30 July 1959

Jean sighed softly as the needle slipped into the crook of her elbow. Lucien had done his very best, over the preceding weeks, to treat her gently, to not cause her more pain than was strictly necessary, but her poor veins had endured quite enough poking and prodding, and she was more relieved than words could say to know that this would be the last time. The bruises on her pale skin would fade in time, and the poison would leech slowly from her system, and her strength would return, and her life would be made new again.

"Last time," Lucien said gently as he hung the IV bag on its stand, as he settled himself into the chair beside the examination table. Though Jean was no less weary today than she had been for the last month she had insisted on rising from her bed and coming to the surgery for her final treatment; we shall end as we began, she thought. It seemed right, somehow, to step once more into this place, and draw a line beneath this terrible experience.

So much had changed, in so short a time. In March she had thought to leave him, and in April she had become wholly reliant upon him, and in May she had come to love him. Lying back against the examination table was old hat to her now, but it had not been, in the beginning. It had been strange and terrifying, to see herself as Doctor Blake's patient, to stare into the abyss of pain and grief that waited for her with no notion of how she could possibly survive all the unpleasantness ahead. Clearly she could recall that first day, that first treatment. Lucien accompanying her to the shops, defending her despite the stares of the local gossips. She had been so scared, then, of how far she might fall, so frightened that anyone might think anything untoward was brewing between them. That day, that first day, she had cooked and baked and done everything she could to prepare the house for her invalidity, and still fretted that it would not be enough, that Mattie and Lucien would not get by without her tender care. And then she had come to this place, and stretched herself out upon the table, and felt the full extent of her uselessness. Desperate for distraction she had struck up a conversation with Lucien, and everything that had passed between them from that moment to this had been leading them both to a destination she could not have imagined, back then. It had been leading them slowly, surely, into love.

"I'll just be glad to put all this behind me," Jean said, closing her eyes as she often did during treatment. It helped if she could not see the line running from her arm to the stand, if she could block out all thoughts of what she was enduring. In truth she would be more than glad; she was breathless with anticipation, with longing for a brighter day. A day when she could stand unaided, and move easily from room to room, a day when she could kiss Lucien's lips and lose her breath from passion, and not exhaustion. Her entire being seemed focused on the future, but Lucien drew her once more into the present, reached for her free hand and raised it up so that he could press a gentle kiss against her skin.

"I will be glad to see you well again," he told her.

To be well, to be whole; there was nothing Jean wanted more. She wanted her hair and her strength, her freedom and her joy, wanted her family and her friends and everything that had been missing from her life for all these many months. She wanted to walk to the shops on a fine day and sit in a pew at mass, and she wanted the journey Lucien had promised her, the trip to the seaside and the chance to hold him, and visit with her son besides. Young Christopher rang her at least once a week, but speaking on the phone was not the same as seeing him, and she was desperate for a glimpse of his sweet face, as desperate as she was for news of his wayward brother. Oh, Jean was desperate for so many things, but the tug of the needle in her arm when she shifted kept her tethered to this moment, this time when she was not yet able to pursue her desires as energetically as she wished.

I will be glad to see you well again; Lucien's words were kind, but they resonated deep within Jean's heart in some strange, unpleasant way. When she had been well, before, they had hardly tolerated one another. It was only in her weakness, and in his strength, that they had found their way together. Would he care for her so deeply when she did not need him so completely? Since the day he had been attacked Lucien had come to her every night, fallen asleep holding her close, drawing comfort from her; would he still need such comfort when he did not have to fear losing her at any moment? Jean's own heart had been so changed by this experience she hardly recognized herself anymore; she had been so shaken by the thought that the end of her life might come at any moment that she had reached for him with both hands, allowed herself a recklessness and a vulnerability she never would have tolerated before she fell ill. When their circumstances changed, when the dust settled and life returned to its old familiar patterns, when Lucien was out at all hours chasing mysteries now that her illness did not keep him confined to the house watching over her, when she went once more out into the world and had to face the stares of Grace and Victoria and Susan bloody Tyneman, would she still find strength in such boldness? Or would it only wound her? All she wanted was for her life to return to the way it had been, but it had been suffocating, before, and she feared a return to such a state of affairs. She also feared it might be inevitable.

"What is it, my darling?" Lucien asked her.

At the sound of his voice her eyes flickered open, taking in the sight of the worried expression painted across his sweet face. Jean was to be his last patient of the day and so Lucien had shed his jacket and loosened his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and now sat beside her, leaning towards her, one of her hands still held within his gentle grasp. He was so handsome, this love of hers, and so kind, and she wanted him so badly, but she had learned many years before to fear the yearnings of her heart, had grown too accustomed to the taste of bitter disappointment in her mouth, and now that she stood on the very brink of achieving everything she longed for, she feared she might well lose it instead.

"I want to be well, Lucien," she told him. Of late they kept no secrets between them, much as Jean sometimes found it difficult to speak the truth of her heart. It would not do, she thought, to begin to hide herself from him now. To share so freely of her doubts, her fears, was to risk a great calamity, but it was a risk she knew she must take if she was to keep Lucien's love. "I do. I just...we have come so far, you and I, and I don't know what's going to happen next."

Her thoughts drifted back to the previous Friday, to the warmth and the hardness of him beneath her, to the electric touch of his hands against her skin, to the way she had so boldly pressed herself against him, the way she had so boldly agreed to go away with him, knowing full well the indecency inherent in such an undertaking, and yet wanting it. She still wanted it, wanted it desperately, but now that a return to their previous status quo loomed before her fear had begun to chip away at her certainty. Suppose he changed his mind about her? Suppose the gossips frightened her too greatly to allow her the freedom she had dreamed of? Suppose word got out, that Doctor Blake and Mrs. Beazley had been getting up to all sorts while she convalesced beneath his roof - suppose all his patients left him? Suppose the powers within the police force that wanted him gone chose to use his immorality as an excuse to cut him loose? Suppose -

"Jean, look at me," Lucien said, and his voice was deadly serious, and when she caught his gaze she could see in his eyes that he had read her every thought already. "You have nothing to fear."

She laughed, a bit wetly, blinking back tears. It seemed to Jean she had everything to fear, and wasn't that strange, she thought; she had been so terrified of her illness, of the treatment, of all the pain she had yet to face, and now she was terrified of being well.

"I just...Lucien this has all happened so quickly." They'd known each other a few months, before the doctors discovered her cancer, and a few months had passed since. But Jean knew it was foolish to count their courtship, such as it was, in days or weeks. An ordinary man and ordinary woman, coming to know one another under ordinary circumstances, would not have spent half so much time in one another's company as Jean and Lucien had done over the course of their acquaintance. They had lived beneath the same roof, eaten at the same table; he had carried her to bed, and into the hospital, had soothed her when she was ill and let her soothe him when he was grieving. They fell asleep each night in the same bed, and woke together each morning, and though there were events from his past Jean had not yet come to understand she knew she had come to know his heart, more fully than she had ever known another, save for Christopher. Still, though, she worried. Would it be enough?

"We've not reached the end of the road," he told her. "We're only turning a page. We don't know what this next chapter will bring but, Jean, I...I...I mean to be yours forever, if you'll have me."

It was not precisely a marriage proposal, and Jean knew that, but it felt very much like a precursor to one. There was an earnest sincerity shining in his eyes, and the grip of his hand upon hers tightened, as if he truly meant to never let her go.

Forever.

Forever seemed like such a terribly long time, but with a man like Lucien by her side, she knew it would be full of surprises, and delights, and passions beyond imaginings. Forever with Lucien would be an adventure. Forever would be more than a passing curiosity for the gossips; forever would dull their interest in time, and put an end to all suspicions. Forever would be a bed that was never empty, and a heart that was always full, and a hand to hold, for all the rest of her days. Forever would withstand any illness, any grief; forever would be there for her, whether she had her hair or no, whether she could march smartly to the shops on her own two feet or could not find the strength to leave her bed. Forever was a promise worth making, and a promise worth keeping.

It was a terrifying prospect, but it was everything that Jean wanted, and so she turned her hand over beneath his, and laced their fingers together.

"Forever?" she asked him softly, a thousand questions contained within that one word. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health? For richer or poorer, Lucien, for better or worse? From this day forward, as long as we both shall live?

"Always," he answered, and then he leaned forward, and kissed her sweetly.