11 June 1959
"Are you feeling all right, Jean?" Lucien asked apprehensively as he once more inserted a needle into the bruised crook of Jean's elbow, as he watched her leaning back against the examination table, her eyes tightly closed. She looked wan today, and pale - well, paler than usual - and her pulse had been remarkably high when he'd pressed his fingertips to the delicate skin of her wrist.
"I'm perfectly fine," she answered, not bothering to open her eyes. She did not look fine, not at all, but he had learned from experience that she did not appreciate that sort of remark about her personal appearance. There was no point in pressing the issue when it would only serve to make her cross and combative; he'd not get his answers from her that way. She looked tired, and she was terribly thin, and so he resolved himself to watch her closely at dinner, and see that she had enough to eat; it was the best he could do for her, at present.
"There's some tea there," he told her, settling down into the well-cushioned chair he often dragged to her side for their afternoon appointments. "And a biscuit, if you're so inclined."
The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her pale pink lips, but though her eyes were closed that little smile seemed sad, somehow; everything about her seemed sad, from her carefully folded hands to the furrow of her brow. He did not have to wonder what was troubling her, for surely everything was troubling her, just now. How dreadful it must have been, he thought, to be so weak, so tired, so unable to continue going about her life as she pleased. For a woman like Jean, so accustomed to doing for herself and for others, he supposed it must have been particularly difficult to bear. Confinement could drive even the fiercest soul mad, as he well knew.
"I've been looking into that death at the factory," Lucien told her when still she did not speak. They often discussed his cases while Jean was undergoing treatment, and he always enjoyed it, was always grateful for the brief reprieve it afforded them both from morose thoughts about their circumstances. Perhaps a distraction was just what Jean needed today, a little conversation to lift her spirits.
"The poor man who was killed in that accident?" she asked. Her voice was thin, as if she were only just clinging to consciousness; perhaps, he thought, she was simply tired, and perhaps he would do better to let her rest. A question had been asked, however, and so he had no choice but to answer it.
"It wasn't an accident," he told her grimly. Jean was not watching him, and there would be no more patients today in any case, and so he carefully shrugged out of his jacket, began to roll back his shirtsleeves as he settled himself more comfortably into his chair. "The man was hit in the head with something, and then pushed into the machine. Now, he still might not have died if those bloody machines had safety switches-"
"But he was attacked, and now you're eating crow," Jean said dryly.
Lucien laughed, a bit ruefully. "Yes, I suppose I am. I was - I am - so bloody angry with Patrick for ignoring my recommendations, for the way he treats those people, but I can't lay all the blame on him." But I can lay enough; that man might still be alive, if it weren't for Patrick's heartlessness.
"I saw your Mrs. McDonald had written an article in the paper about the conditions at the factory."
"Yes," Lucien mused, rubbing at his beard. "She's not too happy with me, at present."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll find some way to make it up to her."
The comment had no doubt been intended to sound lighthearted, but Jean's attempt at teasing him fell rather flat; though her eyes were still closed, though she was still refusing to look at him, there was something...oh, something almost hopeless about her. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew Jean well enough now to recognize when something was not as it ought to be. Why should talk of Joy leave her looking so terribly sad? They'd not discussed Joy much, he and Jean; Jean knew, of course, that Joy had put Lucien in a tight spot during the case with the poor lad who was set to be executed, but the two ladies had not interacted beyond a brief introduction in the doorway. Had Jean had time to form an opinion of Joy after such a short encounter? He couldn't imagine a single reason why Jean might devote herself to consideration of Joy at all; Jean had far more important things to worry about.
Then again, he thought, perhaps there was a reason. A reason a woman might take a dislike to a beautiful stranger darkening her doorstep. But surely, he thought, Jean could not be jealous of Joy, not Jean who was so lovely, so brave and strong and self-assured, who by her simple presence enriched his life. What did Joy have that Jean did not? Independence perhaps, he supposed; Jean had been on the cusp of starting out on her own when she fell ill, and perhaps she resented seeing Joy living her life free of such burdens. It had to be that, he told himself.
"I'm sure I will," he said, very softly.
"She's lovely, Lucien. I'm sure you two could...make one another quite happy."
For a moment Lucien stared at her, dumbfounded. He was leaning towards her now, his forearms resting lightly on his knees, close enough to touch her, if he dared, close enough to see the way her mouth tightened with displeasure. Was that what she thought? He asked himself now. Did Jean think he had designs on Joy, that he intended to be anything more than friendly with her? Truth be told he might have done; there was a great sort of potential about Joy, a woman who was beautiful and compassionate, clever and headstrong, a woman who could stand up to him, whose curiosity nearly rivaled his own. If he had tried to reach for her she might have let him; they were after all both of them unattached, both of them a bit lonely, both of them unconcerned with gossip or the petty mores of the day. He might have considered her quite seriously, but he never had done, and he knew he never would. It was not Joy's face he saw when he closed his eyes, was not Joy's counsel he yearned for in times of distress, was not Joy's happiness that concerned him above anything else. That very afternoon Joy had stood in the surgery and offered him an opportunity to pursue her, if he so wished, and he had demurred without hesitation, told her that much of his attention was taken up in looking after Jean, and would be for quite some time.
That's very generous of you, Joy had said, sounding almost surprised that he had turned down the chance for drinks with her in favor of caring for his ailing housekeeper. Jean is very dear to me, he'd answered before he could stop himself, and there had been a flicker of something in Joy's eyes, an understanding that was only just now beginning to dawn on Lucien himself. No, he had not considered pursuing anything romantic with Joy, not because she was unsuitable, but because his interests lay in an entirely different direction.
"Oh, I'm not sure about that," he said before he could stop himself. "Joy's a friend, but that's all."
He wanted to say more; his heart nearly burst with the need to say more. It was always Jean he came to when he faced a riddle he could not solve, and he wanted to bring her this one. There's someone else, you see, he wanted to tell her. Someone lovelier, someone dearer, someone I want far more. But I don't know if she'll have me, and I can't bear the thought of losing her. What should I do, Jean?
"Really, Lucien, don't be silly," she told him, and still he watched her, confused and full of questions. "We only get so many chances in life. Don't waste this one. Mrs. McDonald is perfect for you. She's beautiful, and she's at least as clever as you, and she's strong. She can offer you everything you need, and I'm sure you'd make her quite happy in turn. At least until you turned the house upside down in one of your experiments."
"Jean...I…" his voice trailed off, his head and his heart at war with one another. He knew what he wanted to tell her, how he wanted to extol her virtues and spill out the desperate yearnings of his own heart, but he feared the consequences of such a declaration. His head counseled prudence, his heart cried for truth, and he struggled to find a way to bring them into harmony. "What about you, eh?" he said. Her lips parted as if to demand he explain himself, her eyebrow quirking in distress though she kept her eyes closed, and he rushed to continue. "Surely you've had your fair share of suitable partners, but you've turned them down, too. You know how it is, when someone just...isn't right for you."
To his very great distress he watched as Jean's whole body seemed to draw up tight with tension; she reached up and palmed her eyes, as if wiping away the trace of some tears he had not seen fall.
"I do know what it's like," she said in a quavering voice, "to have a chance and to lose it. I'll not have another, not now. That's why you must follow your heart, Lucien, before it's too late. Before you end up alone," she took a shuddering breath, "and empty."
Empty. What a terrible word that was; the sound of it chilled him to the bone. He knew what she meant, understood now what he had not known before, the reason for her sorrow. The cancer had taken everything from her, her strength, her independence, her beautiful hair, but it had taken her womb, too. Some women felt such terrible grief upon the loss of a piece of themselves that had so dominated their lives up to that point, that sacred heart of them where their children had grown, where they might have grown, had fate been kinder to them. And perhaps Jean's days of carrying children were behind her, but she was an old-fashioned sort of woman, and he worried, now, that she had taken that loss harder than he'd realized. She must have done, if she could speak of herself - and he was certain that she was - so cruelly. It seemed to him that her illness and the loss of everything that might have been had left her feeling as if her life were over already, and he could think of nothing more terrible than that. When she recovered - and she would recover, he told himself, for he could not bear the thought of the alternative - she would be beautiful and healthy and strong once again, and he did not wish to see her give up hope of ever feeling the light of love upon her face once more.
"You aren't," he said fiercely, reaching for her hand. She gasped at the contact, her marvelous eyes flying open and revealing to him the thinnest sheen of tears. "You aren't empty, Jean. And you're not alone."
"Look around you, Lucien," she told him miserably. "What have I got? A bed that isn't mine, in a house that doesn't belong to me, two sons who hardly think of me and a man who pities me too much to throw me out on the street."
"No," he said, more sharply than he intended to, still clinging tightly to her hand, affronted by the very suggestion. "It isn't pity, Jean. Never mistake the way I feel for you for pity."
He stared at her, beseeching, watched her eyes go wide beneath the pink scarf she'd wrapped around her bare head. Christ, this was killing him, to see her so afraid, so miserable, to know the part he'd played in bringing her here. She was beautiful, so beautiful, even now, in this moment when everything they were and everything they might have been seemed to be shattering around them. If that was what she thought, that he only pitied her, that her continued presence in this house was only an act of charity, it must be corrected, he thought, for nothing could be further from the truth.
"Lucien," she said, her voice wobbly but carrying with a note of warning. He hardly heard her; his heart had won the battle at last, and freed him from the last of his tentative restraint. Without hesitation he moved closer to her, reached for her with his free hand, cradling her cheek in his palm, feeling the warmth of her tender skin against his own.
"You are not alone," he told her fiercely. "And whatever you need, whatever you want...everything, Jean. You can have everything. You deserve everything." Every piece of me, and everything I have to give. It was madness, and he knew it, to allow his reckless heart to speak to her so plainly, but he could not stop it, now. Her continued sorrow was unbearable to him, but so too was his continued silence. Too many times he had touched her, felt her touch him, and been left wondering what might have been, if only he were braver. Too many times he had heard her voice washing over him, and felt such peace that he would have called it holy. Too many times the curve of her hip, the line of her jaw had entranced him, left him aching in ways he did not want to contemplate. He was contemplating them now, the fullness of her lips and the question of what might be, if only he took this chance. If only he gave himself over to his heart, and the yearning he felt to hold her.
Jean did not answer him; tears were rolling down her pale cheeks, damp beneath his hands, such sorrow and doubt in her eyes as to stab him sharp as knives. Her grief was unbearable to him, and so he did then what he had wanted to do for weeks, and closed the space between them, gently pressing his lips to hers.
