Four days went by in a fog. The funeral home took Doctor Blake's body away. The nurse moved out. Jean was left all alone in the house, but she ignored that as much as possible. She hosted the people in town who came to offer condolences and grieve with her. She kept things clean. She fed anyone who came to the door. She slept a few hours each night without dreams, thankfully. And she arranged the funeral.
She had written to Doctor Blake's sister in Melbourne, but she didn't get any response. Dorothy didn't come to the funeral, though nearly all of Ballarat did. There was no one to give a proper eulogy, so Doctor King did it as a longtime colleague. Doug Ashby, the doctor's longtime friend, said a few words as well.
Jean did not cry at all, not believing such things were appropriate in public. But when Doug Ashby said that the last of the Blakes had been taken from Ballarat, it did bring tears to her eyes. Her mind drifted back to the ghosts of Lucien and Genevieve Blake in the studio. She'd not seen Mrs. Blake since the night Doctor Blake died. And Jean had not dared go back to the studio. She'd not seen Lucien Blake anywhere else in the house.
After the graveside, the mourners went to the Colonists' Club where Patrick Tyneman hosted a reception in honor of Doctor Blake. It was very kind of him. People offered more condolences to Jean, but she tried not to get too close to anyone. She wasn't sure if she could have any kind of proper conversation just now.
Agnes Clasby, however, ignored that. She often did ignore the general niceties of life, opting for bluntness over anything else. "Jean, what are you going to do with yourself?" she asked, coming to sit beside the bereaved housekeeper.
"I-I don't know yet," she said truthfully. "I have some savings. I'll find a place for now and figure out what to do next."
"Has Dorothy indicated what she'll do with the house?"
Jean shook her head. "I've written to her, but I got no response. I had hoped she would come for the funeral."
Agnes hummed. "Dorothy was always more concerned with her own life. Once she left Ballarat, she left everyone else behind. She never accepted Genevieve into the family, which was a shame. Thomas and Genevieve were a lovely couple, and we all loved her. And then with poor Lucien, she didn't even come to support her widowed brother or her nephew who'd lost his mother. And after Lucien left, Thomas was left alone. His sister certainly never reached out."
"Everyone's families are different," Jean defended weakly, not particularly liking the way Mrs. Clasby harped on the only living Blake relative.
"Well, as long as she's not doing anything, at least you won't have to worry about moving out of the house," Agnes pointed out.
That fact had not escaped Jean. "I don't want to get too comfortable. But you're right, it is a small mercy that it doesn't look like I'll have to vacate immediately."
Agnes patted Jean's hand in a manner that was equal parts comforting and patronizing.
Eventually, Jean was able to go back home. She was wholly alone, and the crushing weight of it overwhelmed her. All her grief spilled out as she slid down to the floor just inside the front door. Jean sobbed for all she had lost. Not just Doctor Blake, but everything. Everyone she had ever loved was gone. Oh her sons were alive and well, for the most part, but they were not part of her life and had long left her. She had friends. She had the church. But those were superficial connections. People for whom Jean had to put on a polite, happy face and hide her wild heart and temper her sharp voice. She was better off alone than putting on the façade that was expected of her without reprieve.
Jean didn't know how long she remained crumpled on the floor crying. But knowing that no one was going to come in unexpectedly to interrupt her was one small kindness. She didn't have to hide. Not from herself.
But eventually, enough was enough. Jean Beazley would pick herself up and carry on as she always had. She went and started the kettle before going upstairs to change out of her funeral clothes. It was nice to be comfortable while having her cup of tea.
The evening was quiet. Jean made herself a bit of toast, knowing she had to have something but not having the strength or appetite to make a whole meal. After all, she was alone and had no one else to take care of.
She slept heavily that night, her body exhausted from her grief. And still, no dreams visited her. She was grateful.
Jean treated the next morning as she would have any other. She got up, got dressed and make breakfast and ate in the still quiet. And from there, she got to work. Dishes and laundry and dusting and vacuuming. It didn't seem to matter that there was no one to tidy up after. Jean didn't let herself think about it. She wasn't sure what to do if she did.
Midway through the morning, however, she was interrupted by the doorbell. Probably another friend coming to express their condolences. Jean straightened her blouse and smoothed her skirt. A quick glance in the mirror by the door told her that her hair was still pinned and curled in an appropriate enough fashion.
When she opened the door, Jean found a man in a suit standing before her with a briefcase. She'd never seen the man before. "Yes?" she prompted warily.
"Are you Mrs. Jean Beazley?" the man asked.
"I am," Jean confirmed.
"My name is Morton Jenkins. I'm a solicitor from the firm of Hayes and Burton in Melbourne. We were informed of the death of Thomas Blake. My condolences for your loss," the man said in a rather perfunctory manner.
Jean frowned. "Thank you. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Jenkins?"
"I've come to read you Doctor Blake's will, Mrs. Beazley. May I come in?"
"Of course." Jean moved aside and let the lawyer inside. "Can I make some tea?"
"That would be wonderful, thank you. I'm fine to join you in the kitchen, if you don't mind."
She led him through the house and offered him a chair by the kitchen. Jean went about making the tea. Her mind swirled with questions and anxieties, and she wondered where to start. "How was your firm informed of Doctor Blake's death?" she asked, thinking that was as good a place as any to begin.
"Your letter to the doctor's sister, Dorothy, was forwarded on to us. Our firm is managing her affairs at the present. And we've seen to the entire Blake family for more than seventy-five years. One of the partners prepared Doctor Blake's will about ten years ago, and it has been in our vault since its execution."
"I see," Jean replied. She didn't, really. All of this made sense, of course, but she didn't understand what on earth it had to do with her.
The kettle whistled, and Jean fixed the tray with tea things and put out some biscuits she'd made just before the funeral for good measure.
"Here we are," she said, bringing everything to the table where Mr. Jenkins sat. He put a bit of sugar in his tea and took a sip, thanking her.
"I don't want to take too much of your time, Mrs. Beazely, so I'll do the reading now over tea, if you don't mind," he offered.
"Go right ahead," Jean said, taking a sip of her own tea. The heat of it was comforting to her knotted stomach.
Mr. Jenkins opened his briefcase and pulled out an official-looking document. "Right. Here we are," he said. He began to read, "The Last Will and Testament of Thomas Edward Blake. 'I, Thomas Edward Blake, being of sound mind, intend for this to be my last will and testament. I am currently unmarried. My wife, Genevieve Etienne Blake, is deceased. I have no children now living. My son, Lucien Thomas Blake, was captured and put in a prisoner of war camp in 1943. No body or record was recovered, and my son is presumed dead. I have no other living relations with whom I share a close familial bond. For that reason, I hereby disinherit, with full knowledge of the consequences, all living legal heirs, known or unknown to me. I leave all of my property, real and personal, wherever situated, to my valued friend and housekeeper, Jean Mary Beazley. I appoint Mrs. Beazley as executrix of this will and sole beneficiary thereof. The executrix shall have all powers conferred by law. If Mrs. Beazley is unable to serve as executrix, I appoint the law firm of Hayes and Burton to serve as executors. If Mrs. Beazley predeceases me, my estate shall pass to Mrs. Beazley's issue by right of representation. It is my intent that Mrs. Beazley benefit from my estate because of her years of service to me and the friendship and care she has shown to me. It is my wish that she do what she pleases with my house and that she be comfortable and happy for all her days.' Signed by Thomas Edward Blake on the Fourth Day of June, 1951. Witnessed in the offices of Hayes and Burton in Melbourne, Victoria."
Jean was speechless. She stared wide-eyed at Mr. Jenkins, not knowing what to do or even what to think.
Sensing her disbelief, Mr. Jenkins explained, "Mrs. Beazley, you are the sole beneficiary of Doctor Blake's estate. There are some forms for you to fill out that I am happy to file with the court for you, and our offices will take our fee by court order through the probate process. It will take a few months for title to transfer with everything, but it is all yours."
"H-how?" It was all she could manage to say.
"I never met Doctor Blake, myself, but based on this will, I think it's fair to say that he considered you his family and wanted you to benefit. He sounds like a good man."
"He was," Jean said quietly.
Mr. Jenkins took another sip of tea. "I'll leave the forms here for you to review and sign at your convenience and mail to our offices to file. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to call. I'll leave my card for you as well. Thank you for the tea."
The next thing Jean knew, she was alone again. This time, a stack of papers sat on the kitchen table waiting for her. Her kitchen table. In her kitchen. In her house. The place was hers now. Well, after the probate formalities.
It hardly made sense to her mind that Doctor Blake had written his will all the way back in 1951 so that she would inherit everything of his. She had assumed it would go to his sister. But no, he had chosen her.
You are very important, Mrs. Beazley. The words spoken by the ghost of Genevieve Blake echoed in Jean's mind.
Some kind of force came over her, something she could neither understand nor control. But without really meaning to, Jean found herself leaving everything in the kitchen and getting up to walk from the room. She followed her feet to the double doors of the old studio. And then she hesitated.
Dear lord, what was she doing?! But somehow Jean knew that the ghosts she had seen were real, that they were a part of this house. And now this was her house.
Jean took hold of the doorknob and turned it.