VII:

Jean was finishing up the dishes, putting away the glasses for the night, when she felt Lucien's hands descend on her hips as she balanced precariously on her stepstool. She swayed dangerously, nearly tumbling back into his arms, but instead leaned forward, grabbing for the cabinet doors. "Lucien!" she whispered sharply.

"I don't want to go out with her," he said.

"I know," Jean sighed softly. "It's all right – it really is."

"It isn't. And my mother cannot treat you so abominably –"

"Lucien, she treats me well," Jean hissed. "Just because she says something cruel once in a while doesn't mean anything. It's fine." She turned around and used his shoulders to steady herself before stepping down from the top of the stool. "Now, I'm almost finished. Why don't you go wait for me?"

"Jeanie…"

"Lucien, if either of your parents come in here –"

"They won't; they went to bed," he pointed out.

"Your mother gets up sometimes," Jean said softly. "Her legs bother her. The diabetes, you know."

He sighed heavily and muttered, "Yes, I know – I wish she would drink more water and less alcohol…"

"You do know I clean up your bottles, yes?" she said critically. "I've been quite worried about the amount of whiskey you've been downing lately."

"Ah, yes, well…" He sighed. "It helps."

"Helps with what exactly?"

He frowned. "Nothing you need worry yourself over, dearest."

"Of course I worry – I'm going to be your wife," she said softly. "And even if I wasn't, wouldn't I be your friend, Lucien? I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me because you think it's going to be too much for me. I'm made of sturdier stuff than you think."

"Jean… it isn't that." He exhaled roughly. "No one should have to deal with this. No one."

"Yes, but you do," she countered, "and you cannot do it alone – with or without a bottle of alcohol." She gently rested her hand on his chest and whispered, "Go upstairs and wait for me. I'll only be a few more minutes. And then we'll talk. Really talk, Lucien. Because I do understand."

She watched the emotions play out on his face, then get tamped down quickly, and he nodded. "Yes… of course," he said. "I'll wait for you upstairs."

"I love you, Lucien," Jean murmured, rising on the balls of her feet to press a kiss to his cheek, then wiping away the hint of lipstick she'd left behind on his skin.

She finished her work quickly and locked up for the night, then went upstairs. She checked on her boys; Christopher was asleep on the floor, a pillow under his mid-section and the blanket tangled around his feet, and Jack was splayed on his belly in his single bed like a starfish. And when she got to her room, she was surprised to find Lucien waiting for her there: she had thought to change into her nightgown and join him in his bedroom, but…

He looked up at her as she came in and said, "I'm sorry, I just…"

"No, it's all right," she said softly. "As long as you don't mind me getting changed for bed."

"Do you need assistance?" he asked.

"Lucien, I've been dressing and undressing myself since I was a wee thing," she scolded.

He sighed and said, "Yes, well, I –"

She smiled and murmured, "But maybe some other night, when we aren't going to have a chat and a cuddle, yes?"

He perked up instantly. "Yes," he agreed. "Please."

She gave him a kiss and quickly got down to business, changing out of her clothes and foundation garments into her pajamas, keenly aware of his eyes on her the whole while. "Lucien, there isn't anything special about me doing this," Jean said gently as she joined him on the edge of the bed. "I get changed for bed the same way every night."

"Yes, but it's you that makes it special," he said, kissing her shoulder. "I love you, Jeanie. I don't want to hurt you. You know that, yes?"

"Of course, Lucien, but it isn't fair for you to be hurting, either," she murmured. "And going through so much whiskey isn't healthy." Jean bit her lip and sighed. "I… I struggled when Christopher went away, at first. I drank too much sherry, and felt dreadful every morning when I had to get up and do the chores and take care of the boys and… I felt like everything was out of my control and I didn't know how to stop, really. So I began to pray for guidance, and I stopped buying sherry. I hardly drink at all now. Just tea, or if your mum really insists."

"Oh, Jean… I'm so sorry, sweetheart –"

"I do understand, Lucien," she murmured, taking his hand and holding it carefully in her lap. "And I love you, no matter what. But I need you to trust me."

"I trust you," he said. "But I don't know that you understand what you're asking me to tell you."

"Tell me what happened to you," she whispered. "Tell me whatever you're comfortable telling me. Just… talk to me, Lucien."

He sighed heavily and muttered, "They killed men by the hundreds, the thousands, Jeanie. I'm lucky to be alive at all."

"I know," she whispered.

"Do you?" he asked.

"I do know," she murmured, soothingly stroking his hand where it rested on her lap. "I'm not just a naïve farmgirl, Lucien."

He smiled wanly and sighed. "The last few months, they were rounding up men daily and taking them out into the jungle – they wouldn't come back. One day, we were picked and away we marched." His eyes went glassy as he went to some far off place she couldn't reach. "I, ah… I was stronger than some, so I got put into a yoke with another bloke, and we hauled logs like oxen. If we didn't go quickly enough, we were flogged with whips." His voice broke, then, and he turned to look at her, tears streaming down his cheeks. "My partner was killed beside me for stumbling and breaking his leg. I carried on, and broke my back, but I didn't stop – because if I showed pain or stopped for a moment, I was going to die."

She reached over and wiped away his tears. "Oh, Lucien," she whispered.

"I have… I have dreams."

"Of course you do," Jean breathed.

"I have nightmares."

"I've heard you in the night," she murmured.

He swallowed hard and blinked. "Jeanie, I… I couldn't bear it if I hurt you because of my nightmares. Or because I drink too much."

"We'll work on the whiskey," Jean said gently. "And, as far as the dreams go, I hardly think you're in a position to control them, sweetheart."

"I don't want to hurt you –"

"Shh," she whispered. "Lucien, is that why you didn't come home soon as the war was finished?"

He laughed, the sound low and bitter. "The guards either left or were murdered," he said quietly. "The men walked back to the camp, forty miles or more. I walked five miles, then crawled two… and was carried the rest of the way. I don't remember much except being told I would probably never walk again. But I knew if I was coming back to Ballarat… if I'd lost everything, or even if I hadn't… if I was coming home again, like hell I was going to be an invalid in a wheelchair for my father to mock and prod for the rest of my life."

"Your father would never," Jean began, but fell silent when Lucien glared at her.

"You know he would, Jean," Lucien said quietly. "Desiree is the one he treats kindly. Not me."

"He loves you," she said softly.

"That may be so, but he expects perfection from me, and he's not likely to get it," Lucien muttered, laughing in a sardonic way. "Especially now. I've already disappointed him so many times."

"You haven't," she said.

"Jean, he refused to come to my wedding because I was marrying 'some Asian'."

"He could have handled that better, yes," she acknowledged gracefully. "But, then again, so could we all." She smiled tightly. "If your wife and daughter had arrived in Ballarat, I… admit I would have stared. But they were your family, and you are my friend, Lucien – and my protector." She pulled him into a tight embrace and held him. "Always my protector," she whispered. "Now, let me be yours."

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"Nonsense," she said gently. "If anyone doesn't deserve anyone around here, I certainly don't deserve you. You're a hero: I'm just a widow who cleans for the doctor and his wife." Jean smiled sadly. "They don't need me, not really: your mum just keeps me on because she doesn't want to do for herself and your father has gotten used to having us around. And… because I haven't got anywhere to go." Her voice broke then, quietly desperate and despairing. "I haven't got anything but this."

"You have me," he said, fiercely wrapping his arms around her just as she was doing to him. "Always, Jeanie. You always have me. For better or worse, till death do us part."

"You can't just promise that," she breathed, her horror at the sanctity of those vows being tarnished only outweighed by her desire that he make them at all.

"But I am promising that," he said.

"Lucien –"

"I take you as my wife, now and forever, and I won't have another," he said firmly. "We can do it legally in Melbourne or here in front of Father Morton if you'd like… but in my heart, you are already my wife, Jean, from the moment you finally said yes." He took a shaky breath. "When you didn't run away from my scars and my nightmares."

"I would never," she exclaimed indignantly. "You aren't your scars, Lucien, nor are you your nightmares."

He kissed the top of her head and held her close as he could. "I want to believe that," he rasped out, "but loving myself isn't easy when I know the monster I've had to become to survive."

"You aren't a monster to me," Jean whispered, caressing his ribcage and sighing into his chest. "You're Lucien Blake – you're broken, and you need fixing, but we all do… and I don't love you any less for it. I wouldn't be proud to call you my husband if I didn't love you." She smiled, just a little. "In these walls, Lucien… and in your room, no one will know. And we can live freely, I think. Yes?"

"Oh yes, please," he rumbled softly with relief.

"Now," she said softly, "why don't we lie down and get some rest?"

"But –" He paused, looking sheepish. "Don't you want to…"

"Lucien, I don't know what your marriage was like, but mine was definitely not about passionate lovemaking every single night," she scoffed. "We would be absolutely exhausted all of the time!" She smiled and gave him a quick kiss. "Now come here and do crawl in and budge up."

She held him close beneath her blankets and made a silent vow to fight his demons as best she could; he needed her, and she needed him. There was no other way but to fight together.

Desiree gave Jean a cup of tea and a sandwich. "Mum probably thinks we don't make enough money to keep ourselves fed," she scoffed.

"She might have said something to that effect," Jean said gently.

"We're going fine," Desiree said. "Aaron has a job at the Courier, and I've got daytime work fixing up antiques at old man Grigsby's. We're getting by."

Jean took a bite of the sandwich – cheese, a bit of beef, and some horseradish – and chewed carefully before swallowing. "And what do you do with Sarah when you're working?" she asked gently.

"The neighbor watches her."

"You know I can do that – and your mum would be thrilled to have her around the house."

"No, she wouldn't," Desiree said.

"Desiree, she just finds it difficult that you told your father all about Aaron and Sarah, but you didn't tell her," Jean said gently. "She thinks that you hate her."

"I don't… hate her. I just… Jean, you didn't see her in France. She's just like everyone else: anti-Semitic. She wouldn't have raised a finger to protect Aaron, even knowing what he meant to me, and even now, she looks down her nose at him every time I bring him to dinner as my husband."

"Give her time," Jean advised. "Rome wasn't built in a day. Besides – Lucien thinks the world of Aaron and he adores Sarah." She fell silent, knowing it was because he had lost his own daughter, and he missed her terribly.

"Lucien is a good man," Desiree said. "And maybe he'll find someone nice to bring home when he feels he's done mourning Mei Lin." She smiled sadly. "Mum's pushing someone on him, dad said."

Jean sighed. "Yes, he's not pleased."

"I always thought you and he were going to figure out that you were perfectly matched, but then you married Christopher and my hopes were dashed," Desiree said. "And now you're wearing the veil."

Jean forced herself to take a sip of tea. "Yes, well, your mother seems to think I would do well with a couple of gentlemen myself," she said with a slight grimace. "I'm meant to have dinner tomorrow night with one of them and it's all I can do not to cry at the thought."

"Maybe it won't be that bad? Maybe he'll be nice – maybe you'll enjoy it," Desiree said quickly, too quickly.

Jean paused and hesitated, then exhaled. "No, you're right. They can't all be disasters."

"Right – and besides, even if your dinner is a total wreck, you can always come home and tell Lucien about it, and he'll probably cringe with you," Desiree said with a chuckle.

Jean frowned. No, he wouldn't cringe: he would hunt the man down and punch his teeth in for daring upset her. So, no, she wouldn't be telling Lucien anything about her dinner date. Nothing at all, except that it was happening. Because it might prevent some bloodshed.

"I should be getting back," Jean said. "I was only supposed to bring the basket and head home. But you should think about letting Sarah come stay with us during the day."

"I'll think about it," Desiree said. "Maybe it would be good for Lucien?"

"I think it would be," Jean said gently. They hadn't talked about children, but he'd had a wistfulness about him whenever he saw a baby, and she'd thought maybe… just maybe, if they were lucky, they might have one of their own. But after Jack's difficult birth, she'd only ever miscarried, so luck didn't seem to be on her side.

"I don't want to make more work for you –"

"Oh, stuff and nonsense," Jean said. "Sarah is a delightful little girl, and I'd love to have her. Desi, please, let me help."

"I said I'll think about it," Desiree sighed. "Don't push me, Jean – please."

"All right," Jean said softly. "But your mum is going to send me back for the basket in a couple days and –"

"I know," Desiree groaned.

Lucien sat across from Kitty Grafton at the Colonist's Club, nursing a whiskey and feeling rather sour about the whole affair. She was attractive and ticked some boxes, yes, but she was definitely not Jean. And the way that she prattled on set his nerves on edge.

He took another sip, trying to be polite and not interrupt her.

"So, enough about the Army – how's life been for you since you left, Lucien?" she asked with a dazzling smile. "I assume you've settled back into Ballarat life and are having a wonderful time."

"Actually, I'm still recovering from the incident that led to my discharge from the Army," he said crisply. "Until the doctors in Melbourne give me a clean bill of health, I'm rather at loose ends."

"Rather at loose ends, rattling around that house waiting for your father to give you something to do while his housekeeper slaves away all day cleaning up after you – oh, I hear things," she said dryly. "Jean Beazley, yes? Is she still all freckles and knock knees and no one can push her around because you'll come running to save her?"

"That's hardly fair," he muttered.

"Isn't it? It's a wonder Christopher Beazley got her up the duff – we all had bets on you being the one to cart her off to the altar." Kitty sipped her wine and sighed. "Look… I know you don't want to be here, and you're only doing it to tell your mother you did it. And that's fine. I'm not even angry about it. But don't lie to me and say there's nothing going on between you and Jean Beazley."

He contemplated his tumbler for a moment, then said, "I lost my wife and daughter in the bombing of Hong Kong. Jean lost her husband in the Solomons. No one should judge us for trying to find a little bit of consolation and comfort in a close friendship – and if they do, more fool them." He looked up at Kitty and added very quietly, "There is nothing going on between us."

She eyed him with doubtful skepticism, then raised her wineglass. "To your wife and daughter," she said softly.

He nearly choked on his next sip of whiskey and tried to count the minutes until it was polite to slip away and go home.

It was late; very late. Lucien didn't like how late it was getting, and Jean should have been home by now. He'd cut his drinks short, and he was sure she'd have cut dinner off at the knees, as well. He was getting worried.

"What's the matter, mon cher?" Genevieve asked from her seat where she was touching up some paint on a small canvas. "You're pacing."

"Jean is still out –"

"Oui, she must be having a wonderful time –"

The front door opened and then closed quietly. "Jean?" Lucien called out.

"Does anyone want a cup of tea before bed?" Jean asked.

It took all the strength in him not to bolt for the door; she sounded so weak and shaken. "No, I think we're all right," he said.

"Did you have a good dinner, Jeanie?" Genevieve inquired.

"I… it was fine," Jean said. "Lucien –"

He immediately came to her side and was struck dumb by what he saw. "Jeanie – what –"

"It's not bad," she assured him. "After dinner, he thought he'd get a little bit more than dessert and, ah, I ended up running home barefoot. After he hit me for biting him. He might have thrown me out of the car and called me a few unrepeatable things."

"You came all the way from the lake barefoot?" he asked.

"Lucien, your mum is going to be so upset with me," she said plaintively.

"Let me get dad," he said softly.

"No, I – I want you," she whispered, clutching his hand, trying to bring him back. "Lucien, I –"

"Did he hurt you?" Lucien asked, trying to ascertain besides her split lip and the dark purple bruise on her mouth and chin if she was injured. "Jean – did he –"

"No, he didn't," she denied, shaking her head hard. "But I need you, Lucien."

"All right," he said very gently, trying to quell his rising anger and panic, "let's go to the surgery and get a better look at you, darling."

He helped her down the corridor, past his stunned parents who were coming out of the sitting room. She didn't even spare them a glance, just leaned more heavily against him. Lucien knew his father was following them and could feel his presence in the examination room as he set up and donned gloves. Jean flinched when he carefully prodded around her chin and lip.

"He hit you?" Lucien said very evenly.

"He kissed me, and I bit him," she said, her voice both sharp and emotionless in the same breath if that were possible. "He kept going on about what fun we were going to have and I didn't want any of it."

"But he hit you?" he repeated.

"Yes," she sighed. "He hit me hard enough I blacked out." She looked down at her hands, where her fingernails were digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood. "He threw me out of the car and drove off."

"Was the car moving when he threw you out?" Lucien asked gently.

"Hmm?"

"You're very disoriented and the whole right side of your body has abrasions and signs of bleeding," he said. "Do you remember if the car was moving when he threw you out, Jeanie?"

"I… don't remember," she said quietly, looking up at him. "I'm sorry –"

"No, don't you dare be sorry," he said. "Can you lie back so I can look at your feet?"

"Oh, my feet," she sighed. "They hurt –"

He examined her feet and winced. "I shouldn't wonder. Jean, I'm going to give you a mild sedative to put you to sleep for a little bit while dad and I work on your feet, all right? And then you should be on your way to good again."

"All right," she said.

Lucien gave her a measure of sedative and he and Thomas got to work, pulling gravel, debris, bits of glass, plants, etc., out of small cuts on the soles of her feet. When they were finished and her feet were bandaged to the ankles, Thomas said, "I certainly hope you're going to find out who did this and beat the holy living hell out of them, Lucien. No one does this to our Mrs. Beazley."

He almost had a pang of bittersweet joy, knowing his father wanted revenge as much as he did, but he tempered it. "And what exactly would that accomplish? He wouldn't learn his lesson any better than he would by being bested by Jean."

Thomas's eyes narrowed. "Don't think I don't know you're in love with her, boy," he snapped. "You've been head over heels for her since you were little kids, chasing each other around the garden. You want to destroy the man who dared lay a hand on her – don't deny it."

"I'm not denying it," Lucien said, "but I'm not stupid enough to go do it."

Jean stirred on the exam table and mumbled, "I want to go to bed now."

"All right," Lucien said softly, "I'll have to help you upstairs. I can't carry you."

"Right," she agreed. "Thank you."

Thomas leaned over and glowered at Lucien. "If you don't handle it, I will."

"Handle what?" Jean said.

"My father thinks violence against your dinner companion is the answer here," Lucien said with a heavy sigh as he helped Jean to her feet. He frowned when she inhaled sharply upon standing.

"Oh, please don't," she mumbled. "My honor isn't worth it."

"It absolutely is," Lucien said, "but I'm not going to gaol for him."

"Good," she whispered. "I need to keep you around." She held tightly onto him as they headed upstairs and he got her ready for bed. As soon as she was tucked in, she was asleep, and he found himself consumed by a mixture of impotent rage and frustration.

Neither of which were good in terms of fixing anything.

And he was not about to go hunting for the deviant who would lay hands on his wife. The man might end up dead in a gutter.

Instead, he went to bed and stared at the ceiling until he finally fell asleep. The night terrors claimed him repeatedly, and he wondered – not for the first time – why he hadn't just died in Singapore.

TBC...