VIII:
Jean had slept fitfully; between her injuries and Lucien's cries in the night, she had found herself unable to calm enough to rest with any kind of grace. And so it was that when Lucien brought her a tray with toast and some scrambled egg on it, she raised an eyebrow.
"I have done for myself you know," he said softly. "You need to stay off your feet for at least the next day or two. I've got a bit of comfrey I'd like to try on the wounds, if dad doesn't kick up too much of a fuss about 'herbal healing' – I think it will do a world of good."
"Comfrey is what we use on the boys' scrapes," Jean murmured. "Thank you, Lucien –"
"Dad is chomping at the bit to knock a bloke's block off," he warned.
"You aren't?" she asked, a little bit surprised. She studied the egg and toast; the toast was perfectly done, and he had buttered it for her – more liberally than she usually cared for, but she wouldn't quibble – while the egg was much fluffier and softer set than hers usually were, but it was obvious that he could handle himself in the kitchen at least with breakfast.
"Jeanie, if I thought for a moment it would do any good, I would castrate the man," he growled.
"You want to know who he is," she said quietly.
"No, I don't – because I will spend every day looking for a reason to destroy him," Lucien said with a heavy sigh. "Best I don't know at all." He reached over and tucked her hair back behind her ears. "I love you, you know. And the idea of anyone treating you like that makes my blood boil."
"I hit my head on the pavement," she said. "When I fell out of the car. We were moving. I'm all right – I am, Lucien, don't start looking me over again. I'm fine."
"Jeanie… damn it," he sighed. "Eat your breakfast – the egg's probably already cold."
"It's all right," she said. "I was going to do hamsteak for dinner tonight, but I'm not sure you're up to doing the broth –"
"You can guide me," he said with a small smile. "I'll do everything you say and nothing but."
"I'm not sure your father will appreciate your kitchen skills," she said worriedly.
"He'll just have to get used to it – for the next few days, at least." He paused. "Do you need anything for your headache or are you just being brave for the sake of it?"
"It isn't that bad," Jean said, taking a bite of the egg and relaxing a little bit when it proved to be not only edible, but rather tasty indeed. "Lucien… I'm sorry you didn't sleep well last night. It was my fault."
"No," he denied quickly, too quickly.
"Stop," she said, holding up her hand. "I know it was: it's all right for you to say. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry you felt you couldn't come to me to –"
"You needed your rest, not me crowding you and maybe even hurting you again," he said. "I can't control what happens when I have a nightmare, Jean."
"I was so worried all night," she murmured, "hearing you down the corridor, and I couldn't do anything. Jack got up and asked if he should check on you and I told him to try to go back to sleep. I don't think he saw my face, but –"
"He did," Lucien said very quietly. "He asked what happened to you. I told him you would tell him after school, when you felt ready. Christopher, I think, might have guessed something, from the way dad was carrying on."
"I think, for them, that there is a lesson in this," Jean said. "How not to treat a woman."
Lucien snorted a sad laugh. "As if most men require the telling," he said derisively.
"Lucien," she whispered, "I love you – I'm sorry I ever went to dinner with that man. I – I can't…"
"Shh, it's all right," he said softly. "My drink didn't go any better: Kitty Grafton all but accused me of having a torrid love affair with you and dared me to deny it."
"What did you do?"
"Denied it, of course. We aren't having an affair."
"I mean, technically… we are. We aren't married in the eyes of the law or God –"
"We will be soon," he said with a heavy sigh. "As soon as I can arrange everything –"
"Please tell me I didn't just stumble into what I just think I stumbled into," Thomas said from the doorway.
Jean stared at him in mute shock.
Lucien was the first to speak. "Dad, I think we need to –"
"I think you need to explain to me what's been going on in my house," Thomas said. "Under my roof. Between my son and my housekeeper."
Jean felt the reprimand like a slap. It was just as jarring as the blow had been the night before, and it made her push away the remains of her breakfast before she choked and vomited.
"Enough," Lucien said. "You're upsetting Jean."
"Stop," she whispered. "I'm – I'm fine."
"You aren't," he said quietly, reaching for her hand to hold. "Dad… I would prefer you not say anything, but Jean and I are to be married. In our own time."
"Married?" Thomas echoed, his eyes narrowing. "When exactly did you come to this decision? Last night, after she was assaulted?"
"No!" Lucien exploded. "How dare you insinuate that I would take advantage of the situation –"
"Dr. Blake," Jean interrupted quietly, trying to bring the quarrel to a stop, "this isn't Lucien's fault. None of it."
"You tricked him into proposing marriage, then?" Thomas asked.
"Dad, don't –"
"Are you pregnant?" Thomas added.
"No," Jean said sharply.
"Well, there's something redeeming in that."
"For your information, we love each other – very much," Jean said.
"End it," Thomas said, his voice low and dangerous. "Now. Lucien, you'll move your things out into the carriage house immediately. If I could find a way, Mrs. Beazley, to increase your wages to support your endeavor of renting your own home, I would."
Jean's face flushed with shame and she looked at Lucien with distress.
Lucien was red with fury. "You cannot –"
"Lucien Radcliffe Blake, for once in your bloody damn life, you will listen to me," Thomas snapped.
Jean squeezed Lucien's hand as tightly as she could and whispered, "It's all right, Lucien. Just… just do what he says."
All the fight went out of him; he went slack with defeat. "Just tell me why," Lucien said in the most dejected tone she had ever heard from his lips.
Thomas watched them with pity; Jean found it odd that his rage had dissipated so quickly into sadness. "Because love isn't enough, my boy," he said.
Lucien shook off Jean's hand and left the room. Jean stared at Thomas, begging a better explanation, but none was forthcoming. "You will thank me eventually," Thomas said.
"No," Jean said. "I won't."
Lucien nearly jumped out of his skin when a huntsman as big as a salad plate scurried out from under the bed in the carriage house. How exactly was he supposed to make the old place inhabitable? Bloody hell, his father was well and truly punishing him for sleeping with Jean under his nose – and then Lucien had the horrible notion that his father probably had had the odd thought about Jean's shapely bum more than once or twice.
He wasn't happy. Not at all.
And the casual way Jean had just allowed him to sever their relationship as if it had no meaning at all: did she mean to break them apart with the same cruelty? His thoughts turned dark and unrelentingly brooding as he tried his best to make the old carriage house into something vaguely resembling a home.
He felt sick when he went back to the house to make lunch; simple sandwiches for his mother, who was painting, and Jean who was resting. His father was off making rounds, so he wasn't part of the equation, and Lucien didn't feel he could stomach anything.
Genevieve accepted the food with a cheerful wave and sent him on his way. Jean was napping, but he sat at her bedside for a few minutes before he said, "Jean… we need to talk."
She stirred awake and murmured, "Where have you been?"
"Taking my things to the carriage house. Where do you think?"
"I thought – I thought you'd left for good."
"No," he said.
"I wouldn't blame you if you had," she whispered. "I'm so sorry –"
"Why is he doing this?" Lucien asked. "You must know something –"
"I don't," she said very quietly. "I wish I did. But no matter what I said to him, Lucien, I remain yours. Now more than ever. And as soon as we can arrange to get away, we need to be married. I can't… I can't bear this."
He exhaled a soft laugh in relief. "I thought for sure you'd gone off me," Lucien said gently. "You were so quick to turn me away."
"Your father is my employer and he houses me," she reminded him. "Until we're married… I must do as he says, at least in plain sight."
He exhaled and kissed her. "Oh thank god," he said.
"Did you doubt me?" Jean said softly. "Really? You thought me so fickle and changeable?"
"No, but I thought that you might think better of the wisdom of jumping in so quickly and –"
"Lucien, I should have married you when I was nineteen and you offered me the world," she murmured.
He hugged her close and winced when she flinched at the touch. "Oh, Jean," he sighed. "You should look into pressing charges against –"
"It won't do any good," she said very quietly.
"Why not?" Realization dawned then. "Oh, god, Jeanie – he's a policeman, isn't he?"
"Doug Ashby's favorite," she said. She could barely look at him, and he felt rage simmering low in his belly. No wonder she wouldn't tell his father – they had Doug Ashby over for dinner at least once a week.
"Jean, I –"
"No one will believe me over him," she said, shaking her head. "Only you and your father, and that isn't enough. Is it?" She sighed and mumbled, "Your father will be back soon and you can't be here when he comes in."
He exhaled roughly and kissed her gently. "I love you," he whispered. "And nothing – not even my bloody father – is going to change that."
"I know," she assured him. "And I love you, too, Lucien." She smiled sadly. "I wish… there was another way. But right now…"
"Yes," he said forlornly. "Right now, it's an untenable mess."
"Just a small one," she conceded.
In the end, Jean took her annual leave to correspond to the same week as Lucien's doctor's visit to Melbourne. It was no coincidence that she could visit her old auntie in Castlemaine, then duck away to Melbourne on business for a couple of days; she made it clear that it was to do with Christopher's Army affairs, and her auntie never questioned it. The boys grumbled and groaned, but agreed to help with the painting and the repairs as asked while she was gone, and she would resume her assistance upon her return.
So it was upon a sunny, warm Thursday afternoon that she met Lucien and they were married without fuss or fanfare in a civil service with two strangers as witnesses. But she was so very, blissfully happy as they signed the marriage license, knowing that they were legally bound together now and no one could break them apart again.
"Mrs. Blake, would you care to accompany me to my lodgings?" Lucien asked with a small smirk on his lips as they stepped out onto the pavement, arm in arm. "I've booked a lovely room."
"That would be wonderful, Lucien," Jean said over the din of the street. "When is your appointment?"
"Tomorrow morning, ten," he said with a heavy sigh. "When is your train?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, two," she said. "And then we'll be back in Ballarat on the Sunday train."
Lucien's 'lovely room' turned out to be the grandest hotel room Jean had ever seen, and she felt very out of place in her plain yellow cotton traveling dress, basic white gloves, and green hat to match. Her small amount of luggage had already been delivered from the station, and was waiting, but she doubted very much that she would have any need of the tatty nightgown she had stowed away – just in case. It was the middle of the afternoon, but he was looking at her as if she'd hung the moon, and she wanted to be everything for him, because he meant everything to her.
It had been difficult to keep their relationship quiet and discrete, but they had managed it, somehow, over the last few weeks. Jean had become intimately acquainted with his cozy – if dusty and rather neglected – apartment in the carriage house, and she was glad to sneak away to him in the dead of night for a few minutes of quiet respite and to bask in the glow of his attentions. She spurned every offer of dinner or a drink that came from anyone – except from Matthew Lawson, who had only recently been transferred back in from St. Kilda's police force. He was kind and did not look at Jean with a predatory eye, only that of an old friend, who smiled readily and escorted her with the conviviality of someone who knew her well from the days when they were reckless and free. Lucien had been out with Desiree and Aaron, and had raised a brow in surprise to see them drinking at the Club, but when he realized there was nothing to it, he had immediately relaxed and invited them to join their little party – and it had become quite a meeting of the old minds. Aaron had been fascinated to learn things about his darling wife that he had never known before, and Jean had almost slipped back into her old bad habit of too much sherry because she was too comfortable, too happy…
But now, with Lucien, it was different, so different. They were alone, together against the world, and she was drunk with love and hope.
"Mrs. Blake," he said softly, "will you allow me to –"
"Lucien, I think we can help each other," she said softly, removing her gloves and then carefully removing her hatpin and hat. "I should like that very much. You are my husband, after all." She smiled as she said those words; after so long, so very, very long, she could call Lucien Blake her own, even if it was in the privacy of their own little world.
He beamed at her, then, a smile that was unlike any she'd ever seen – not since they were children. Not since she'd brought him her hands cupped full of water and some wriggling tadpoles tickling her skin; such pride and sincere devotion that it made her flush with pleasure to know it was directed squarely at her. "My wife," Lucien said, his voice low and soft, "it would be my honor and great pleasure to help you undress."
Everything else was forgotten – the trials, the tribulations – there was only them, only this sparkling, shining moment.
TBC...