IV:

Lucien bounced Sarah on his knee and smiled down at her. "She's precious," he commented to his sister as she hurried around her little sitting room, making it look better for him, putting away the toddler's toys.

"She's everything," Desiree said quietly, clearing her throat. "Welcome back, by the way. Mum said you've been back a few days –"

"Three days."

"Not long, then?"

"Not really, no. I was in hospital in Canberra after they released us from the camp and I stated my intention to seek medical discharge," he said. "Then they sent me off with enough for bus fare to Ballarat, and here I am."

Desiree smiled wanly. "Here you are, indeed – you're so skinny a stiff wind could blow you over. Never mind: a few weeks of Jean's cooking should cure that," she said. "Bet you were surprised to see her at mum and dad's – I certainly was."

Lucien continued to sway and bounce his niece on his knee, and contemplated an answer. "I… might have been, yes," he said in the most neutral tone he could manage.

Desiree lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, her hands trembling. "I mean… I came back from hell on earth with a baby in my arms, and here's Jeanie Beazley and her boys just all up in our house like they belong there."

"Desi," he rebuked sharply.

"Oh, shut up," she hissed. "You didn't see mum, fawning all over them like… like they were hers. She barely spared me a glance, Lucien. All because I have a bastard. Well, you know what? She wouldn't be a bastard if the fucking Nazis didn't round up all the Jews and throw them into camps and murder them. She would have a father if monsters didn't rule the world."

He stilled abruptly, his stomach clenching in horror at what she was telling him. "Desiree, have you told anyone else –"

"I told dad," she muttered. "I couldn't tell her. She'd hate me even more. I already can't do anything right for her, Lucien – what on earth would she think, knowing I slept with a Jew? That I was going to marry a Jew? I was already a disappointment."

"Desi," he said softly, "Maman and dad just wanted what was best for you –"

"Right, fancy parties and men with money trying to outdo each other to catch my attention, yes, that's wonderful," Desiree scoffed. "I hated every second of it, and you know that. They know that." She puffed angrily on her cigarette. "Aaron was a freedom fighter, Lucien, and I love him all the more because of it."

Lucien sighed and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I know nothing I can say will convince you, Desi, but Maman doesn't hate you – not at all," he said very softly. "And she worries about you and Sarah, every day. She wanted to send Jean with me, to bring over some things, but I said I would ask if you needed them first."

"What kind of things?"

"Food, mostly. You know Maman."

Desiree laughed mirthlessly. "Sweets and treats?"

"Yes… Desiree, you need to tell her. You can't be jealous of Jean: you don't understand the circumstances of –"

"Don't defend her," Desiree said sharply. "Just don't." She fell silent and watched him playing with her daughter, then said, "Mei Lin and Li?"

"Gone," he said, simply.

She nodded and swallowed hard. "Everyone thinks that war is hell, but it's the living afterward that's unbearable."

Lucien felt a knot in his stomach, and he didn't cry: if he started, he might never stop.

Jean knew better than to ask why Thomas had been taking calls from France and England in secret for months, and her discretion caught up with her finally when he came to her one day and said, "Mrs. Beazley, we're to host Ambassador Black-Harper and another gentleman tomorrow evening. And make sure Desiree and Sarah are here."

"Desiree won't come if I tell her to," Jean protested.

"Tell her I insist," Thomas said. "And if she doesn't want to, tell her I'll pay her fifty pounds."

Jean hesitated, then nodded. "And the food?" she inquired.

"Beef, potatoes, and root vegetables," Thomas said firmly. "Nothing surprising."

Which was how she came to be answering the door on a Thursday evening to a well-turned out gentleman and a scruffy younger man who was bald, but had the stubble of the beginnings of a grey and white beard, and who wore and ragged jumper and frayed corduroy pants and a canvas jacket. "Welcome, Mr. Ambassador," Jean said with a bright smile. "I am Mrs. Beazley, Dr. Blake's housekeeper – would you and Mr…?"

"Abrams," the younger man said in a heavily French-accented voice.

"Would you and Mr. Abrams care for something to drink?" she continued as she guided them inside. "The doctor and Mrs. Blake are waiting in the sitting room, whenever you'd like. I'll take your coats."

"I would love a whiskey, Mrs. Beazley – thank you," Ambassador Black-Harper said with a smile.

"And you, Mr. Abrams?" Jean asked gently, waiting for his jacket. Once she held it, she frowned to see how painfully gaunt he was, and resolved to make certain that he had plenty to eat, just as she was doing with Lucien.

"Just tea," he replied.

Jean hung the coats and quickly made drinks for the men before she led them through. "Right this way, gentlemen," she said. "Dr. Blake, your guests have arrived."

There was dead silence in the room for just a beat, then a strangled noise from Desiree's throat that defied description. Jean's eyes went wide as Desiree launched herself off the arm of the settee, where she had been reading the evening paper over Lucien's shoulder, and right at Abrams, with a sudden cry of, "Aaron!"

Thomas was drinking his wine with a small smile on his lips, completely unsurprised at the unbridled display of emotion. Genevieve, however, was quite shocked as her daughter embraced the unkempt stranger and wept.

Sarah toddled over to Jean and held her little arms up in the air, whining. Jean picked her up and cuddled her, watching the scene unfolding in front of her. Desiree had kissed Abrams over and over again, stroked his cheeks, said things like, "I thought you were dead." And Jean felt none the wiser.

"Mrs. Beazley, dinner?" Thomas prompted, jerking her back firmly into her place.

Jean set Sarah back onto the ground and gently steered her toward her mother. "Go get mummy," she instructed softly. To Thomas, she said, "It's almost ready. I'll go check on it."

Once in the kitchen, Jean checked the food in the oven and deemed it to be finished. She pulled it out and began to carefully remove the roasted potatoes and carrots from their pan onto a platter, while the beef rested. Suddenly, without warning, she inhaled sharply and felt sick to her stomach.

The man in the other room, Mr. Abrams, was Sarah's father – he had to be. There was no other explanation. And Desiree had fled France because of something she had done, or because she'd thought him dead, and… and now –

An irrational surge of angry jealousy flashed through Jean, making it hard for her to breathe, to think, to concentrate. Why should Desiree get a second chance? Why did she always get everything? She wanted to be happy for her friend, but in the wake of such devastating loss, all she could do was feel anger and defeat.

Jean went through the motions of finishing the dinner preparations because she needed to, then she placed the food on the table and went back to the sitting room. "Dinner is ready," she said. "I'm afraid I must ask to be excused, Dr. Blake," she said very softly to Thomas. "I feel unwell."

"Jean?" he said with concern.

"Please," she begged.

"Of course," Thomas said. "You will shout down if you need anything?"

"I'll be fine," she assured him, leaving as everyone headed into the dining room.

She was very glad the boys were staying the night at her sister's: she didn't have to answer to them for the tears on her cheeks or the way she collapsed on the floor of her room in an ungainly heap, sobbing for all the world as if her heart had been ripped from her chest and pounded into oblivion. She wanted, OH, how she wanted, for Christopher to be the one coming through that door unexpectedly. She wanted for just one moment, for life to not be so difficult. For her heart to stop aching with the agony of loss.

She was on her knees, as if she was praying, but she wasn't, she couldn't. The muscles of her belly tensed painfully with her sobs, and each pain made the tears come that much harder. She couldn't stop crying; the broken cries echoed in her bedroom with all the loneliness she felt, destroying her from within. Every breath fueled the madness afresh, every moment made it worse, and she could do nothing to stop the tailspin descent, only ride it out. Jean wrapped her arms around herself and rocked on her knees, wailing.

There was a knock on the door, and when she didn't answer, only sobbed harder, the knocking became pounding. "Jean? Jeanie –" And then the door was open, and Lucien was on the ground beside her, holding her, wrapping her in his arms and rocking her. "Shh, it's all right – shh, Jeanie… it's all right."

She wept into his chest, clung to him, tried to ignore how small she felt in his arms. She wanted him fiercely, more than she ever had, but her sins of coveting and lust had brought her nothing but pain and suffering. He was bound to be the death of her –

"Shh, hush now, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded softly.

She just shook her head, unable to speak from crying so hard. She burrowed her head into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, breathing in deeply, seeking comfort where she knew there was none to be had. Slowly, Jean quieted, but he didn't release his hold on her, and the gentle stroke of his fingers still danced over her back.

"Jeanie… I'm sorry," he said softly.

"It's not you," she lied, hiccoughing a little as the words stumbled out.

In truth, it was everything. But right that moment, it was him – so close she could breathe him in and all but climb into his skin, she wanted to do far more than she was allowed. Jean shuddered and took a deep breath, attempting to pull away, but he held her fast.

"Jean."

"Lucien, please," she said, her voice straining. "I – you don't – you don't want to hear why I'm upset."

"I do." He paused. "Maybe I'm upset for the same reason."

"No… I doubt it."

"Desiree gets her great love back and you and I get sod all," he said. "Is that it? Is that how you feel? Because that's how I feel. I just didn't break down yet."

Jean moaned softly and closed her eyes. "I hate her," she said very quietly. "Because she's going to be happy. And then I hate myself more."

"No," Lucien said softly, moving his hands to her shoulders, gently holding her back and steady from him so he could look her in the eye. "No, Jeanie."

She sighed heavily and said, "I know, but what – how am I meant to feel, Lucien?"

"I don't know how we're meant to feel," he said. "I only know how I feel." He exhaled heavily and said, "I never could stand seeing you upset."

She felt the corners of her lips quirk up ever so slightly. "Nor I you," Jean murmured, reaching out to carefully touch the side of his face. "Lucien… I…" She exhaled and pulled her hand away, reminding herself of the rules, the reasons why she must not. "I'm all right. It was just a silly moment."

"You aren't silly, Jean," Lucien said.

She wasn't expecting him to kiss her, let alone to kiss her with enough passion to light up the entirety of Ballarat. But Jean found herself suddenly, inexplicably, on the receiving end of one of the most heartfelt kisses she had ever been given – and then he deepened the kiss, his tongue gently sliding against hers, making her shiver and moan into his mouth. She gave as good as she got: if this was going to be her only kiss from Lucien Blake, she damn well wanted him to remember it well. The kiss became a war of wills and dominance, desire and stoking the burning flame that was abruptly raging out of control between them.

And then he pulled back, laughing awkwardly, out of breath. "Jeanie –"

She traced his lips with the pad of her thumb, and whispered, "I only know how I feel." The admission tripped off her tongue before she could keep it back, and she felt a pang of guilt for letting her heart show even for a moment. "Lucien, I'm sorry –"

"No, Jean, I – " He took a deep breath and said, "I'm not ready."

"Me, either," she lied.

She watched him walk away and closed her heart up again, locking it away where it would be safe from everyone – including herself. She couldn't trust anyone.

TBC...