11 June 1959
For one single, shining moment, the world itself stood still. The noise in Lucien's head, his endless churning thoughts and fears and questions, went silent as the grave. His hands ceased their trembling, and the breath froze in his lungs. No bird chirped beyond the surgery window, no telephone rang, no fist came knocking upon the door. All was frozen, silent, waiting.
He kissed her. Was kissing her, his hands gently cradling her sweet face, her tears slick beneath his palms, her lips soft and warm pressed to his, the taste of her seeping into his very bones. For weeks, for months, she had been his primary concern; even Matthew Lawson had remarked on it, a time or two, how Lucien had changed, how eager he was to be home, now, and not out in the world. Matthew knew now, as did everyone else in town, what waited for Lucien at home, what had caused this sudden transformation of his spirit. It was Jean, all Jean, singular, glorious Jean, the reason he rose from his bed in the morning and the reason he struggled to find sleep in the evening. She was the sun, and he was growing in the light of her beauty. Growing, changing, she had uncovered a steadfastness within him that he thought had long since left him behind. He owed no fealty to queen and country; he was loyal only to her, and it was high time he did something about it.
Christ, but it was more wonderful than he'd imagined, the relief, the shocking joy of it. Jean reached for him, her delicate hands wrapping around his wrists, and the touch of her skin, soft and cold, against his own made him shiver and press himself that much harder against her, eager for more. She was still hooked up to the IV and so it would not do to jostle her overmuch. Her heart was wounded, and so it would not do to demand more from her than she was willing to give. He only kissed her, overcome with the way fondness and admiration and familiarity had all at once coalesced into love within his chest. He knew it now, could give a name to what he felt for her, and he hoped, oh, how he hoped that she might feel the same.
Those tender hands held onto him for a moment, but then she tugged against his wrists, pulling his hands away from her face even as she tilted her head back from him, and Lucien relented. The world came rushing back to him at once; his chest was heaving, for he could not recall when last he'd drawn a breath, and his heart was pounding like mad in his chest, and he could not stop the foolish grin that spread across his face.
"Don't," Jean whispered wretchedly, turning her head to hide her face from his hungry gaze, and all the joy and relief of a moment before vanished like a wisp of smoke, for she was crying, still, and refusing to look at him. Gingerly, mindful of the needle still stuck in the crook of her elbow, she directed his hands away from her body and let them drop uselessly down at the side of the examination table.
"Jean," Lucien breathed her name, suddenly mortified. Had he been a fool? She had been talking of love and missed opportunities, had told him to pursue Joy with a sorrow in her voice he had taken for disappointment, and after all the tiny intimacies they had shared over the course of her illness Lucien had taken those words to mean she cared for him, that she might welcome his kiss, and the reminder that love was not beyond her. It was not too late for Jean to find love, for love sat in the chair at her bedside, watching her with beseeching eyes. Surely that ought to have pleased her, but she looked as aggrieved as if he'd cursed her.
"Please," she said, still refusing to look at him, "don't make this harder than it has to be."
And what the bloody hell was he supposed to say to that? He stared at her, aghast and utterly confused.
"Jean, I-"
"Don't say that you love me," she cut him off quickly. "I couldn't bear it."
Lucien scrubbed his hand over his face, cursing himself for his own folly. She wanted no part of him it seemed, and he had gone and ruined their friendship and any chance of winning her round by pressing his advances where they were not wanted. What sort of a beast could do such a thing to a woman as kind and lovely as Jean? How could he have read her so wrong? And how could he beg her forgiveness without accusing her of leading him on? He felt as if he were plummeting madly through the air, no parachute to save him, no net to catch him, hurtling towards the ground below and nothing to stop the crushing impact.
"Whatever this is, whatever you think you feel for me, it isn't love, Lucien. If you just stopped to think for a moment I'm sure you'd see-"
"What makes you think I haven't thought about it already?" he asked her quietly. The situation was beginning to come more clearly into focus now; he had been swung from joy to panic to misery so quickly his mind was still spinning, but he could hear the regret in her voice. She might have doubted the truth of his love but surely, he thought, surely that did not mean she did not want it. A woman as brave as Jean, a woman who had loved so completely and lost so terribly, would not waste her heart on anything less than a true, enduring love. She only thought him changeable, but if he could only make her see that what he felt for her was real, she would not spurn him then, he thought.
"You're just afraid," she breathed. "I'm dying," he tried to interrupt her, but she ignored him completely and carried on, "and you feel guilty for the part you had to play in it. That's all this is. Don't blame yourself, Lucien. You've done all you could. Just let me go in peace, don't complicate matters by making promises you can't keep."
It would have hurt him less if she'd struck him. He wanted to tell her no, no she wasn't dying, no it was not only guilt that compelled him, no he would not change his mind once she was well again. Their enforced proximity over the long weeks of her illness had revealed her character to him, and in her he had found a heart like his own, curious and bruised, hopeful but wary, longing for more and yet at home in Ballarat. Knowing her as he did now, how could he not love her? How could she not recall the way he'd kissed her head that night he'd shaved her hair, the way he'd held her hand in hospital, the lengths he had gone to in order to make her comfortable; how could she not see that it was care for her that compelled him, not some attempt to assuage his own guilty conscience? And if those acts alone had not been enough, what in God's name would it take to make her see the truth?
"Jean, I...I...I certainly never meant to offend you," he said haltingly. "But surely, you must know, you must see-"
"If it's all right, Lucien, I think I'd prefer to finish this session alone. I know how to manage unhooking the IV when it's done. Please."
She was still refusing to look at him, but he could see the tears sparkling on her cheeks, could see the way her lip trembled. However much he might have disagreed with her, however much he might have longed to stay and plead his case, he was not so selfish as to linger when she'd asked him to go. The sight of him pained her, that was clear to see, and he would not inflict further injury upon her.
"If that's what you need," he agreed heavily, and rose from his chair. In silence he collected his jacket and left the surgery behind, his heart breaking with every step that he took.
The moment he was gone Jean began to weep in earnest, great wracking sobs that shook her whole body until she was forced to turn and retch the meager contents of her stomach into the pan Lucien kept by the side of the examination table for just such an emergency. For one solitary moment Jean had wanted, more than anything, to give into his kiss. To have two strong arms to hold her, his tender voice whispering in her ear, his soft lips warm and willing against her own, was everything her heart longed for. He was everything her heart longed for, brilliant and wild and so terribly, damnably kind. It would have been easy, so easy, far easier than this, to have simply given in, and taken from him what solace she could.
It would have been easy, but it would not have been right. Lucien had lost one love already, ripped away from him in violence and grief, and he deserved an easier love now. A love like Joy McDonald, healthy and whole, the perfect companion to stand beside him for all the rest of his days. Jean could not give that to him; her own life was fading. She felt it slipping through her hands, growing weaker by the day, saw the anguish in Lucien's eyes as he fought so hard to save her, and yet failed to put an end to her hurt. One day, perhaps one day soon, she would be gone, and she did not want to leave a legacy of pain, did not want to add to the list of losses for which Lucien mourned. In time she was certain he would come to see, as she did, that he was only holding onto her so fiercely because he was too kind to let her go, and he would be better off with a love that did not hurt him so deeply.
But oh, this love hurt her now. For weeks, for months, she had felt herself drawn closer and closer to him, fascinated and exasperated, delighting in all his tender gestures of regard, from the sweet pastries he brought to her to the way he had bowed his head at her bedside and whispered a prayer along with her. His strength, his handsome face, his gentle hands, he had become her whole world, everything she ever wanted, and everything she never could have. Her illness was the only thing that bound them; if she had not fallen sick she would have left his home behind months before, and nothing would ever have come of their acquaintance with one another. Enforced proximity could encourage emotions to grow where otherwise they might not, and Jean was certain that if Lucien only directed his attention elsewhere he would find something far more engaging than she. It would be better, she thought, to put a stop to it now, rather than set her hopes on him and find them dashed later. It would be better to put a stop to it now, and not let the situation grow out of control. She'd not make him a widower a second time over; he deserved better, and so did she.
Her head might have known the truth, but her heart lamented, and spilled out her bitter regrets until she was left wrung out like the washing, so weak she could hardly move. Above her the IV at last was empty, and so she carefully unhooked herself from that contraption, but she did not have the strength to move. She only curled on her side, tucked her chin against her chest, and closed her eyes, praying for a release from this sorrow, this pain. It did not come, but as she lay there sleep stole over her, and quieted the miserable voice of her heart for a time.
