IV:

There was leftover custard in the refrigerator: Jean always made too much and she always snuck down in the middle of the night for a shortbread finger and a dollop of vanilla custard, her figure be damned. She was just about to dish it up in the dim light when Lucien slurred, "I don't suppose you have enough to share." She nearly dropped the bowl.

"Don't do that!" Jean yelped into the darkness, barely able to make him out as a shadow at the table. "What on earth do you think you're doing, skulking in the dark?"

"Staying out of your way," he muttered. "Letting you and Mrs. Martin enjoy yourselves." He laughed. "She's in love with you, you know."

Jean scowled at him and slopped some custard angrily into a bowl for him. "I do know," she said tightly.

"But you don't love her."

"Don't presume to know how I feel," she said, her voice deathly low.

He poured a measure of whiskey from the bottle into the tumbler on the table she could barely see in the dark, and shoved it roughly toward her. "You feel empty," he said. "It's like looking in a mirror, Mrs. Beazley. I don't have to presume: I know. Drink up." He grabbed the bottle and took a long swig like a heathen, and she didn't hide her disgust.

"Why on earth do you do this to yourself?" she asked, settling at the table with the bowls of custard and dessert spoons at the ready. "The hangovers must be awful."

"The alternative is to feel the gaping hole of the abyss taking you over every waking moment," Lucien replied. "I would much rather drink and pretend to hold a conversation."

"If we're going to have a conversation, we need to talk about last night," she said.

He sighed and took another drink from the bottle. "I am honestly shocked that you didn't walk out and leave this morning," he admitted.

"I was just as culpable as you," Jean murmured, taking a bite of her biscuit and chewing.

"Jean – Mrs. Beazley –"

"Lucien," she said softly, "I didn't exactly tell you to stop. I, ah, distinctly remember telling you not to stop several times. And you are… quite obliging."

"You don't want me," he said gruffly. "You want her. And you should have her, Jean, if she's what will make you happy again. That's the thing no one tells you about loss: you forget what it's like to find that bright, shiny happiness again because you're so stuck in your bloody misery. So if you find it, if you find what's going to make you happy… you'd better grab on tight with both hands and never let go." He shook his head, grabbed the tumbler, and drained its contents with one gulp. "I'm not staying in Ballarat, Mrs. Beazley."

"I didn't think you were," she said softly.

"Neither should you," he insisted.

She finished eating her custard and murmured, "Do you know why I didn't go when Anna left?"

"Your sons?"

"No," Jean said, "though… they were a consideration. No, it was because I couldn't understand how someone could just pick up sticks and leave everything behind and start over again. I still don't. The very idea scares me to the marrow of my bones."

"Do you love her enough to try?"

She stood up and walked around the table. She plucked the bottle out of his hand, bent over and kissed him tenderly, hating the taste of the whiskey on him, but knowing that she had made her choice. "Whether or not I love someone enough to try doesn't matter," Jean whispered. "The best safety lies in fear, doctor."

He would leave, yes, but she would stay. Ballarat was her home; she couldn't just walk away. She loved Anna, yes – maddeningly, to the point of distraction, even. But she could not commit herself to going all the way to Queensland on a whim, only to find herself in worse circumstances than before.

"You'll make some bloke very happy one day," Lucien said.

"Maybe," Jean replied very quietly, wishing for a heartbeat that she could reform him from the wild man who lurked in the shadows and drank himself stupid into something far more pleasing and palatable to her senses. He was worth saving, worth reaching out and grabbing tight with both hands and holding on for dear life. But he would fight her every step of the way, and she didn't have the energy to begin such a battle. Not now.

She slipped away to bed to listen to the sounds of the house as sleep eluded her yet again.

I knew you weren't going to come. I just wish you could have told me yourself.

The note was full of recrimination and despair, and Jean very nearly went tearing off to the train station with empty promises and platitudes stuck in her throat. But she stopped herself and sat down on the settee, head in her hands, heart in her mouth, all the pain of a broken heart tearing at her gut but none of the right to scream her despair to the world. Because what right did she have to mourn the love of another woman? She had committed such a sin that even the church would turn its back on her in outrage, and what was her recourse?

Misery, hopelessness, and despair.

The door slammed open and Lucien came through. "Jean – I've got news," he called out. "One of the district nurses is looking for a place to stay for the next couple of weeks while they're rehabbing the cottages at the hospital grounds and I've said she's welcome to stay with us if you're amenable. And apparently, I'm sitting in on a board meeting in dad's place temporarily."

"Nell Clasby called about getting blood pressure medication, but I referred her to Dr. King," Jean said.

Lucien popped his head into the sitting room. "Why would you do a thing like that?" he asked, aghast.

"You said not three days ago that you intended to leave," she reminded him.

"Well…" He looked annoyed. "I was intoxicated. You shouldn't listen to me when I'm intoxicated."

"So… I shouldn't listen to you most of the time?" she challenged.

"Fine, I was drunk."

She sighed. "So I should call Nell back?"

"Please."

"And your nurse friend can stay."

He smiled then, and it lit up his whole face. "Good," he said.

Jean smiled weakly back at him, tiredly, sadly, because she didn't know how long this fragile truce would last between them. She had no idea how long it would be before the earth tilted on its axis again, and she couldn't hold tight any longer.

But until then, she would hold on for him: he was worth fighting for.

TBC...