1 July 1959

Nearly a week Jean had been in hospital, now. Nearly a week of dreadful boredom, of pleasant, far too brief visits from Lucien, a week of being poked and prodded by nurses. The doctors had agreed amongst themselves that Jean would not receive her chemotherapy treatments until the flu had run its course, but this decision had left an anxiety in Lucien's eyes Jean cared for not at all. Whatever doubts he might harbor he did not share them with her; he spoke to her with a mouthful of promises, and she could not find it in her heart to mistrust him, now that she had finally allowed herself to be guided by her fondness for him, not to hide from him. His love had saved her life, and she would put her faith in that love, however doomed it might be.

Doctor Nicholson suggested to her that if she woke on Thursday morning without a fever she might, at last, be permitted to return home. Jean prayed for it, alone in her little room, staring at a bland tray of hospital supper. She prayed for strength, and health enough to see her once more installed in her beautiful suite of rooms, to see her once more home, where she belonged. When Lucien first announced that he had - without her knowledge, let alone her consent - moved all of her belongings to the studio she had been more than a little cross with him. Over time, however, he had won her round to his way of thinking, and she had grown to love the studio. Her studio, now, filled with her things, filled with her memories, memories of Lucien's gentle hands on her skin by the fire, memories of Lucien's strong arms lifting her from the bed. The practicality of the arrangement had merit, as well; having her own private bathroom had been a godsend through the miserable days of her illness, and the little sofa in front of the fireplace had very nearly become her favorite place in the whole house.

Very nearly, but not quite, for she still loved the sunroom best. It had been weeks now since she'd set foot in that place, since she'd been strong enough to cross the distance from her bed to her flowers. In fact, she had been feeling so wretched she had made no arrangement for the care of her flowers at all. That thought troubled her; what on earth had become of them, in her absence? Had anyone in the house thought to care for them at all?

I shall have to speak to Lucien, she told herself. He'd popped by in the afternoon to sit with her awhile, which she had enjoyed very much, but she'd told him in no uncertain terms that he must go home and see that Mattie had a proper supper to eat, even if it was only fish and chips. It was his house, after all, and while Jean was not in residence she felt the care and keeping of the house and its occupants must fall to him. It had been the right decision, sending him away, but at the moment she almost wished she hadn't. The head nurse had laid down the law with Lucien, insisted that personal physician or not Mrs. Beazley needed her rest, and he was only to sit with her during regular visiting hours. Jean's decision to send him home to Mattie meant she'd not see him again until the following morning, and then only if Matthew Lawson didn't have need of him. It had just gone six, and with the exception of the pleasant nurse who would come clear away her supper and check her temperature before bed, Jean would be all alone until morning.

It was a dreadful prospect. Jean was not accustomed to spending quite so much time on her own; even when she could hardly leave her bed Mattie and Lucien would both come and sit with her, and their voices would ring through the house, and Jean would nestle amongst her pillows, content in the knowledge that she was not alone. Now, though, she was utterly cut off from the rest of the world, and the hospital was cold, and lonesome. None of her things were here, and there was no wireless to occupy her, no Lucien banging on the piano, no gentle banter while they all watched Game of Champions together. She was not entirely without occupation - Lucien had brought her knitting, and a few books for her to read - but those diversions held little interest for her. She wanted to be home.

And you will be, she reminded herself sternly. You'll go home tomorrow. You can last one more night.


"Oh, Lucien, I don't think I can face another supper of fish and chips," Mattie said morosely as he came sauntering in the kitchen, their newspaper-wrapped dinner bundled up beneath his arm.

"I promise I'll go to the greengrocer tomorrow," he told her earnestly, but Mattie just frowned, for he'd said precisely the same thing to her the previous evening, and yet had once again turned up with a greasy supper, and not a vegetable in sight.

Shopping and cooking were tasks with which neither Lucien nor Mattie were much accustomed; oh, they could manage all right when Jean sent them out with a list, which she had taken to doing of late, but left to their own devices they were both a bit muddled. We're spoiled, is what we are, he thought as he began unwrapping their supper. Jean had taken such excellent care of them all for so very long that they had grown helpless in her absence. The church ladies had come by at the weekend, left their casseroles and whisked away the dirty laundry, but the food they'd brought had run out. There hadn't been that much to begin with, not like it had been in the early days of Jean's illness. Perhaps the ladies thought it was high time Lucien learned to fend for himself. Perhaps they were right.

"Is there vinegar, at least?" Mattie asked, settling into her usual chair with a sigh of resignation. Lucien opened his mouth to answer, to tell her that they did not have to forgo all their usual creature comforts while Jean was in hospital, but as he did there came a knock upon the door. Mattie frowned up at him expectantly, and so Lucien turned away from the table and rushed off to see who had come knocking.

"Matthew!" he cried as he flung open the door and found the Superintendent standing on the other side of it with a picnic hamper in his hands. "This is a surprise."

"I thought somebody ought to make sure you're not subsisting on whiskey," he said. "Here." Without preamble he thrust the hamper into Lucien's arms, and then stuffed his hands in his pockets, as if he did not quite know what to do with himself now that his charitable gesture had been received.

"Come in, Matthew, please," Lucien said, taking a step back and jerking his head toward the kitchen. "There's plenty to go around."

"That's kind of you, Lucien, thank you."

Lucien neatly closed the door behind him, and then the pair of them set off for the kitchen together, Lucien grinning all the while. He couldn't help it; there was something dreadfully lovely about having friends, about having the people he cared for gathered beneath one roof. Jean loved him, and she would come home to him tomorrow, and in the meantime he would be surrounded with companionship and comfort and whatever food Matthew had rustled up for them. It seemed to him to be a wonderful way to spend an evening, and it could only have been improved by Jean's presence.

"How is she getting on?" Matthew asked as they went. There was no need to specify which she he meant; it could only have been Jean.

"Much improved," Lucien told him honestly. "She should be back home tomorrow." If the fever is truly gone, if they think she's strong enough, if they trust me enough to release her into my care, and don't decide to keep her in there for good. Though the flu had mostly run its course and Jean was faring much better the truth was she was dreadfully weak, and living under the same roof as a doctor's surgery, with Mattie and Lucien tending to sick patients every day, presented risks that might be intolerable, given the havoc the chemotherapy had wrought on her immune system. Lucien wanted her home, more than anything, but there might have been wisdom in keeping her in hospital. His head might agree with the other doctors' assessments; his heart, however, could not bear the thought of his continued separation from Jean. She belonged here, with him, and he ached for her.

"Mattie, Superintendent Lawson has come to your rescue," Lucien declared as they stepped into the kitchen together.

"Thought you lot could do with a vegetable or two," Matthew said gruffly.

"God bless you, Superintendent," Mattie answered, gleefully pushing her plate of fish and chips away and reaching into the hamper Lucien had laid before her.

"Did you make all this yourself?" Lucien asked curiously, watching as Mattie pulled out containers of potatoes and corn and something green he couldn't yet identify and a bit of roast chicken.

"We don't all live in grand houses with saints like Jean to look after us," Matthew told him, but there was a twinkle in his eye that let Lucien know he was only teasing. "The rest of us had to learn to fend for ourselves."

"And I'm glad you did, Matthew. Come on, then. Have a seat. I'll get you a drink."

The evening passed quite pleasantly, with cheery conversation and a remarkably lovely supper made by Matthew's own two hands, and the fish and chips was left to grow cold, untouched as the occupants of the house reached gleefully for more wholesome sustenance. It was, on the whole, one of the finer meals Lucien had enjoyed for quite some time, but as he sat, listening to Mattie and Matthew both complaining good-naturedly about Danny's latest antics, he felt a pang of sorrow in his heart, thinking that Jean was not there to witness it. She would have laughed along with them, and praised Matthew's cooking, and made the whole room brighter by her very presence. It simply wasn't fair, he thought, that Jean, who was the best of them, was left alone, facing discomfort and isolation and pain without the ones who loved her there to comfort her when she needed it most.

An idea came to him, as Mattie rose from the table and began to clear the dishes away, as Matthew leaned back in his chair, whiskey glass in hand and a contended look upon his face. The nurses were under strict orders not to let him into Jean's room after hours, but this late in the evening they were short staffed, and a few of them were firmly on his side, thought it sweet the way Doctor Blake doted on Mrs. Beazley. It would not be so very difficult, he told himself; he had been a spy in a former life, and had infiltrated places with much higher security than the local hospital boasted. Perhaps Jean didn't have to be alone tonight, after all.


Jean was half asleep when the door to her little room opened. The sound of it surprised her, for the nurses had already come to see that she had everything she needed for the night, and were not due back until the morning. Curious, then, she opened her eyes, and felt a wide, brilliant smile spill across her face as she found Lucien slipping through it, clutching a little bundle in his arms.

"Lucien!" she gasped, delighted. "You aren't supposed to be here."

It seemed necessary to chide him for so blatantly disobeying the rules of the hospital and the ultimatums of the nurses who were responsible for her care, but she was so overjoyed by the sight of him that her admonishment did not sound sincere in the least, and he grinned as he approached her, and pressed a shy kiss to her cheek.

"Better to ask forgiveness than permission, eh?" he said, and his expression was so very eager, and his heart was so very dear, that if Jean had only had strength enough to pull herself up she would have wrapped her arms around him and kissed him properly. As it was she could only smile at him, a smile as warm and soft as his own had been.

"We had a wonderful supper," Lucien told her as he dragged the little chair closer to her bedside and settled himself upon it. "Courtesy of Matthew Lawson, if you can believe that."

The mystery of the bundle he carried was made plain in a moment as he began to unpack it; it contained a thermos, two small travelling cups of the sort most often used for camping, and a small stack of biscuits, only partially damaged in transit.

"He's a good man," Jean told him. And so are you, she thought.

"That he is," Lucien agreed. His hands were busy laying his wares out on the little table beside her bed, twisting the top off the thermos so he could pour its contents - tea, by the looks of it, and still hot - into the cups. "But as wonderful as it was, it was not as wonderful as it could be, because you were not there with us. We miss you terribly."

"I've missed you, too," Jean answered as she accepted the cup he offered her. "It's been dreadful being cooped up in here. Heaven only knows what's become of my begonias."

At that Lucien's expression grew sheepish, and Jean knew then that he had forgotten her flowers entirely. She could not fault him for it; she'd not asked him to look after them, and he had more important things to be getting on with. It would be difficult enough for him to manage the day to day business of the house and the surgery without her there to guide him, she could hardly expect him to go looking for extra chores for himself. And besides, he was hardly a gardening expert; his help might have only killed her plants more quickly. She was suddenly reminded of the incident with the bread, and hid her mirth behind her cup, not wanting him to ask what she found so amusing, not wanting to confess that it was his ineptitude that brought that rueful smile to her lips.

"You can see for yourself tomorrow," he promised her.

"If they'll let me go."

Lucien's face fell, and he picked absently at a biscuit. For a man past fifty, a man who had upon his arrival in Ballarat been brusque and waspish and successfully offended every single citizen he came into contact with - Jean included - he wore his heart on his sleeve, her Lucien. Every emotion, every thought, seemed to play out there, and Jean could read them all, now.

"I do feel much better," she hastened to add. "Surely-"

"Surely they will," Lucien agreed, but his heart was not in it. He doubted, then, doubted whether they'd let her go at all, or whether now they had her within their grasp the doctors would insist she remain in hospital for the remainder of her treatment. The thought was unbearable to her; a week away from home had been difficult enough. Further isolation might well drive her mad.

No use in worrying about it now, she told herself. Lucien had come all this way, snuck past the doctors and the nurses, just to sit with her, to bring her tea and biscuits, and she would not let her worries for the future spoil the sweetness of this moment.

"Now tell me," she said, holding her cup in one hand and reaching for Lucien with the other, catching his fingers in hers. "What did you get up to today?"