Someone's Son, Someone's Daughter

Jean wiped away her tears, not wanting them to fall anymore, as she walked past Matthew's car and down the street. She'd lost her sense upon hearing Lucien say that he'd resigned from the hospital board. He'd spoken with such regret and finality, such pessimism that she didn't associate with him normally. And with every sad word, she could feel life slipping away from her. Everything she'd come to rely on, everything that made her proud to be associated with the Blake name. He was destroying all of it, as though it didn't matter. As though everyone in town didn't need him. As though she didn't need him.

She made her way quickly and quietly to the alley behind the Colonists' Club. It had been a long time since she'd done this, but she had nowhere else to go, and whenever she'd felt that way, she'd come here.

Lorraine Collins welcomed her old friend with open arms. "Jean, I've got a million things going, so how about you take a seat in the pantry and I'll get Cec to bring you a drink?"

Jean graciously accepted the invitation. She felt a bit silly, sitting in the pantry by herself. She should have known Lorraine would be busy. She was the head of the kitchen at the Club now. How far she had come since their days together, children on neighboring farms, best friends bolstering each other when their husbands went off to war. Neither Christopher Beazley nor Andrew Collins had returned home. But Jean had two young boys to care for and Lorraine had no children, so she'd gone straight into town to find herself a job while Jean had struggled with the Beazley farm as long as she could manage. Even now, when both women lived and worked in Ballarat proper, they didn't see each other as often as they might have liked. But whenever one needed the other, like now, they always made the time.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley. Lorraine said you might need a drink and a friendly ear."

Jean smiled at Cec Drury, the old bar manager. His kindness made her tears return.

Cec put down the bottle of sherry and sat beside her. "Oh no, what's this? What's the matter?"

"I think I'll need something stronger than sherry tonight, Cec."

He offered her his handkerchief and hurried back to the bar. Cec returned quickly with a bottle of Irish whiskey and a pair of glasses. "How's this for you?"

Jean nodded, still crying. She took a big gulp of the amber liquid, relishing in the burn it produced in her throat. "He's really done it this time," she said finally.

"Dr. Blake?"

"Lucien," Jean corrected. She knew his title and referred to him as such in company out of respect and propriety, but in her own mind, he was always Lucien. Dr. Blake was his father, and he was gone. "I just can't understand him, Cec."

"He's had a very difficult life."

"So have we all! ButLucien is so good. So kind and brilliant and so very wonderful." Jean took another swig of whiskey. "So very wonderful," she murmured into the glass. She could already feel the alcohol go to her head. So she drank a bit more.

Cec had never seen Jean Beazley drink like this before. She must really be upset. "Lucien Blake is a good man," he agreed, watching Jean carefully.

She scoffed, "He never thinks beyond the end of his nose. He's like a racehorse with blinders, you know? He can't ever see more than what's right in front of him. And I know that's why he asks me for help. And I'm honored to help him. To help him see and understand past what he's gotten himself focused on." Another drink. "You know what he is? Lucien is like a wild horse. He needs to be broken. And I can do that! I know how to handle horses. I broke more than one horse of my own on the farm. But the thing about a wild horse is that once you break it, you've taken away the brilliant spark," she finished sadly. Jean downed the rest of her second glass of whiskey.

She poured another and Cec stood up. "Mrs. Beazley, let me make you some tea," he offered, leaving Jean alone once again.

As she sipped her whiskey, she knew that it was her job, her duty to try harder and help Lucien be better. But as she sat there in the pantry, she couldn't help but be reminded of the very last horse she'd owned before she had to sell Christopher's farm. That horse had been the bravest, smartest, loveliest steed she'd ever had, and when he was broken, he was never more obedient or loyal. That horse—Reginald, Jack had insisted on calling him—had lost what made him special, once he became obedient. Once again, Jean couldn't stop herself from crying.

Lucien was not his father, as Jean was keenly aware. She didn't want to try to turn him into his father. But she just wished he would honor Dr. Blake's legacy, realize how important he was to Ballarat. All she wanted was for Lucien to be the best of himself, the charming, sweet, gentle, intelligent man she'd gotten to know over the months since his father's passing.

The world was starting to go a bit fuzzy. Jean could feel her eyelids droop and her focus wane. She heard Lorraine's voice ask if she was alright, if she could get home. Jean just hummed noncommittally in response.

"Up you get, Mrs. Beazley. We've got a spare room for you upstairs. Come with me," Cec instructed gently, holding her by her arm as she stood up. He led her carefully through the staff corridors of the Club, ensuring no one of importance saw her in this state, stumbling about with a glazed expression.

"He's wonderful just as he is," she slurred. "He's not his father, and he shouldn't be."

"Yes, I know, Mrs. Beazley."

Cec finally got her into the room and helped her lie down on the bed. Jean was still talking nonsense. "I was comfortable with Dr. Blake. Everything was so easy. And nothing is easy with Lucien, but I've never felt so alive." She was nearly passed out, and she whispered, "He's going to leave, and then what do I do? He makes me alive, but why does he make life so bloody difficult?"

After turning out the light, Cec closed the door behind him. It was not his place to speak to Lucien Blake about what concerned his housekeeper. Sometimes he wished it was. Jean was very right; he couldn't see much past the end of his nose. How was Lucien ever going to notice that the woman who lived in his house had learned the truth of him and because of it, rather than in spite of it, had come to love him?