25 June 1959
When Jean woke on Thursday morning there was a fresh cup of tea courtesy of Mattie sitting on the sidetable, which was in itself not unusual; of late it was Mattie, and not Lucien, who brought Jean her morning tea, checked her pulse and confirmed that she was, in fact, still breathing before heading out to face the day. What was unusual, however, was the small brown paper parcel lying next to the teacup. Jean felt weak today, weaker than she ever had so far - that'll be the anemia, she thought, watching her hands shake as she reached for the parcel - but that small package intrigued her, roused her enough to open it and see what lay inside. Even before she pulled the paper back she had her suspicions, and they were proved right in a moment, for there beneath the paper lay two pain au chocolats. She smiled sadly as she saw them, for though her stomach churned too miserably to contemplate eating them now she knew where they had come from, and for what purpose they'd been laid there beside her bed. It was Lucien's doing; a peace offering of sorts, she thought, a gift intended to ease the tension between them. Already he had purchased this particular treat for her several times, had heard her comment on her preferences and tucked that knowledge away deep within his heart. It was, she thought, his attempt at demonstrating the depth of his affections for her, reminding her that he valued her enough to listen when she spoke, and yet he had delivered his gift while she was sleeping, had not roused her or sought to make a scene. He had done it in the kindest way he could manage.
She wanted to love him for it. Somewhere deep within her heart she knew she already did, love him; how could she not? Handsome and kind, gentle and clever, he was quite the most wonderful - and exasperating - man she'd ever known. Any woman would fall in love with such a man, she thought, a man who treated her so tenderly, who gave so much of himself to her. Yet her love was tinged with sorrow, for she knew it was not to be; she was shivering and weary, her body too weak to carry her from the bed, and even as she lay back amongst her comfortable pillows, staring at the pastries lying unwrapped on her little table, she was struggling to catch her breath, a hacking cough tickling its way up the back of her throat. The end was near, she thought; no one could survive such an ordeal. She had done her best, and Lucien had done his best, and all that was left now, she thought, was for her to leave him. It would be cruel to entertain a dalliance now, when the moment of her departure seemed to draw ever closer; he would be better off in the end, she thought, if he could put thoughts of this love aside. It would go easier for him.
But, oh, how she wished it were not so. Bitter tears stung her eyes but she did her best to fight them back; she did not have breath enough for weeping. If only things had been different; if they had not found the cancer, she could have carried on living her life, and her death might have been a swift one, rather than this lingering hell. If the cancer had not existed at all, perhaps she might have bumped into Lucien at the shops, or come round to feed him, worried that he wasn't managing well on his own, and maybe they would have fallen into love in the warmth of a gentle sun, far from this towering grief. If...if...if...how she was growing to hate that word.
Fiercely she scrubbed the tears from her cheeks, and reached for the pastry, tore a corner off the closest one and nibbled on it with a heart full of sorrow. It just wasn't fair, but then so little in life was fair. It wasn't fair that Christopher had been taken from her, that Jack had turned out so belligerent, that young Christopher was so far from her side, that she had met Lucien too late. Perhaps it was petulant, to bemoan the hand life had dealt her; there had been moments of beauty, and love, memories she treasured in her heart. It had not all been bad, she reminded herself. And she would do what she could to reach her end without burdening those around her unduly.
Even that small bite of pastry was more than she could bear and she rolled to the side, retching into the bowl she kept on the floor for just such an emergency, and gasped for breath while her stomach heaved, praying for mercy.
At the appointed hour Lucien gathered his courage and his instruments from the surgery, and dragged the lot of it across the house to the studio. Jean had not emerged today, but he had not expected her to; she'd been having a rough go of it lately, and his ill-timed declaration of devotion had made her more reticent than ever to be alone with him. He'd looked in on her in the morning and found her sleeping, the pain au chocolats unwrapped and uneaten by her bed. She had taken a bite, however, a small one, and he had comforted himself with the knowledge that she had not rejected his gift. Perhaps, he told himself, there was hope for him yet.
"Doctor calling," he announced himself with a false sense of cheeriness, stumbling through the studio doors as he juggled the IV stand and Jean's medication. Jean did not answer him, but as he approached her bed he found her leaning back against her pillows, watching him with a sad sort of smile on her face. She looked pale today - though she always did - and the dark circles beneath her eyes, the vibrant blue of her kerchief against her bare scalp, tugged at his heartstrings.
"And how is the patient feeling today?" he asked her as he came to a stop, looking down on her with a growing sense of dread. He did not like the way her chest was heaving, and when she spoke his heart sank to hear her breath rattling through her throat, as though she were already leaving him behind.
"Perfectly wretched," she confessed. Lucien stared at her in alarm; even on her worst days Jean continued to insist that she was doing quite well, thank you. Jean was always so defensive about her condition, so reluctant to admit to any unpleasantness, but now she was not trying to hide from him. If she no longer had the strength to keep up her feigned cheerfulness, circumstances must be very dire indeed.
His suspicions were proved right in a moment, for in the next breath Jean began to cough, a terrible, hacking sound that left him terrified. He abandoned the supplies at the end of Jean's bed and rushed to her, wasted no time on pleasantries as he set himself down beside her and wrapped one strong arm around her back, hauling her upright and holding her against him while she coughed. If she was struggling to breathe reclining as she had been would only put more pressure on her lungs, would only make it harder for her, and so he hoped that leaning her forward, against him, would ease her pain somewhat. It was clearly taking every ounce of her strength just to clear her throat; her body would not hold itself up, and so Lucien did that for her, held her tight to his side while her cheek brushed his shoulder, her body trembling against the solidness of him.
The fit passed in a heartbeat, but Lucien did not release his hold on her, and Jean made no move to leave his embrace. She only sagged against him, her head resting against his chest, her hands lying limp atop the blankets.
"It's all right," he told her. It wasn't all right, not really; his heart was screaming in his chest, terror slicing through his every nerve. Coughing was not a side effect of the chemotherapy, but the medication did make one more susceptible to infections. It was winter now and influenza was tearing through Ballarat. He and Mattie had seen their fair share of patients battling the disease in recent days, and though they had both been scrupulous in their dedication to the hygiene required by their professions still he worried that perhaps they might have brought something back to her. If Jean had fallen ill because of some laxity on his part, if it was the flu, and not the medication, that finally spelled the end of her, he'd never forgive himself. It would be the death of him, as surely as it was hers.
"It's all right," he said again, reaching for her with his free hand. Gently he pressed his palm to her forehead, and felt her skin burning beneath his own. Hot to the touch and yet shivering from cold, coughing terribly, struggling to breathe; Jean had most certainly come down with something, and in her current condition, that was an ill omen indeed.
"It isn't," Jean whispered, her voice choked and ragged. He could hear her tears, though he could not see them. "I can't...I can't go on like this, Lucien."
He very nearly began to weep himself. For months now her care, her comfort, had been his primary concern, the moments he spent alone with her the highlight of his day, her brilliant smile the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning, but she was fading fast, despite his best efforts. Perhaps not despite them; perhaps because of them. It was his choices, his deeds, that had led them here, to this moment where Jean was miserable and frightened and gasping for air, and guilt ate at him even through his fear.
"You won't have to," he answered fiercely. "I will set this right, Jean. I swear it."
"There's nothing you can do," she told him, and then she began to cough again. Still he held her tight to him, supporting her in the only way he could; Christ, it seemed he was destined only to hold her when she was suffering, and he cursed cruel fate, for he would have given anything to wrap his arms around her in joy, instead.
"Tell Christopher," Jean gasped between straining breaths, "tell him that I love him. Love them both. My boys."
No, he wanted to say. No, you'll tell them yourself when this storm has passed. And yet deep within his heart he feared that she was right. Perhaps the time had come to say goodbye.
"No," he said, as much to himself as to her. No, he would not give up on her yet. Influenza could be treated, and cancer could be treated, and he would drag her from the jaws of death with the strength of his own two hands, would pummel the beasts that assailed her and free them both from this impending grief. "You'll be-"
Jean nearly tumbled from his grip as her coughing turned to retching, and he went with her, held her steady as she emptied the meager contents of her stomach into the bowl beside her bed. He watched, helpless, as her body surged and struggled, but in that bowl he saw the pink tinge of blood, and was stirred into action in a moment. Struggling to breathe, retching up blood; there was nothing he could do for her here, but aid could be found for her elsewhere. The man Lucien Blake had become was forged in the fires of war, and he had performed surgery beneath a hail of bullets, had amputated fingers and treated malaria in a prisoner of war camp, and there lived within his heart still the soul of a soldier who could not, would not ever, leave a man behind. Jean could be saved; he would save her.
"Right," he said, and without a moment's pause he rose to his feet, and looped his arms around her easily. One arm beneath her two bent knees, one arm round her back, he lifted her bodily from the bed, and she came with him compliant as a child, her arms draped limply round his neck while she pressed her face hard to his shoulder. She had always been a small woman, but illness had made her smaller still, and his arms were strong, and made to hold her. His steps were sure and certain as he carried her from her bedroom, he in his neat blue suit, she wearing nothing more than a faded pink nightgown. He walked, resolute, chin stuck out as though defying death itself to stop him, and he felt her fingers feebly catch against his jacket, clinging to him.
"Don't let me go," Jean whispered. Her voice was thin, and if he could have seen her face he would have found her eyes closed, the effort of keeping them open more than she could bear.
"Never," he swore through gritted teeth. "Never, my darling."
She could love him, she could hate him, she could pity him; it did not matter to him, in that moment, whether his feelings for her were returned, or ever could be. It did not matter what the future held in store for him, for them together; the only thing that mattered, that would ever matter to him, was that she be around to see that future for herself. She was everything to him, the whole world sheltered in his arms, and he would not fail her now.
