15 July 1959
"I am sorry about this," Lucien told her as the needle slipped once more into the crook of her elbow. Comfortable in her bed, Jean just sighed; she didn't even feel it, anymore. The apology was about more than just the needle, she knew; he'd missed her appointment the day before, and would now have to administer treatment two days in a row to make up for it, but today was Wednesday, and he hadn't cleared his calendar in advance for her, and he'd had patients to see in the morning, and he'd had to go down to the station and talk with Matthew about the incident the day before. They'd had to wait until after supper to begin the process, and she'd have to go to sleep with the drugs fresh in her system, and wake up and do it all again tomorrow. Friday is going to be difficult, she thought, but she did not give voice to her concerns. Lucien was feeling guilty enough already.
"It's not for much longer," she reminded him. Beside her bed Lucien finished faffing about with the IV, and then he settled back in his chair, crossed his arms over his broad chest and stretched his long legs out in front of him, the tension leaving him at the end of a long and trying day. Though he made no mention of it she thought his wound must pain him; what a pair we make. At her question the smallest flicker of a smile flashed across his face.
"No," he agreed. "Two more weeks, and you'll be done."
"And then we can put all this behind us."
A flicker of hurt flashed in his eyes and she reached out with her free hand, let her palm settle comfortingly on his knee.
"Well," she corrected herself, "not all of it."
They could put the cancer behind them. The fear and the grief and the pain, her weakness and limitations, his guilt, all of that could become no more than a memory. The love they had found together over the last few months, the hope and the joy and the dreams for the future, those things they would not forget. The last few months had been some of the most difficult, most abject, most terrible months of her entire life, but they had given him to her, and her to him, had brought Jean and Lucien to a place of understanding with one another, to a place where she could fall asleep in his arms, and feel only peace. And one day, maybe one day soon, when she laid down beside him they wouldn't just sleep. Maybe one day she would lay down beside him, and know she would never have to fall asleep without him for all the rest of her days. That love made the rest of it worth it, somehow. Oh, maybe they would have found their way together without the cancer. Maybe he would have set aside his pride and asked her to stay; maybe she would have set aside her own, and agreed. Maybe they would always find their way together, no matter the road they chose. This time, though, in this life, in this world, they had chosen this path, and she did not regret a moment of it.
"No," he said warmly, lifted his hand and let it settle over hers on his knee. "Not all of it."
She'd never forget the warmth of his arms around her, the strength of his body carrying her out into the night, his determination, his damned stubborn dedication the only thing that could save her when she was too weak to save herself. She'd never forget the way he was looking at her now, like she was the most precious, most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Like he loved her.
"Tell me, Jean," he said then, and there was a curious note to his voice she recognized all too well. They had an hour to burn, sitting here while the medication dripped slowly into her veins, and they often used this time to question one another, to ferret out the little details about one another, little pieces of the lives they had lived before they met, cementing the life they were building together. "When was the last time you went to the sea?"
Something terrible tugged low in her belly, something that felt an awful lot like shame. It used to happen more often when Thomas was in the house, the differences in their backgrounds made stark by his patrician attitude. Lucien could not have been more unlike his father, and Lucien had always treated her as an equal, even when they didn't like one another very much. But sometimes, even with him, Jean felt almost as if they'd come from different planets, their lives had traveled such divergent roads. There was no need for shame, she knew; she'd lived a life she loved, and was proud of it, and Lucien knew it, and loved her just as she was. Still, though, there was no arguing with that primal piece of her heart. It would always be with her.
"I've never been," she confessed. "Young Christopher's been stationed in Adelaide, and I thought I might go to visit him, before…" Her voice trailed off. Before she'd fallen ill, back when she was thinking of leaving him, she'd had so many dreams for herself. None of those dreams would come true, now. She'd not have her little cottage, decorated just the way she wanted it. She'd not have a life where she stood alone and proud on her own two feet. But she would have something different, now; she would have Lucien. How, in what way, for how long, she could not say, but she would have him, and they would make new dreams together.
"You...not even to Melbourne?" he asked, surprised, and, she thought, a little disappointed on her behalf. A man like him, he probably thought everyone had been to the seaside. He'd been shipped off to boarding school in Melbourne as a child, gone to university in Europe, traveled throughout Asia. He'd been everywhere, and Jean had never even left boring old Ballarat, never been farther than Bendigo.
"No," she said.
"Well, then." Lucien leaned forward in his chair, caught her hand in both of his, sandwiched cold fingers between warm palms while his eyes lit up like he had just been handed the most wonderful gift. "When you're well," he said, "I think we should go. Rent a little cottage somewhere, somewhere no one knows our names. We can go to Adelaide, if you like, pop in on Christopher and Ruby. And you can feel the sand on your toes."
Propriety and caution had dictated every moment of Jean's life for years, and her first instinct was to say no. She could hardly slip away for a dirty weekend with her employer, when they were not married, when they had not even discussed it. If anyone found out, her reputation would be in tatters, and so would his, and then where would they be? Besides, she'd let Christopher take her before they were wed, and the penance she'd had to pay for that blissful sin had nearly broken her. And yet…
And yet she was older now, and wiser, and she'd never have another child, thanks to the surgery that had saved her life. She loved Lucien, and she had spent too long living in fear. Having felt the icy fingers of death winding round her heart she was eager now to live. They could tell people she was going to Adelaide to see her son, when she was well, and make excuses for Lucien accompanying her. A single woman on her own, she would be safer with a man to chaperone her, and there was nothing salacious about a widow, particularly one recovering from cancer, visiting her child. And if they rented a little cottage instead of booking separate hotel rooms, if she fell asleep with the sound of the sea and his warm breathing in her ear, no one would ever need know but the pair of them.
"That would be...lovely," she said carefully. It might not ever come to be; most of Lucien's madcap schemes fell to pieces under closer inspection, but it was nice to dream, and his answering smile was brighter than the sun itself.
Sleep would not come for her, after Lucien left her. They talked a while, about Adelaide, about his travels, about their children, about what they might do when she was well, and then he kissed her forehead and carried his equipment away, turning off the lights as he went. The room was dark, and she was warm enough, and there had not been time yet for the medication to sink its teeth into her. She should have slept, but she felt restless, instead. So much had changed so quickly; sleeping in Lucien's bed the night before had been a comfort to them both, but it had also left Jean raw, and aching for him. She could not hide, any more, from the way she felt for him. One night in his bed had torn down all her defenses, left her exposed. He mattered to her, more than anyone else, held the power to save her and break her in his hands, and she wanted him. When she closed her eyes she could still recall the way it felt, the heat of his kiss, the desire in his palm where it ghosted over her thigh, the solid hardness of him beneath her when she flung her leg over his hip. She wanted him, wanted him to touch her, to take her, to claim her, wanted him to be hers, and with her always. And yet he could not be; there was so much yet for them to sort through, so many questions they had not answered, could not answer until she was well. Sleeping beside him had been a revelation, and she did not know when next she'd be granted such grace again. All her life she had done her best to be patient, but she had learned, now, just how precious every second was, and she hated to think she must waste one more single minute in waiting.
But apparently, she was not the only one. It was well after ten, and Mattie had long since gone off to bed, and the house was dark and quiet, and so she heard the sound of her bedroom door opening clear as a bell. No footsteps followed after, though she held her breath and waited for them. From her bed she could not see the door, but she reckoned she knew who had come to her so late, and why he lingered in the doorway, why he warred with himself on the other side of the studio instead of coming straight to her. Reckless, he was always reckless, but he was learning restraint for her sake. She almost wished he wouldn't.
"Lucien?" she called softly, and in the silence she heard his sharp breath, though she could not say whether it was a gasp of surprise or a sigh of relief. The sound of her voice moved him, though; she listened to his feet, soft on the carpet, padding across the room until he was beside her bed, looking down on her in the darkness. His hair was mussed, and he wore only a light pair of pajama trousers, his feet and chest bare, that stark white bandage still fixed in place. He had been lying in his own bed, thinking of her, just as she was thinking of him, but he had done what she could not, and found the courage to reach for what he wanted, what they both wanted. Perhaps it was time for her to do the same.
"Please," she whispered in the darkness, and then she shuffled over to the other side of the bed, and then he was crawling in beside her, and her heart did a funny little flip in her chest as his heavy weight sank into the mattress.
"I couldn't sleep," he breathed into the darkness, his voice hoarse with longing.
Jean took one deep breath, marshaled all her strength, and then slid closer to him, let her head come to rest on his shoulder, sighed as his arm wrapped around her waist, as her own hand settled on his chest, as both their hearts cried out with relief, and calmed for the first time since he'd left her.
"I couldn't sleep, either," she confessed. "Not without you here."
"I'll be right here, Jean," he whispered. "As long as you'll let me."
Always, she wanted to say, but the word felt heavy in her mouth, and she swallowed it back. Surely, she thought, it was too soon for always. She could not say it, not yet, but she felt it just the same. His warmth, the solid, steady presence of him beneath her, soothed her, and his palm drew careful circles on her hip until they both drifted off to sleep, relieved now that they had one another.