking his arms where they rested on her waist, hoping that this delicate intimacy between them would become stronger, would become the strong foundation that they would use to rebuild their life together. "I love you, too, Lucien." The words seemed inadequate, somehow, for such deep feelings that she wanted to convey.
But they would have to suffice.