This chapter jumps just over a year.
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It had been a hard decision to make and an even harder process to go through. Obtaining a divorce from the civil part of her marriage to Christopher had been relatively straightforward. Dr Blake had taken her to see his lawyer and they had put the case to him.
"Christopher left me three months before our daughter was born," she sat in the office with said daughter on her knee, chewing a teething ring, "he had no intentions of staying. He resented being made to marry me, by his father, but he didn't want his grandchild to grow labelled a ...yes, well," she cleared her throat, "but it was doomed from the start. I tried, really. Cooked his meals, did his laundry, kept the cottage clean, accepted his attentions, but he went out of an evening, took the housekeeping ..."
Dr Blake had already told him what he knew but he had to hear it from the wronged wife himself. From what he could see the boy had been an idiot, she had agreed she should have been stronger, but such things can't be helped, when faced with a good looking, persuasive boy. Now she sat here, having made a life for herself, which the lawyer thought was remarkably brave and resilient of her, but it was time to move on. She had no suitors, there was no man waiting in the wings to take her as his bride, but that didn't mean she had to stay tied to Christopher.
"How long has he been gone, Mrs Beazley?" he asked.
"Fourteen months," Jean replied, "I haven't heard from his since that night he walked out, and we have tried to find him."
"What steps have you taken?"
"Well, his father tried the military, Dr Blake has asked people he knows in Melbourne, because that's where he seemed to be headed, even put an advertisement in the paper."
"And?"
"Nothing," she bit her lip.
"Friends?"
"They keep their eyes out, just in case," she sniffed, "but he won't come back to Ballarat, they are all a bit protective of me and Mary."
"I see," he smiled.
So the wheels were set turning, with no Christopher to argue his case there was little to be done but grant the divorce. When asked what she would do if he reappeared, she had simply said she would still go ahead with the petition, though it be against her church's teachings.
"If he really had wanted to make a go of it he would have written, or phoned, but he didn't so I can only draw one conclusion."
"Quite."
Persuading the church to grant her an annulment was not so easy. The priest, Father Morton, still relatively young and idealistic, insisted on Jean writing down all that had happened in her marriage, including the reasons for marrying Christopher.
It took her nearly a week, and much scrunching up of paper. She shed many tears on Dr Blake's shoulder, the only time he touched her apart from patting her arm occasionally, and took out her frustration on her gardening. Digging shrubs up and replanting them, and adding new plants to the borders. Dr Blake didn't mind a bit, when she had finished the gardens looked better than they had for years. Finally she presented her petition and waited to hear from whoever would pronounce on her case.
The phone rang, disturbing the afternoon quiet. Jean was tending to her begonias, the only houseplant she could keep going. The garden plants were easier and she had a thriving vegetable garden, but anything in the house or sunroom usually died, except the begonias. Mary was down for a nap and the doctor was on hospital rounds.
"Dr Blake's surgery," she wiped her hands on her apron. It was Father Morton.
"Mrs Beazley," he confirmed, "could you come to the house tomorrow, the Bishop wants to talk to you, about your annulment."
"Oh, er yes," she sat down, "I suppose so," she wondered if Dr Blake would mind, "what time?"
"Ten thirty."
Jean knew that ten thirty meant just that, "I will have to bring Mary with me," she told him, "I hope that's alright."
"I suppose so," he sighed, small children were not his province, except to baptise them. He'd baptised Mary, at the doctor's insistence.
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"Jean is a member of the church, would you deny her this if her husband was deceased?"
"Er well, no," Father Morton had relented, there were many reasons, he supposed, for a spouse to be absent from his, or her, child's baptism.
"Good," Thomas had slapped his hands on his knees, "we shall see you in church, I am Mary's godfather."
Godmothers had been harder to choose, not because Jean was trying not to offend people, but because she had few female friends she felt she could ask. In the end she had asked Ruth, who, true to her word, had 'popped' round to see her whenever she was in Ballarat. She left it at that.
Mary had been as well behaved as any baby having cool water trailed over her head, but had settled in her mother's arms.
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Jean would tell Thomas at dinner, perhaps he would accompany her, though, if she was to do some shopping before hand, perhaps not. Walking round Ballarat together, with a baby in a pram, who knew what kind of gossip that would start?
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"Shall I meet you there, Jean?" he asked, when she told him of the phone call, "it is, of course, entirely up to you, I'm sure you can fight your own battles with the bishop."
"It's very kind of you doctor," she was relieved at his suggestion, "I was going to combine it with putting in orders at the butchers and greengrocers, first."
"Excellent," he grinned, "nothing like being organised."
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Jean made sure she was looking respectable, for the bishop. Over the months she had spent working for Dr Blake she had put her needlework skills to good use, and no longer looked like the poor farm girl she had been. Now she had appropriate dresses and skirt and blouses for every occasion, including funerals and serious occasions! She chose a blue and white polka dot dress with slightly puffed short sleeves, a white round collar, fitted to her slim waist and mid calf length flared skirt. She teamed it with white gloves and a hat with a neat brim and matching trim. She dressed Mary in a blue sailor dress pleated from the shoulders in navy blue, the collar edged in white, as were the short sleeves and a line of white two inches above the hem. White socks and her first pair of shoes, also white, a blue ribbon in her hair, she looked the picture of innocent babyhood.
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She placed her orders at the greengrocers and butchers and headed towards the priest's house, trying to look unconcerned, as if she was out for a walk with her baby. Nell Clasby stopped her and admired Mary.
"She's growing fast, Jean," she smiled and chucked the baby under her chin. Mary giggled obligingly.
"She is, Miss Clasby," Jean smiled, Nell and Agnes Clasby had been so good to her, always a friendly word and a smile or a pat on the cheek for Mary, "but then she eats just about everything I put in front of her."
"Good, nice to hear," Miss Clasby laughed. "Now, where are we heading today? the Botanical Gardens?"
"Er, no, I have to see the bishop," Jean drew in a long breath.
"What on earth do you need to see that dried up old prune for, dear girl?" she huffed, obviously he had upset Miss Clasby in the past, Jean thought.
"I, um," she blushed, "about the annulment of my marriage," she lowered her voice.
"Oh my dear, I'm sorry," Nell gasped, "I shouldn't be so nosy."
"It's alright, it's bound to come out," Jean sighed resigned. "I had to write everything down, now I have to see if the bishop will agree."
"If he doesn't?" Nell fell into step with her.
"I have a civil divorce, so, legally I am free to marry again, just not in the church," Jean shrugged her shoulders.
"I shall have words with that bishop," Nell huffed, "he's a proper stuffed shirt, always was, should be pickled."
By the time they reached the gate Jean was giggling at Nell's suggestions for preserving the bishop, Jean didn't dare ask what he had done to upset her, but it had had a profound effect on her.
"Thank you, Miss Clasby," Jean grinned, "I see Dr Blake is waiting for me, I expect he'll give the bishop a piece of his mind too."
"Good luck, my dear," Miss Clasby whispered and patted her arm as she turned and walked away.
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Jean suppressed a smile when she saw the bishop, dried up old prune, Nell had called him. He was a small man made smaller by the black of his cassock and the large cross hanging round his neck. He didn't smile when she entered with the doctor, Mary on her hip. Dr Blake put his hand in the small of her back, gently urging her forward and reminding her he was there to support her.
"Mrs Beazley, doctor," Father Morton stood up and waved at two chairs, "please take a seat."
Jean sat down and settled Mary on her lap, giving her a string of beads to play with. Dr Blake sat next to her, the bishop hummed.
"Well, Mrs Beazley," the bishop started, "you wish to have your marriage annulled?"
"Yes, Your Excellency," she sat straight, she was not going to be cowed by him.
"You would deprive your daughter of a father?"
"He did that, sir, when he walked out before she was born," Jean reminded him, of her testimony, "and never sent word of where he was or what he was doing."
"What did you do to make him leave?"
"That's right, make it my fault," she snapped back, "I washed and cleaned for him, never refused him, even if he was drunk, or smelt of another woman's perfume, I kept his house, was frugal when I shopped, tended his bruises from his fights ..."
Dr Blake kept his smile to himself, he liked this Jean, as long as it wasn't aimed at him, but it was good she was standing up for herself, and, yes, why was it always the woman's fault? The trouble with Catholic priests was they weren't married, so what would they know?
Mary looked up at her, wide eyed at her mother's sharp tone, "mama?"
"It's alright, sweetie," she soothed, "mama's just a bit cross." She tightened her arm around her a little, and kissed her curls.
The bishop gave a derisory sniff. Ordinarily this type of thing would be dealt with in his office in Melbourne with a panel of other senior members of the church. They had deliberated together and he was seeing Father Morton on another matter, so it was convenient to see the woman here.
"I see," he muttered, "well, I suppose we'd better grant the annulment, you are not intending to marry again?"
"Not at the moment," she huffed, "I have no one in mind."
"Right," he handed her an envelope, one of the long type that usually held legal documents, "you are free from him, now, the marriage never existed, Defect of Contract, he never intended to enter into a lifelong commitment."
"Thank you," Jean reached over for the envelope and handed it to Dr Blake, who tucked it into his inside pocket. "I admit we should never have married, would never have married if circumstances had been different, but, I did intend to stand by my vows." She knew if she had done, if Christopher had stayed she would have been miserable to the end of her days, but that would have been the penance for becoming pregnant out of wedlock.
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"Thank you, Dr Blake," she put his dinner on the table, his favourite rabbit casserole, with cream in the sauce, "for being there, today."
"Jean, there are times I despair of our church, their constant belief that it is always the woman that is wrong," he poured her a glass of white wine, "but, there again, it is run by single men." He grinned.
"You are a wicked man, Thomas Blake," she teased, a weight having been lifted off her shoulders. True Ballarat would know she was a divorced woman, which carried its own shame, though not for her, for her it was a release from a dark shadow that was always in the background. She would be talked about, but it would die down, eventually. She wouldn't be the only divorcee in town.
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Jean knew she was being watched, by the ladies in Ballarat, as she went about her shopping, or walking in the Botanic gardens with Mary. There were whispers, about her being a divorced mother. She knew they were looking to see if she was particularly close to any of the single men in the town. The single men that cared about her, were old friends, would speak, it would be rude not to but, Matthew Lawson in his police constable's uniform could only be seen touching his cap and wishing her good day, Bill Hobart would nod as he passed her, on duty. Patrick Tyneman would stare at her back, letting his eyes rove down to her bottom, before being dragged away by his mother, or his father, as they hissed to keep away from women like her. Patrick liked Jean, most of his age group did. Oh yes, she was slim and pretty, but most of them knew, accepted that she was unlikely to make the same mistake again. It was their parents' generation that tutted about her, saw her as easy. Some couldn't understand why the Clasby ladies were so friendly with her, there again, Agnes had been to Russia ... and who knew what she had done there!
Jean wasn't worried, really, she had other things to concern her.
Dr Blake was now having a Melbourne newspaper delivered, with more international news in it. He was even more worried about Lucien, whose letters were becoming few and far between from Singapore.
In order to support the doctor she had listened as he explained about the rise of certain factions in Europe, how he didn't trust the German chancellor, Herr Hitler, his totalitarian state.
"War is on its way, Jean," he sighed one evening, "mark my words."
"What about this base in Singapore?" she asked, "will your son be affected?"
"I expect so, Japan is an ambitious empire," he twirled his whisky glass in his hand, staring into the amber liquid. "That aside, he is a member of the army, he will have to go wherever they want him to."
"What do his letters say?"
"Not much, I expect there is only so much he is allowed to put in them, now," he looked over at her and she could see the tears in his eyes, "he is well, that he does say, there are endless rounds of social occasions, trying to keep the Malays on side, I suppose. He sounds happy, so I suppose I should be grateful for that."
Jean knew he would rather Lucien had come home to join the practice, but now it looked like that was unlikely to happen, for some considerable time. The last war hadn't affected her or her parents, really. She hadn't lost brothers or uncles to it, and she had only been five years old when it ended. The war to end all wars; now it seemed that wasn't true.
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Matthew caught up with Jean as she came out of the florists one morning.
"Jean," he stood at the far end of the pram, not wanting to be seen apparently with her and compromise her position, "Jean, glad I've seen you. I'm moving, to Melbourne."
"Melbourne?" she raised her eyebrows.
"Yeah, St Kilda," he shoved his hands in his pockets, "experience, city policing, may get a promotion out of it, one day."
"Oh, well, good luck then, Matthew," she held out her hand, though she would have rather kissed his cheek.
"If you have any trouble, Bill'll be around," he smiled, "he says he's happy here, he'll take promotion if it comes."
"Call and say goodbye to the doctor," she whispered, "he's in this afternoon, very light surgery."
"Right, ok, will do," he stuttered, "suppose I'd better let him know he's losing a patient."
"He likes you, Matthew, and you were Lucien's friend, at school."
"Yeah," Matthew nodded and resumed patrol along the street.
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Jean left Matthew and the doctor in the living room, while she went to lift Mary from her nap. She was going to miss him, he had looked out for her since before she caught with Mary, which was why Christopher had suggested he might be the baby's father. But he had always been a friend, just that, someone she could rely on if the going got tough. Things were changing, even in Ballarat, and she and Dr Blake would have to change with them, she supposed.
Mary was standing holding the sides of the cot, waiting patiently for her mama. She held out her arms for her and giggled when she was swung high and round into her mother's arms.
"Come on Sunny," she kissed her cheek, "let's make you comfortable and you can go and say hello to Uncle Matthew."
She took the only slightly damp nappy off her and pointed her toward the bathroom. Sunny toddled off to find her potty, Jean was pleased with her progress in this area, it made life easier for both of them.
"Mama, done," the little tot called, and waited for Jean to go and wipe her down and pull her little pants up.
"You are such a clever little girl, Sunny," she emptied and cleaned the potty, washed her and the child's hands, and they went downstairs to see 'doc doc' which is what she called Dr Blake, an approximation of 'doctor'. She had never heard the word 'daddy' or 'dada' in the context of a man close to her, so had never embarrassed Jean by applying it to Thomas.
While Sunny could crawl up the stairs, Jean preferred to carry her down and set her on the floor at the bottom. Sunny toddled into the living room straight up to the doctor, arms wide for a hug.
"Hello, poppet," he smiled, "nice nap?"
"Nap," she nodded and took the biscuit he offered.
Matthew watched him interact with her, and the sadness in his eyes that implied he missed Lucien, and his childhood, more than he would admit. Thomas had told Matthew what Lucien was doing, that he was in Singapore and how worried he was.
"I'm just glad we can write," he sighed, "that we are no longer quite so much at loggerheads. I can't change the past, Matthew, what I did. I thought it was for the best, maybe I was wrong, but I am proud of the man he has become, and maybe, just maybe, one day he will come home."
"I'm sure he will, doc," Matthew agreed, "when he's ready."
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Singapore:
Captain Lucien Blake was, as usual, surrounded by women, he seemed to charm all the fairer sex near and not so near, him. He flattered them, danced with them and made sure they had a drink when they weren't dancing. He could flirt with them in French, which had them giggling, and made every woman feel she was his. He was careful who he slept with, avoiding daughters, and wives, of more senior officers, confining such attentions to sisters of said officers, or those of junior officers, the odd chambermaid or female relations of embassy staff. He made sure there would be no offspring of such liaisons and always left them satisfied, wanting more but not in a position to have a male relative call him out. This particular evening he spied a woman, small, Chinese, though dressed in Western style. She was pretty, he thought, didn't appear to be with anyone in particular, apart from a much older man, possibly her father. She didn't have a drink in her hand, what a perfect way to affect an introduction.
He lifted a martini from a tray and sauntered over to her. He bowed, respectfully,
"You appear to be without a drink, Miss, may I?" he offered the glass and smiled. Close up he saw she had dark, almost black eyes, her hair, glossy and black, was elegantly styled, she wore a full length gown of gold and burgundy satin. The inset of gold on the bodice, from the shoulders, over her breasts and to a point at her waist, gave an illusion of height, as it peeped between the two burgundy panels that were set at the sides. She was not tall, most Chinese women, Lucien had come to know were small, this one was dainty.
She looked at him from under long dark lashes and took the offered drink.
"Thank you, Captain ..." she raised an eyebrow.
"Blake, Lucien Blake, Miss?"
"Chen, Mei Lin," she smiled, "martini, you guessed well, Captain Blake."
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It wasn't long before Lucien and Mei Lin were widely regarded to be 'an item'. Nobody thought anything of it, her father was happy to entertain the handsome Australian Captain and the top brass could only see positive things. Mr Chen was an important man in Singapore, with his import business, his ways of dealing with government to the advantage of the British forces there. It was all to the good if Captain Blake could keep him sweet.
Mr Chen was also pleased that his daughter should ally herself to one such as the Captain. He was cultured, spoke French, had mastered Mandarin, and, if his plan went the way he wanted it to, Mei Lin, would be safe from the Japanese who were, he felt, encroaching on his world just a little too much. Oh yes, Mr Chen was very hopeful.
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It was obvious to Lucien, when he first took Mei Lin to bed, that he wasn't her first. He didn't much care who that person was, he wasn't really hoping for a shy retiring virgin, and she showed him much in bed. They were discreet, it wouldn't do for it to be widely known that they were more than 'courting'. Mei Lin was used to a certain standard of living and she was sure Lucien could provide this for her. She knew his father had a doctor's practice in his hometown, that could be lucrative, and socially quite good, but, top rank in the army would be preferable.
When he proposed, he didn't promise her the moon, or a small practice in Australia, but the very best he could offer was to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed. He didn't think his father would be too happy, marrying out of his race, but, while they had built bridges in their relationship, Lucien had no intention of returning to such a small life as he saw it.
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The wedding was small, well as small as Mr Chen would allow. Lucien chose his best friend, Captain Derek Alderton to be his best man. Mei Lin had tried to persuade him to chose someone else but on this one thing he was not to be turned. He and Derek were like brothers, at the time, and he couldn't get married without him.
"What have you got against him, darling?" he licked her earlobe, nuzzling into her hair.
"Nothing, really, he's perfectly gentlemanly," she bit her lip against the giggle, "I suppose, as he is your best friend ..."
She wasn't going to get anywhere on the subject and now, with his hands skilfully removing her dress, she had other things to do!
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Mei Lin excused herself from her new husband, saying she was just going to powder her nose. Lucien was deep in conversation with her father, on the merits of Chinese medicine, which Lucien had become very interested in. She stood on the balcony of the embassy, breathing in the cooler air. It was stifling in the Reception and although her dress was light silk and lace she was still too warm.
"So, the blushing bride," a voice startled her.
"Derek," she turned and gave a little smile, "I just needed some fresh air."
"Lucien should be keeping an eye on you," he murmured, far too close for a best friend of the groom.
"He is talking to my father," she dipped her head, "but his best man is here."
"Indeed I am, Mei Lin," he moved closer and pulled the door closed and the curtain round them. "So, Mei Lin Blake," he cupped her face with his hand and bent down to place a light kiss on her lips. "I take it he doesn't know."
"No," she breathed, "and he won't." She parted her lips and allowed him to deepen the kiss, "unless you tell him."
He pushed her against the wall and hitched her dress up, finding the top of her stockings and the hem of her cami-knickers. He slipped his fingers inside, she wasn't quite ready, but she would be, soon enough. She lifted her leg round his waist, quite high for her, given she was quite a bit shorter than both men, and he lifted her up with one hand. She was now wet and ready for him.
"God, Derek, please," she grunted into his shoulder, and, hoping he could hold her moved her hands down to undo the buttons on his trousers and free his hardness from his shorts. He pushed her knickers aside and thrust on up into her, grunting with every stroke.
"Hope you remembered your diaphragm," he grunted as she arched and he spilled his seed into her.
"Of course I did," she hit his shoulder, "a girl must always be prepared. Anyway, I don't want children, just yet."
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"Hello, darling," Lucien turned to see her returned to him, "alright?"
"Yes, thank you," she smiled and touched his hand, "it was nice and cool out there."
To look at her he would never guess she had just had sex with his best man, Lucien had a lot to learn.
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Jean sorted the post, as she did every day. There was one from her in laws, they kept in touch more than her parents did. Her mother had still not shed the shame of having her daughter firstly have to get married, then be deserted and then, horror of horrors had divorced the absent husband. Mrs Randall couldn't bring herself to even talk about her daughter, see her, had even changed to another doctor in town. Jean's father was a little more 'relaxed'.
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"Seriously, love," he looked at her across the kitchen table, "she has made a life, for herself and Mary, the doctor thinks very highly of her ..."
"How do you know?" she glared at him.
"I saw him, in town," Mr Randall pushed a forkful of stew into his mouth, "he just happened to mention that Jeannie is such a help, and a lovely girl."
"Huh!" she huffed back, "made her bed ..."
"I know," he sighed, Jean was their only child and although she had fallen wrong, he still loved her, "but, love," he reached across for her hand, "she is our daughter."
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There was a letter from Singapore, from Lucien, it had to be. Even Jean had begun to look forward to these letters. They may not be exciting to the doctor but they were a window on another part of the world, for her. Dr Blake included her in looking at the letters, telling her what his son was up to and how he felt about it. What Jean didn't realise was that her understanding of both father and son, drawn from her own life, calmed him and helped him see Lucien as a man, a gifted doctor and a force for good in the world.
The letter seemed to have something other than the usual airmail paper, thin and light, perhaps a card, for Christmas, it was fast approaching. Mary's second festive season. She didn't really remember the first, though she played with the toys Matthew and Bill had sent, the doctor had given her, and the Clasby ladies had kindly sent.
She left the post in the study and went to open the one from Mr and Mrs Beazley. She had written to them as soon as she had been granted the annulment, to say how sorry she was but that she had to move on with her life. She also told them she bore Christopher no ill will, and hoped that, wherever he was, he was happy.
"Dear Jean," Mrs Beazley had written,
"I'm so glad you wrote to tell us of your decision. Do I blame you? No. We are still trying to find Christopher, but he seems to have fallen off the edge of the globe. We both have so many regrets, but we are still so glad you came into our lives. He is the one who is missing out.
Thank you for the last photograph of Mary, she is so like you.
Best wishes from both of us,
Esther Beazley."
Jean was happy to get letters from her mother in law, she was always the voice of reason, and so generous with the little cardigans for Mary.
Jean had a card to send to them, with yet another picture of Mary. Thank goodness Dr Blake had so kindly given her a camera for Christmas last year. She had, at first, been embarrassed at such an extravagant gift.
"Nonsense, Jean," he had smiled, "you do an awful lot for me, and others, and you have a child, you need to record all her little steps." To prove it he had found a few of Lucien as a baby and she had told him he was beautiful, all blond curls and blue eyes. Well, the colours he had to tell her, but she could see a face full of mischief and cheek.
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Jean was just finishing preparing lunch when Dr Blake shouted and came scurrying through.
"Jean! It's Lucien!" he stopped abruptly before he tripped over Mary, who was toddling round the kitchen. "He's got married!"
"Married? Good heavens!" she put the plates on the table, "when?"
"Six weeks ago, she's ... Jean ... she's Chinese!"
Jean pulled out a chair and sat him down, handed him a glass of water and waited for him to get his breath.
"He says he loves her," he gasped, and thrust the letter at her.
"Well," she mused, "that's a surprise."
"Jean," Thomas could barely speak, a Chinese daughter in law, how could he? "I don't understand, why didn't he tell me he was courting, ask my view."
"Thomas," she sat down, not quite sure how to handle this. Obviously Thomas Blake didn't like the idea of this woman marrying his son.
"Chinese," he whispered, shaking his head, "why?"
"He says he loves her," Jean reminded him, scanning over the letter and photograph, "she is quite pretty," she hummed.
"Hm?"
"Have you looked at the photograph?"
"What?"
"Have you seen the way she looks at him?" she passed the photograph to him, "she loves him."
He took the picture and gazed at it. Lucien, tall and proud in full uniform, on his arm, a small woman, dark hair pulled into a complicated design to the side and back of her head, a pretty white dress, long sleeved, sweetheart neckline, fitted to the waist, just above the ankle at the front falling to a train at the back. She wore no veil, but a simple clip in her hair and she was gazing up at him with pure adoration.
"Dr Blake," she sighed, "Lucien has married for love, I believe you did the same ..."
"Yes, but my wife, Genevieve, was European, not ... not an Oriental."
"Are you telling me," she felt affronted on the woman's behalf, "that because he has chosen a Chinese woman for his wife ..."
He turned and looked at her and suddenly realised what he was doing - exactly what his family had done when he had married a Frenchwoman.
"Jean, I'm sorry, it's just such a shock," he lifted Mary from the floor where she was currently pulling at his socks, "I never thought he would marry someone so ... so ..."
"Different?"
"Yes." He heaved a big sigh.
"He has married for love, apparently," Jean repeated, "not because he has got her pregnant, not to 'do the right thing' but because he wants to. I know it's difficult, to accept a marriage like this but if you don't then ... you could lose him again ...and any potential grandchildren."
"I hope Ballarat is ready for them," he muttered, stroking the chestnut brown curls of Mary, sitting happily on his knee.
"Well," she stood up and went to get the rest of the meal, from the side, "we shall have to be there for him, as you ... and Matthew and Bill have been for me."
They continued to talk about Lucien and his new wife, and eventually Jean persuaded Thomas that there was nothing he could do about it, that the best thing he could do was send his congratulations in a Christmas card, wish them well and say he hoped to meet her when Lucien's duties with the army allowed. He admitted he wasn't sure about the last bit but Jean assured him that by the time that happened he would have got used to the idea.