28 May 1959
"Jean!" Mattie's voice rang out from the kitchen doorway, shrill with surprise. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Fit as a fiddle, Mattie, thank you," Jean answered primly. As innocuous as it might have seemed on its surface Mattie's question had carried with it a sort of accusation, as if the girl didn't approve of Jean standing on her own two feet, making breakfast for her family, and Jean did not approve of that one bit.
"There's toast and jam on the table, and the kettle's still warm. And I made coffee for Lucien, feel free to have some yourself. Bubble and squeak's nearly finished as well."
"You've been busy," Mattie said, appreciation warring with concern in her tone.
"I thought we could all use a nice breakfast."
In truth it had been somewhat difficult for Jean to rouse herself that morning; she'd had a late night, made later still by the way she tossed and turned after she sought her bed, her mind racing as she recalled Lucien's gentle voice. Sweet Jean, he'd called her, spouting off nonsense about how he didn't deserve her, when she was the one who felt undeserving of all his gentle care. As far as she could see Jean had done nothing at all for Lucien since she'd fallen ill, had instead availed herself of his kindness without offering anything else in return, and so she'd heaved herself upright as early as she could manage and bustled off to the kitchen to make him a decent breakfast. He'd need it; he'd been up late, too, drinking more than was wise, and he had that murder victim to worry about today, and patients to see. It was, Jean thought, the least she could do for him.
"Really, Jean, are you sure you're feeling all right?" Mattie asked her gently. Jean was still facing the stovetop and so she could not see Mattie, but she could sense the girl's presence just behind her, could almost imagine her sitting on the kitchen table, watching Jean with worried eyes, a teacup cradled in her hands.
"Honestly, Mattie, I'm fine," Jean said. Not that it would do any good; she knew what Mattie would see when she looked at her now. Jean had pulled on one of her favorite housedresses, a lightweight number that didn't fit too tightly, but still nipped in enough at her waist to make her feel more feminine and less like she was wearing a potato sack. Beneath it, though, Jean knew she was rail-thin and pale, and she'd tied a kerchief round her hair to keep it out of her face, and to keep any stray strands from falling in the food. Oh, she wasn't shedding like a dog in summer but her hair came out more easily now, and she was afraid the tug and pull of her usual pins would cost her more of it than she was willing to part with. The kerchief served its purpose, but combined with that dress now hanging so loosely on her frame she knew it would make her look...well...ill. And of course she was ill, but she did not appreciate looking the part.
"It's just, you had such a terrible day, yesterday," Mattie pointed out earnestly.
The bubble and squeak was finished; carefully Jean placed it on a serving platter and wiped her hands on her apron as she turned to face Mattie. A strange sort of sorrow had welled up within her, to hear Mattie so worried for her; Mattie was young, and lovely, and had far more important things to concern herself with than the health of her housekeeper, but still she spent all that trouble on Jean. It had been so wonderful, having Mattie close to hand, a friend to talk to when she couldn't carry herself any farther than the little sofa in her parlor, someone besides Lucien to share her life, a young person to remind her what it was, to hope. Jean rather felt she owed Mattie a debt of kindness, as well.
"It comes and goes," she said, offering Mattie a tired smile. "And this morning, I'm-"
"Oh! Good morning, ladies," Lucien's voice suddenly broke in from the doorway, and Jean lifted her chin and found him standing there, dressed and pressed in one of his neat blue suits, a look of surprise on his face. Perhaps his eyes were a bit bloodshot, Jean thought, though it was hard to tell from this distance. If she'd had as much to drink as he'd no doubt enjoyed the night before Jean was certain she wouldn't be able to stand on her own two feet afterwards, but Lucien looked as handsome and neat as ever, giving no outward sign of the distress that had laid him so low the night before.
"Something smells lovely," he said, shifting somewhat awkwardly on his feet, as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself, as if he had counted on having the kitchen all to himself and had been thrown off guard by their company.
"Jean made bubble and squeak," Mattie told him, gesturing towards the countertop.
Lucien's eyes flickered to Jean's face, and to her horror she felt her cheeks begin to color beneath his questioning stare. How much does he remember? She asked herself. Did he know that she'd put him to bed, that she had slipped the shoes from his feet, that she'd heard his slurred words of self-deprecation? And if he did know, what on earth were they going to do about it?
"My favorite," Lucien said, not beaming or cheerful the way he might have been at any other time, but quiet, questioning, almost.
I know, Jean thought, but she did not say those words; she didn't think she needed to. Yes, she'd made his favorite breakfast, done it on purpose, because she rather thought he was in need of a bit of care himself, and because she still wanted to make the apology she'd not yet had time to offer him. Lucien didn't need her to explain why she'd made this meal for him, though; the actions spoke for themselves.
"There's a bit of coffee, too," she told him, and her voice came out as quiet as his had been. Mattie was still perched on the kitchen table between them, her gaze bouncing from one end of the kitchen to the other like a spectator at a tennis match, and so in order to diffuse the strange tension that had settled on her shoulders Jean drew the rag from the waistband of her apron, and swatted playfully at Mattie's thigh with it.
"Off the table, Mattie," she said, and the girl jumped to her feet at once, and the kitchen was suddenly full of voices and the clatter of plates as Jean's little family gathered round her and began to eat their breakfast.
She was, as always, last to the table. She wanted to see that everyone else was fed first, that they all had what they needed, and once they were settled she slid into her usual seat at Lucien's left hand with a cup of tea and a plate of plain toast. Although she felt quite fine this morning she was hesitant to try much more than that; her stomach had been delicate of late, and the heady smell of fried potatoes and vegetables from Lucien's breakfast was enough to leave her feeling somewhat off balance. Best not push it, she thought.
Apparently, though, Lucien had other ideas.
"Is that all you're having, Jean?" he asked, not unkindly, his mouth half full of his own breakfast. Mattie's head perked up, alert to the potential for unpleasantness that seemed to hang in the air all around them. It was no secret that Jean chafed at any attempts to meddle in her personal choices, that she answered questions about her health brusquely and vaguely and with more than a hint of distaste. Mattie's own attempts to determine Jean's current state that morning had been quite careful, but Lucien had just bulled straight in with no attempt at sounding conciliatory. On any other day, that might have made Jean quite cross, and no doubt Mattie was wondering if some sort of spat were in the offing. It would not be the first time.
Only now, this morning, with a clear head and a heart full of fond feelings, Jean heard the concern in Lucien's voice and did not bristle at it. He was only worried about her, she knew, and after the events of the previous morning, and the previous night, she was more inclined to respond to him kindly than she had been so far. That she had found her heart swinging wildly from rage to despondency to buoyant affection was not lost on her; she had never felt so changeable in all her days, and hardly knew what to make of it. Just now, however, she supposed it did not matter, really, why she had spurned Lucien's regard on Wednesday and welcomed it on Thursday. Just now, all that mattered to her was that he was still trying, despite her previous crossness, to look after her. He was, somehow, still willing to once more put himself in the line of fire, and Jean was left thinking what a tender soul he was, when he opened his eyes to something other than himself.
"I'm perfectly happy with toast," she told him honestly. A bit of plain toast, a bit of tea, would see her right, and if the morning went well, perhaps she'd be feeling up to a bit more come lunch time.
"I've got to go and speak with Alice this morning," he said slowly, his blue eyes watching her carefully as though gauging her mood. "And I'll probably go to the station after that. But I'll be in at eleven for Mr. Harker's appointment. Perhaps I could fetch something for you while I'm in town."
Those last words he delivered softly, almost hopefully, she thought. As if he wanted, very much, to see her eat a bit more than dry toast, as if he wanted to bring her something, something special, something that would make her smile, make her happy. Like a little boy, she thought, hesitantly offering a ribbon to his sweetheart, eager and uncertain all at once. Perhaps that wasn't it at all, she tried to tell herself, perhaps her sanguine mood had given her a more rosy interpretation of his motives, but she rather thought not. She rather thought that he must remember at least a little of their interaction the night before, and that he might perhaps be trying to make up for it. She rather thought he might be recalling the terrible way she'd sent him fleeing from her side, and might be trying to put himself once more in her good books. Either way, she felt only fondness for him because of it.
"Well," she said, "that's very kind of you, Lucien, thank you."
Across the table from her Mattie's eyes were big as saucers, as if she could hardly believe what she was hearing, how cordially Lucien and Jean were treating one another now.
"Is there something in particular that you might like?" Lucien asked. "I know some patients have said that the medication can have an effect on appetite. I knew one woman who said she'd never be able to eat chocolate again, after treatment."
Jean frowned. He'd been doing so well, had been so lovely, and she'd been feeling so kindly disposed towards him, but then he'd gone and lumped her in with his other patients, and she was left uncertain once more.
"Surprise me," she said, dropping her gaze back down to her toast. He'll probably forget altogether, she thought. He'll forget about me and Mr. Harker both, once he gets sucked into something more interesting, and I'll have to reschedule all his appointments and sort out my own lunch.
"I'll do that," he said, and something in his tone made her look up at him sharply, and when she did she found him smiling at her softly, hopefully.
Jean had no doubt that he would; Lucien seemed to surprise her at every turn, not just with his behavior but with the way her own heart responded to him, sometimes longing for him, sometimes longing to swat at him, never knowing, from one moment to the next, quite where they stood with one another. Sitting to the side of him like this Jean could not face him head on, but still his gaze seemed to catch on hers, holding them both suspended in this moment when their hearts were full of questions. There were apologies yet to be made, forgiveness yet to be given, but in that moment Jean wondered whether there was any need for them to address the previous day's disasters at all, or whether they hadn't done so already. The breakfast itself was an apology; perhaps Lucien's offer of a treat was one, as well. They had both erred, they had both made amends. Perhaps that was good enough.
"Have you found out what happened to that poor man, Lucien?" Mattie asked, and as one Lucien and Jean turned their attention back to her, both a bit shame-faced at having been caught out staring at one another. The question had been a deliberate one, Jean was certain, an attempt to put a stop to the pair of them mooning at one another, and feeling just a bit sheepish about the whole thing she turned her attention back to her toast, and let Lucien ramble on about his murder. All was it should be; she was not cross, and Lucien was not dejected, and they were all together, enjoying a nice meal. For once, everything seemed to be going smoothly.
