Before Dawn
by ScintillatingTart


As usual, Jean was up before the sun; a childhood of farm work had cured her of the wanton urge to sleep in until the rays of the sun licked her face, and, truth told, the only day she let herself indulge in such fancy was Christmas morning. She sat up and dangled her feet over the edge of her bed, muttering in disgust when she didn't find her slippers immediately in the harsh chill; the heating hadn't kicked over yet and she found herself shivering as she reached for her robe.

She rushed to the bathroom, glad to find it a good sight warmer than her icebox chiller of a bedroom, and took a quick hot shower. Upon drying off and brushing her teeth, she emerged and ran right into a solid mass of – well, someone who shouldn't have been there.

"Mrs. Beazley, what on –"

"Dr. Blake, kindly remove your hands!" Jean squeaked.

For his hands had come to rest, most indelicately, upon the dipping curve of her waist, as if bracing her against their imminent impact.

The man had no boundaries.

He didn't seem to understand the meaning of the word propriety.

And, much as it horrified her to admit it, she didn't want him to move his hands at all. He made her feel very delicate like a porcelain doll in his grasp, and it was startling that she was even considering allowing such a man to continue to put his hands on her person in such a manner.

"Please excuse me, Mrs. Beazley," he said slowly, the words tripping from his lips haltingly, even as he released his hold on her. "Are you all right? I didn't mean to startle you – I needed to use the toilet and –"

"No, I'm fine," Jean said quickly. "I was just – I'll be going down to start breakfast and laundry in a few minutes. Do you have anything you need done?"

It was an escape and they both knew it; he could barely meet her gaze in challenge, and she knew how he regarded her. Just the housekeeper, the last relic of his father's tenure, another line to cut now that the old man was dead and gone these last two days. He had spent the evenings drunk and morose, with only her to tend to him, picking up after his empty bottles and his slurred ranting nightmares, the last vestiges of a household that would soon be gone.

"No," he said quickly.

"Eggs and toast?" she inquired with an arched brow.

Lucien smiled ruefully. "Maybe just the toast."

He was a mess; they both were. But it was early morning and the sun hadn't yet come up. And Jean was feeling softer and sadder than usual, knowing that everything she loved was coming to an end… So she took just the moment and reached for his hand, squeezing it encouragingly.

And she kissed his cheek.

His beard tickled her chin, the scent of his sandalwood crème rich and tangy in her nose, along with the still pungent aroma of whiskey leaking from his pores.

"Toast, then," Jean said.

"Mrs. Beazley –"

She pulled away and shook her head, smiling. "No," was all she said. No to so many questions he could have asked, no to so many things she could have insisted on for herself. Telling herself it had only been a mercy, a small act of kindness, that kiss. She retreated to the safety of her bedroom and locked the door behind her.

Jean carefully put her wanting away and dressed for the day.