1 November 1959
When his lips brushed against her shoulder Jean sighed, softly, and relaxed against him, let the warmth of his broad chest at her back seep through her bones and comfort her, the way it always did. His arm was heavy and solid where it rested over the curve of her waist, his fingertips brushing gently against the soft skin of her belly. Cocooned in warmth, surrounded by peace, Jean closed her eyes, and drifted for a moment.
It was a Sunday morning, but there would be no mass for Jean today. Young Christopher had sheepishly confessed that he and Ruby had not yet found a church to attend in Adelaide - more likely they had not looked for one, but Jean did not press him on the issue - and so there was nowhere for Jean and Lucien to go this morning, nowhere for them to be, nothing for them to do but lie there together, wrapped up in one another.
The woman Jean had been a year before would never have even contemplated doing such a thing, travelling to Adelaide in the company of her employer, booking a stay in a cottage near the water rather than in two separate hotel rooms, tumbling into bed with a man who was not her husband. She was shocked by her own boldness, but the passion of Lucien's kisses and the yearning in his eyes and the desire in her own heart compelled her, and she could not find it in herself to feel shame, not just now. It was too beautiful, lying here alone with him, having shared all of herself with him and received his heart in turn, for her to regret this thing that they had done. This thing that they had done quite well, and more than once, and would do again many times before their little holiday was through.
"Will you wear it today, my darling?" Lucien asked her, his mouth still lingering by her shoulder, his breath warm and sweet against her skin.
For a moment Jean considered his question, and pondered her answer. They'd only arrived in Adelaide the day before, and were set to stay another week. Lucien had taken her down to the water, urged her to slip out of her shoes and sink her toes - stockings and all - into the soft sand, had wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her temple while she stared out in wonder at the beauty of the sea, and then he had taken her hand, and they had gone together to young Christopher's house, where Lucien had been remarkably well-behaved and Jean had been grateful both for his presence and the welcome sight of her oldest son's face. She had not worn it then, not on the bus and not for their journey to Christopher's house, but they were due to see him again this evening, and if she were to wear it, then Christopher would know.
No one else knew, as yet. Jean had been adamant on that score. She was still recuperating, her strength slowly returning, and she did not feel up to the questions and the fussing of her neighbors. She was not ready, yet, to make her secret known, to begin the long and arduous process of preparing for all the many changes that lay in store. There were choices to be made, plans to be laid, so much yet to be done, and she was not ready, yet, to turn her joy into a chore.
But Christopher ought to know before anyone else, she thought, and it was the sort of news best delivered in person. It did not worry Jean what Chrisotpher might think, should he learn the truth, whether he would be suspicious of her living arrangements or whether he would question where Lucien and Jean were staying on their holiday. He was a modern young man, but she was his mother, and she was certain that to his eyes she was sexless and devoid of passion. No child would want to imagine what their parents might be getting up to in the dark, and she knew her secret would be safe with her son.
It would be best to tell Christopher the truth, she thought, and as for the rest of it they were a long way from home, surrounded by strangers. Why shouldn't she let them see? Why should she be afraid to claim this piece of joy for herself?
"Yes," she answered, smiling. "I think I will."
Lucien planted a warm kiss against the curve of her neck, and then he leaned away, rummaging around on the bedside table until he found what he was after. When he returned to her he held a diamond ring in his hand, and she let him slip it carefully onto her finger, watching the movement of his hand against hers. The ring had belonged to the late Mrs. Blake, the last Mrs. Blake, and it would belong to the new Mrs. Blake as well, and Jean rather approved of that. She had heard so many stories about Genevieve Blake over the years but Jean had never known the woman, and she cherished this piece of her, this memory of the woman who had given birth to Lucien, whose life and death had so shaped the man Jean loved with her whole heart. That ring was love made tangible; that ring was family, and it was dear to Jean.
"Do you think he'll be pleased?" Lucien asked her softly.
"I do," she answered with a bit more confidence that she felt. She hoped he would be pleased, but she would not know until the thing was done which way his sentiments might lean. "He's fond of you, and he knows I am, too."
"He's a good man, Jean. He's a credit to you."
Slowly Jean rolled over in his arms, looking up into his dear, sweet face while their bare skin slipped and slid together, their bodies settling more firmly against one another. Gently she reached for him, trailed her fingertips over the heavy corded muscle of his bicep.
"I see the worst of me and the best of Christopher when I look at him," she confessed. Young Christopher had inherited her defensive nature, her quiet determination to carry every burden on her own without allowing others to help, but he possessed his father's determination to care for others, and his dedication to hard work, without Christopher Senior's changeable nature. Jack was rather the opposite, always looking for the easy way out, always running away, always angry. Some of that anger lived in Jean's own heart, but she was better at hiding it than Jack or his father had ever been. Such a strange thing, she thought, the way children could echo their parents in the most unexpected ways.
"I see the best of you," Lucien told her seriously, and she knew that he did, and she loved him for it. "At any rate, now is as good a time as any for him to start getting used to the situation."
It had been over a month since Lucien had proposed, since he had dropped to one knee in the sitting room and shocked Jean with the sudden revelation of the little ring that sparkled on her hand. She had accepted at once, for she knew that she loved him, knew that she wanted to spend all the rest of her days by his side, but she had accepted with a single caveat.
I want to marry you, Lucien, I do. And I will, just as soon as my hair's grown back.
She had remained firm on that score; while Lucien insisted that it didn't make one bit of difference to him how they got married so long as they did, Jean wanted their wedding to be perfect, and she wanted the photos they took on that day to be perfect, and she wanted to look back at them in the years to come and smile, thinking of love and joy and peace, did not want to look at them and be reminded of the terrible time when she had been laid so low. Those months of darkness, traversing that perilous road, losing so many pieces of herself in the process, had brought her closer to Lucien, but she would not ever look back on that time with fondness. She would think fondly of pastries and Lucien's gentle hands, would recall the terrible night when he shaved her head with tenderness in her heart for the way he had treated her, but as for the rest of it, she wanted to put it behind her. It would be another year, she thought, before she would feel well enough, and ready, to marry this man. A year of waiting, but a year of learning, too, a year of planning and making their lives new again, and she was looking forward to every moment of it.
"I'd marry you tomorrow, my darling," Lucien murmured then. It was not the first time he had spoken those words to her, and she knew it would not be the last. He had always been impatient, this love of hers. Jean was learning to live with it.
"I'll not be married on a Monday," she answered, and he laughed, and she lifted her head, brushed a gentle kiss against his lips. "I just...I want everything to be perfect."
"It will be," he told her, his voice soft and full of confidence. "You are perfect. And it won't be long now."
As he spoke he reached for her, and trailed his hand gently over her head. Though she still wore a kerchief whenever she went out there was no need for it while they lay together in bed, and she smiled at the warmth of his palm against her skin. Already her hair had begun to return to her; her scalp was covered with a fine dusting of dark hair, soft to the touch and growing longer every day. One day, one day very soon, she would look precisely as she had done the day she first met Lucien, and her heart would let go of the last of her resentment and her grief, and be filled with love, only love, for all the rest of her days.
"No," she agreed, watching the light dancing in Lucien's eyes as he touched her. "Not long now."
She reached for him, then, her left hand rising up to cup his cheek, and as she leaned into kiss him she saw the ring sparkling on her finger next to the line of his beard, and she smiled.