11 June 1959

"It's so wonderful to see you, Jean," Susan Tyneman gushed, her face a perfect picture of insincere concern. "Thank you so much for taking the time to see me, I know you have so much on your plate just now."

Susan stood between Jean and the warmth of the fireplace in Jean's little parlor, clutching Jean's pale hand in both of her own thick, clammy ones, her eyes raking hawkishly over Jean's face all the while. For perhaps the third time since hearing Susan's falsely cheery voice ringing through the house Jean wished she could simply disappear; she was too tired to stand, to greet Susan properly, and she wore her faded blue robe over faded pink pajamas, a soft white blanket covering her from the waist down, her head wrapped in an old pink scarf. She looked every inch the invalid, and she knew it, felt it, hated it, down to her very bones.

Shaving her head had provided a few days' reprieve; it had been liberating, in a way, to cast aside the expectations of her society and make herself anew, bolder, better, braver, than she had imagined herself to be. She'd gone to church the next morning with her head held high, but by the afternoon she'd been forced to retreat to her bed, too exhausted and wrung out from the day's excitement to do anything more than sleep, and for the next three days she'd only left her bed to shuffle unsteadily across the floor to the loo and back, lacking the strength to anything more. Mattie had come in to see her at mealtimes, brought food that turned Jean's stomach and companionship she dearly longed for, but the strain of her continued convalescence was proving difficult to weather at present, made all the more unbearable by the arrival of the one person Jean wanted to see least in all the world. Well, perhaps not the very least; Patrick would have been a less welcome sight than his wife.

"My, isn't this...cozy?" Susan said, dropping Jean's hand and glancing around the room with one eyebrow raised. No doubt this suite of rooms, which had been decorated quickly and according to Mattie's interpretation of Jean's own taste, did not quite meet with Susan's standards. The studio was, however, Jean's favorite place in all the world, and she would not allow anyone to speak a word against it.

"Lucien put rather a lot of time and effort into fixing the studio up," Jean said, but too late she realized her mistake; she'd referred to her employer by name, with significantly less formality than she usually afforded him in Mrs. Tyneman's company, and she had also just confirmed that it was Lucien who had chosen to renovate these rooms, rooms Jean now occupied. Of course he had done it for her sake, for the sake of her comfort and happiness, but Susan bloody Tyneman didn't need to know that. God only knew how the woman would twist and misrepresent that little detail in later conversations; she was a notorious gossip, and Jean had just handed her quite the delicious tidbit. Jean could feel the beginnings of a headache stirring behind her eyes.

"Please, have a seat," she said before Susan could remark on the effort Lucien had gone to for the sake of the studio. It was practical, but polite, as well; Susan would expect the invitation, had not come here to stand lording over Jean for a moment before flitting away again. She had come to chat.

"Everyone at the theater sends their love," Susan said airily as she settled onto the far end of the sofa. It did not escape Jean's notice that Susan's back remained ramrod straight, as if she did not want to allow too much of her fine dress to come into contact with Jean's serviceable leather sofa.

"Oh, please thank them for me," Jean said, because she knew that she must. "I suppose you'll be starting rehearsals soon."

The players always put on a show in the winter, and Susan always took the lead role, and Robert Manifold always watched Jean's audition with kind, sympathetic eyes before handing her a bit part; that was how it went, year after year. Despite the pedestrian nature of the material and the galling way Jean's talents were always overlooked in favor of Mrs. Tyneman's money, Jean always anticipated the performance each year. It was a chance to step outside herself, to do something different, to be something different, if only for a little while, to be a part of something grand. A chance that had been summarily ripped away from her; this conversation was proving difficult enough, and Jean was certain she could not make it through one single rehearsal, and so she would not be able to perform.

"Oh, yes!" Susan said, smug and delighted to be afforded the opportunity to brag. "It's The Importance of Being Earnest, this year. You're speaking to the next Gwendolen Fairfax."

Of course I am, Jean thought.

"Congratulations, Susan, that's lovely," she said. Conciliatory and courteous, that was the role Jean must play now; now, and always, when it came to Susan Tyneman, who had enough money and influence to shatter Jean's whole world, if she so chose.

"Poor Robert's absolutely beside himself with worry," Susan continued. "We only had two gentlemen turn up for auditions, and now he's had to cast women in some of the men's roles, and he'll be playing Earnest himself."

"I'm sure he'll do a fine job of it."

Robert always did a fine job of it; he did a fine job of everything. Fine, in fact, might have been the single best descriptor for Robert himself in all the world. He was perfectly fine, well-mannered and soft-spoken and kind, well-read and yet not arrogant. He was fine, and warm, and he was always careful to hide the particular attention he paid to Jean from the eyes of the other actors. It was always Jean who volunteered to assist him in putting things away after rehearsals - the rest of them couldn't be bothered to do something so menial as clean - and they often shared very pleasant chats during that time. During the previous season's production, when old Doctor Blake had been so unwell, Robert had even taken to driving Jean to and from rehearsals, had offered his own assistance when he saw that it was needed. If things had been different…

If things had been different, Jean would have moved out of the house in April, would have taken on a new job at the Royal Cross and set up her own home elsewhere. She would have no one else to fuss over, and her time would have been her own, every bit of it. She would not have known Lucien half so well as she did now, and she would not have thought of him much. She would have been healthy, and playing one of the men's parts in this season's show, and when Robert drove her home from rehearsal she could have invited him in for a cup of tea, and no one would have seen, and maybe…

"But I dare say that Ethel Bridges has been a comfort to him," Susan added, watching Jean slyly. Ethel Bridges was new to town, a pretty widow of middle age and independent means whom Jean had first encountered at Sacred Heart some months before. "He's cast her as Lane, and the pair of them have been quite cozy lately. I wouldn't be surprised if there's an announcement by Christmas, you know. Robert has been sorely lacking for company since his wife died, and I'm sure he's no doubt grateful for the attention."

Every word Susan spoke had been carefully chosen, of that Jean had no doubt. That had been the true purpose of this visit, Jean realized; Susan wanted to see for herself how Jean was faring, wanted to be able to bring news of her dreadful condition back to the players and listen to them all tut about what a generous soul Susan was, looking after the less fortunate, but more than that she clearly was delighted to deliver this news herself, this news that Robert was interested in someone else. Perhaps Susan had been paying more attention last season than either Jean or Robert realized; perhaps she had noticed something was brewing, and was eager to have her suspicions proved correct.

Jean wanted to scream.

"That's wonderful," she said. "I do hope that they will be happy, whatever happens."

If Jean had been well, perhaps Ethel never would have caught Robert's eye; oh, Jean wasn't devoted to the idea of pushing her own friendship with the man into the realm of romance, but still the news stung, the realization that one more opportunity had been taken from her. Perhaps she never would have warmed to the idea of love with Robert at all, but perhaps she might have, and now she'd never know. Someone else had taken her place; even Robert bloody Manifold didn't need her, any more.

If I had known last season, Jean thought to herself as Susan prattled on, would I have behaved any differently? If I'd known it was my last chance, my only chance, would I have taken it?

There was a dissonance between her heart and her head; her heart cried out for love, devastated at having lost it, and her head reminded her that Robert bored her to tears. It was for the best, she tried to tell herself, that she had been removed from the picture. Robert was free to pursue someone who wanted him, more than Jean had ever done, and she had spared them both the indignity of a half-hearted courtship. Everyone seemed to be getting on just fine without her, the wheels of the world turning on, and no one seemed to need Jean at all, any more.


For the better part of half an hour Susan Tyneman bent her ear with bits of gossip and thinly veiled barbs, and Jean was glad to see the back of her when she finally left. The news Susan brought was most unwelcome, and left Jean in the foulest of moods. Anger and disappointment and idle chatter had made for thirsty work, and she rose slowly from her seat, tested her legs and found them strong enough to bear her out into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea. It was mid afternoon, and a Thursday besides, and the time for Jean's standing appointment with Lucien was fast approaching. It did not surprise her, then, that as she neared the kitchen she heard the sound of his voice coming from the surgery.

It would only be polite to offer him a cup of tea, since she was making it anyway, and so Jean changed course, shuffling along the corridor until the door to the surgery swung wide and she stopped in her tracks.

"I'm glad we could have this chat," a soft voice was saying to Lucien inside the surgery. A soft voice, Jean realized with a growing dread, that belonged to a woman who had been introduced to them both months before, during that unpleasant case with the young man who had been on the verge of hanging. Joy McDonald had returned to Ballarat.

"As am I, Joy," Lucien answered her warmly. Jean could almost picture the smile on his face, the way he would reach out and take her hand in both of his, the caring country doctor, alone with a beautiful woman.

"Perhaps we could see more of each other in the future," Joy added, and as she heard those words Jean turned tail and fled.

As it was Jean was not particularly fond of Joy McDonald, who had a presumptuous air and beautiful clothes and had very nearly demolished Lucien's reputation. To be confronted with the woman now, now when Jean was wretched and so poorly attired, would be a devastating blow from which she was certain she would not ever recover. It would go more easily for Jean if she did not have to see Joy, did not have to watch the other woman's eye roving over her own pitiful appearance, did not have to hear her half-hearted sympathies, did not have to see Lucien, gallant and handsome, standing beside her, the pair of them so perfectly matched, so lovely each in their own way. Instead she rushed back to her room, back to her sofa, back to her blanket and her fire, tucking herself in and trying to ignore the terrible voice that whispered to her of her own uselessness. Robert had his Ethel, and Lucien had his Joy, and Jean had nothing at all. It was the way things were, and always would be.