Jean Beazley liked routine. She liked order and perfectly managed expectations and being able to know her role and fill it effectively. It had taken her a long time to learn that and appreciate it. The idea of waking up every day and knowing where she was and what she was doing. It was comforting. Safe. Pleasant.
And so many things had changed in the last months. Doctor Blake's last illness and death and arranging the funeral and finding out she had inherited the house and would likely not ever need to work another day in her life if she were thrifty about things, it was all a tumultuous upset to the routine she had so depended on as the doctor's housekeeper.
But in spite of all those changes, routine returned to her. She built new habits, living on her own and arranging things the way she wanted. Going to the market and bakery for food, planning out meals and cooking them. Laundry once each week, dusting and washing up as needed. She was able to spend a bit more time knitting than she used to, and that was a nice way to spend the evenings after dinner when the dishes were all done. Life was quiet and peaceful. Living alone had that effect, she learned.
Only Jean didn't live alone. Not really. Well, technically she was the only one living in the house. But Lucien Blake was there, trapped in the studio. And he had become part of her routine as well.
It all started that night after they'd had a bit of a disagreement. Not so much disagreement, really, as it was a slippery slope of his unthinking callousness and her being offended. But she was still grieving and confused and a mess of emotions and overly sensitive. Jean got over her fit of pique soon enough and offered an olive branch in the form of stew.
They ate dinner together in the studio. Lucien hadn't eaten anything in fifteen years, and they were both somewhat surprised to find that he could eat and enjoy the food she made.
"This is delicious, Jean, thank you," he had said.
"I'm glad you like it," she answered, pleased at the compliment. "I was worried I over-seasoned it."
"Really? I think it's quite subtle."
And that was how they figured out that yes, Lucien could eat, but just like all his other senses, flavor was dulled for him. Jean's first instinct that he was behind the veil proved quite an apt description; everything was separated from him, muted and muffled as he tried to interact with the mortal world from his existence on some other plane.
After that, Jean started bringing dinner up to Lucien every night. They'd sit and talk and eat and then Jean would take the dishes back down and wash up and sit by the wireless to knit for a little while before going to bed.
Soon, dinner each night turned into dinner and lunch. And breakfast. And then it made sense for her to bring her knitting up to the studio to sit with Lucien instead of by herself in the parlor. And somehow two months passed by, and Jean had a new routine.
"What are you working on?" Lucien asked, breaking their companionable silence.
She smiled to herself, not looking up from the soft blue yarn she was working with. Yesterday, she had finished the hat for young Christopher's Christmas present. The brown yarn was gone, and now she'd begun a new project with the beautiful pale blue she'd gotten from the shop earlier this week. "It'll be a blanket," she told him.
"It's a beautiful color," he complimented. "I'm glad you're doing something big with it. I'll get to watch you work with that yarn for a while yet, I should think."
"Yes," Jean replied. "This one will take a while. I was wondering if I might leave it up here. It's alright for now, but I imagine it'll start to be a bit cumbersome to take back and forth each evening."
Lucien's whole face brightened. What a curious reaction. "No, leave it here, of course. It's your house, after all," he added teasingly.
Jean shook her head in disapproval, but she smiled to temper the sentiment. She'd gotten a letter two days ago from Mr. Jenkins at Hayes and Burton letting her know that the court filings had been submitted and they were waiting for everything to be processed. The court order to put the house into her name should go through any day now.
"Have you given any thought to what you're going to do with the place?" Lucien asked.
She looked up at him and frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well, as I said, it is your house. I know you say it isn't until title is in your name, but that's just a formality. I don't expect you'll feel like its yours until it is in your name, though, will you?"
"No," she conceded.
"So when the court order comes in, it'll be yours. And you can do anything you want with it. Do you know what you'll want to do?"
Jean scoffed, "I'm not selling it, if that's what you're getting at." They'd had that discussion already. Jean had no intention of leaving Ballarat and no intention of moving. Lucien had suggested she might sell and use the money to buy something of her very own without all the ghosts—literal and metaphorical—haunting the rooms. But Jean had no interest in doing that at all.
"So you've said. But do you really want to leave everything as it is? No walls you want to paint? Furniture you want to rearrange? Maybe get a new rug or two to spruce things up?" he prompted.
"The house is fine. Things do not need to be spruced up in the least," Jean answered with an air of annoyance.
"I don't mean to make you peevish," he snapped. He sighed, his tone turning gentler. "I just mean that I hope you'll make changes if you want to."
Jean frowned and looked back down at her knitting. She did not want to make changes to the house. It was Doctor Blake's house. It wasn't her place to make changes. Oh she knew that Lucien was right, that the house was hers now. But even when it was legally and officially all in her name and she owned it herself, Jean doubted she'd really feel like it was really her house. Partly because it was Doctor Blake's house and even though he'd been dead for more than a month, Jean didn't feel like he was really gone. But perhaps even more than that was the fact of Lucien. And he was Doctor Blake's son. If things were the way they should have been, this house should be Lucien's. Really, it was anyway. Jean's name might be on title, but Lucien was trapped in the studio. Jean had gotten cross with him about calling himself a fixture of the house, but he wasn't wrong. He was a part of the house. How could Jean ever feel like it was hers when she knew he was up here?
"Tell me about it," Lucien said suddenly, interrupting the quiet that came from Jean's musings.
She looked up at him again. "Tell you about what?"
"The house. I haven't seen anything outside of this room in about twenty years."
"I thought you said you've been here fifteen years?"
He nodded. "But I went from medical school to the army without spending much time in Ballarat other than a visit before going off to training. I last walked through the front door of this house more than twenty years ago," he explained.
"Oh yes, I see. Well, what do you want to know about?" Jean went back to her knitting as the conversation carried on.
"What's your favorite part of the house?"
Jean smiled. "The sunroom."
He regarded her curiously. "I don't remember the sunroom ever being used for much of anything. Just a little sitting room. Mostly bare."
"That's how it was when I first got here. But your father found out that I like plants, so he suggested I grow something if I wanted to. I've been raising plants in there for years. There's still a little seating area, and I like being out there with all my flowers."
"What sort of flowers?"
Jean felt her smile grow as she described each of her plants to Lucien, what they were called and what they looked like and how she cared for them.
He asked a lot of questions, just as he did for every topic. It was clear to Jean that Lucien didn't have anyone to talk to, and he was a man who enjoyed company, even if he wouldn't admit it. Though perhaps the same could be said for Jean. Perhaps she'd taken to spending all her mealtimes and leisure time up in the studio because she, too, was in need of companionship. It seemed they'd both found it. Companionship and routine.