Jean was surprised but touched that Christopher's parents should choose to attend the small mass for her parents. Thomas and Lucien had insisted and the girls said they would be there for her. It was a small affair, just the mass and a committal at the graveside. Jean had not even had a viewing, on Lucien's suggestion.
"Your father doesn't look his best, Jean," he smiled gently, "perhaps it's best you remember him the way he was."
She hadn't slept particularly well in the ten days it took to arrange the funeral. She hadn't been able to afford much and when Lucien and Thomas managed to get her to admit this they had insisted they loan her the money, they could take it back slowly by paying her a little less.
"It makes sense, Jean," Thomas had taken her aside, "you mustn't use all your savings, you've worked hard for them. When the bank has sorted out the estate and you have decided what you want to do with the farm you will be able to deal with it better."
"I need to go up there," she sighed, not really wanting to, "clear it out, see if either made a will ..."
"As far as I am aware you are the only living relative, apart from your aunt, so everything should come to you, unless your parents decided to cut you off, though I doubt your father did," he mused, "now, no going up there alone. Take Lucien, or Matthew, or Bill, someone who knew them."
"Lucien didn't," she reminded him.
"Maybe it would be better if he went then, he will be less likely to bring up things remembered, if you know what I mean."
"Hmm ..." she murmured, "you may be right."
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The door was locked. Lucien stepped back to look for another way in, while Jean, knowing her late parents were creatures of habit, stepped to the side and tipped a milk pail with plants that had died due to lack of water and retrieved the key from underneath.
"Some things don't change," she sighed and unlocked the door, pushing it open to show the kitchen as Mrs Randall had left it. Tidy, with a milk jug in the middle of the table next to a now hardened loaf of bread on its board and oily looking butter in a dish. "She usually kept the butter in the fridge, in the hot weather."
"Makes sense," Lucien shrugged, taking in the room. It was nothing out of the ordinary, not much different to one or two he had been in when he made a house call.
Jean wrinkled her nose, then headed to the sink and opened the cupboard underneath it. The smell even made Lucien step back.
"Bin needs emptying," she remarked and carried it out, at arm's length. Lucien heard the clang of the dustbin lid and she returned empty handed. She shrugged at his expression. He supposed she was right and took the butter and bread off the table and took it outside, where he dropped that into the bin, too.
In the house, Jean had moved into the living room, which had obviously been cleaned before her mother went out into the garden. There was a thin film of dust, nothing that would take long to deal with. The fire grate was empty, the cushions plumped on the couch and chairs and the book she must have been reading was set on the side table, a bookmark indicating she was half way through. Jean picked it up and opened it.
"This book belongs to Jean Mary Randall," still inscribed in her childish hand. Her copy of Jane Eyre, she must have left it behind when she moved into the cottage with Christopher, so her mother kept things to remind her of her daughter, did she? She turned to the desk where letters were written and her father kept his paperwork in order. She pulled out a drawer and started to lift the books, papers and notes onto the desk the better to look at them.
"There you are," Lucien stood behind her, "ok?"
"Dad's papers," she held up his bank book, "he kept everything in here, well just about everything." She put the little book to the side and turned her attention to the farm accounts. Opening it she saw they hadn't really been running it as a commercial enterprise for some time. Just selling enough produce to keep it ticking over, pay for the day to day running of the place, food and clothing, though she supposed her mother mended the things they had. She noticed they didn't owe anybody anything, so at least she didn't have to deal with that. There were a few receipts and little notes, nothing of any consequence. There was a long legal-looking envelope labelled, 'WILL', in scratchy lettering.
"Dad's pen," she gave a half laugh, "he bent so many nibs ..." She pulled the document out. "I suppose I am allowed to read it, aren't I?"
"No one here to tell you otherwise, Jean," Lucien shrugged, "though you may need to go to his solicitor to have everything seen to."
She unfolded the paper and read down it, quickly, there wasn't much.
"It appears the farm is to be sold, and the money comes to me, but I have to give some to Mary," she bit her lip, he had remembered his granddaughter, "but see here," she pointed to a scrawled note at the bottom, "not if you go first."
"Mother," Jean slumped and leant on the desk.
"I wonder if she made a will."
"If we can't find one, or there isn't one at the solicitor's..?" Jean questioned, this was not something she had ever had to deal with.
"Then I expect this one will stand," Lucien passed her the envelope to put it back into, then slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. "Where would she keep one, if she wrote it?"
"The bedroom?" she mused, "her cabinet, dad never went in there, he wouldn't dare."
"Sounds like your mother was a force to be reckoned with," Lucien stood aside to let her lead the way.
"Not in a good way," Jean huffed, "she had a vicious tongue if either of us transgressed, and a hard hand if I did wrong."
"When you got pregnant?"
"I'm surprised I didn't lose her, Mary, that is," Jean sniffed, close to tears for what she could have lost, "I got such a hiding, until dad stepped in. Told her she would kill me if she carried on."
"Bloody hell, Jean," he breathed, putting his hand in his pockets to prevent a, possibly, unwanted hug. She just shrugged and headed out of the room down to where her parents' bedroom was.
The bed was neatly made, Mrs Randall's robe hung on the door, and if Jean cared to lift the pillow she would find the neatly folded nightdress her mother had worn. There was no sign of her father's nightwear, or robe and when Jean opened the wardrobe, no sign of his clothes, or in the chest - all were gone.
"She seems to have erased him from her life, completely," Lucien muttered.
"Somehow I'm not surprised," she sighed, turning her attention to the drawer in the bedside cabinet. It was locked.
"Key?" Lucien wondered if she knew where that was hidden, as she had done with the house door.
Jean opened a small jewellery box in which was found a few trinkets. Lucien hadn't expected anything more, they were not wealthy people. Mrs Randall's wedding ring had been a thin band of low quality gold and she wore no earrings or a necklace, not even a cross on a chain. Jean wore both, he noticed, he wondered who had given them to her, or was the cross a baptism gift and the earrings something she had chosen after she started to work for his father. She was always well dressed, neatly turned out, his father would have said.
"Aha," she uttered a little triumphant shout, "thought you could hide it, did you?" She held up a little key and grinned. Not normally a vindictive person, or given to trying to get one over on someone she was finding this rather cathartic.
The drawer opened to show some low value coins, a prayer book and rosary, and a little diary.
"Oh," Jean hummed, "I don't know ..."
"See if she made an appointment to see the solicitor, Jean," Lucien touched her shoulder, "she can't see you now, she won't know."
"I suppose, but ... it's her diary," she looked into his face for help, support.
"Shall I, as police surgeon," he held out his hand.
"Yes ... yes please," she passed it over and waited while he flicked the pages to the last month or two.
"What is the date of your father's will, Jean?" he carried on flicking through the pages.
She held out her hand, "I need to look at it." He looked at her then realised he had it.
"Sorry," he pulled it out and passed it to her.
"Twelfth of August," she slipped it back into the envelope.
"Right" he flicked to that date and started to turn the pages more slowly. "Aha," he grinned, "here we go, 'see Mr Jeffreys, solicitor', dated ... tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Jean peered over his hand, "so, does that mean she hasn't made a will? That dad's stands?"
"Unless she intended to change one she had already made, I suppose it does," he agreed.
"Should I keep the appointment, change it to in my name," she handed the will back, "I need to let him know that they are both gone, don't I?"
"Best ring him, when we get back," he waited to see what else she intended to do.
"Right," she sighed heavily, "well, let's see what else I need to do. This room will need clearing."
"Slow down, Jean," he touched her arm, "there is no hurry ..."
"No," she shook her head, "no, Lucien, I need to get it done, out of the way, I don't like things hanging over me."
"Then let me help you," he said softly, "you don't have to do it on your own."
"Lucien, I ..."
"At least let me fetch and carry for you, lift the heavy things ... please," he smiled, "I don't want to have to treat you for a strained back, now, do I?"
One thing she had learned about Lucien Blake was that he was very persuasive, but only for the right things, and in this case he was right. The furniture was solid wood and hard to move, she would struggle on her own but she couldn't take him away from surgery or the morgue, that was how he earned his money, how he paid her.
"How about we see what needs doing, then arrange a day when we can come up here and just get it done?" he had watched her think this thing over, his offer to help.
"I suppose that would work," she hummed, "some things might go to the op shop, perhaps."
"Or you could auction off the furnishings and the property separately," he suggested, "what about any farm stuff, could you sell that?"
"It depends on the state it's in," she pursed her lips, it was a good idea. She had been to farm sales, as a child, with her father and it was a good way to pass things on, "but it might work."
"Good, now, which room next?"
"There's only the bathroom and what was my room," she shrugged, "suppose I'd better throw out the bathroom stuff, that's not sellable."
The bathroom, like the other rooms in the small house, was clean and neat. Jean took the small hand-towel off the rail and proceeded to put the toiletries, half used bottles of shampoo, hand-cream and tube of toothpaste on it, together with the flannel and toothbrush and mug. She wrapped it all up in a secure bundle and handed it to Lucien.
"Bin?"
"Bin," she confirmed. Neither commented on the lack of a second toothbrush or shaving equipment for her father, though Lucien did wonder at the mental state of the woman who had obliterated her family from her life. He didn't think there would be much in Jean's room when they got to it.
He was right. The bed was unmade, the mattress covered by an old bedspread that the moths had made much use of. The little bedside cabinet was empty and covered with dust, anything that Jean may have left behind when she moved to live with Christopher in the little cottage had been removed, thrown out he assumed, and the room had an abandoned feel to it. It was cold, bleak - the only residents now were spiders, the only decoration the cobwebs they spun to catch the flies.
Jean stood next to him, just inside the room, her arms wrapped around her slight body as she shivered and bit her lip. Here she had lost herself in the stories she read, taking her far away from the hard life as a farmer's daughter; dreamed her dreams of travel and love only to have them crushed, turned to dust by the manipulation of a handsome boy and the turning of her mother's back.
Lucien heard her choked sigh and turned to see her fighting tears, a fight she was losing. He reached his arm round her shoulders and at first she stiffened. He had been so gentle when he had told her of her parents' passing but she didn't want it to become a habit, crying on his shoulder, however he didn't pull her to him, just ... and it was so cold, he would be so warm, it would be so easy - it was so easy to break, and she did. Before she realised it she was sobbing against his chest, breathing in the scent of his cologne, the faint smell of the laundry product she used to wash his shirts and his own warm scent all mixed together ...
He stared over at the wall, his arms wrapped round her, she felt almost fragile in his arms. He barely knew her, and yet he knew her well, he thought. She had raised his daughter, cared for his father, run the house, managed the surgery she had always been so strong, he could understand why, she had had to be, but she didn't have to carry this burden alone, he could help her, if she would let him.
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They looked round the barn, Jean now composed, and at the machinery. There was an old tractor and the plough, a trailer that Lucien supposed would have been used to carry whatever they grew ... what did they grow? - whatever they grew to the barn, or to market or wherever.
"Does it still run?" he waved his hand at the tractor.
"I don't know," she shrugged and walked over to it. She had learned to drive it before she had learnt to drive a car. She climbed aboard and reached under the seat for the key, that was where it was always hidden, just underneath on a hook her father had put there, so many years ago.
She pumped the accelerator and turned the key; it coughed and spluttered and then died. She tried again, fiddling with the clutch as she turned the key and gently pressed the accelerator - it coughed and spluttered again but just before it died, again, Jean fiddled with the clutch and it roared into life.
"Bravo!" Lucien applauded, "well done."
She smiled, for the first time since they had arrived, "just have to know how to handle her," she remarked, "well a tractor that runs will be worth more than one that doesn't. Hop up, I'll take you on a tour."
He duly 'hopped up' and hung on as she slowly drove out of the barn and headed towards the field. It was a bumpy ride but Jean seemed to know what she was doing. She expertly manoeuvred the vehicle through the gates and towards the middle of the field. There wasn't much growing, mainly weeds, Lucien thought, though horticulture wasn't his strong point.
"This used to be potatoes," she stopped the tractor but left the engine running, "it doesn't look like anything was planted this year." She jumped down and bent to the earth. Running her hands over the dry soil she pursed her lips and shook her head.
"Nothing," she sighed and brushed the dirt from her hands, before climbing up again. "Looks like they stopped working it. We grew potatoes, carrots and cabbages, in this half and over there," she pointed to the corner where her father had been buried, "we grew lettuces. The land wasn't bad, not wonderful but we grew enough to keep a roof over our heads."
"Wonder why they stopped," Lucien murmured, "I mean, how would they earn a living if they stopped working the farm?"
"I suppose dad was getting on a bit," she shrugged, "the work is hard, it grinds you down."
"I can imagine," he agreed, "back breaking? Hot? Draining?"
"That just about sums it up," she waited, "hop on, if you want a lift back."
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On the way back to Mycroft Avenue they talked about what it would take to make the auction and sale of the farm an attractive proposition.
"The house needs to be clean," she hummed, "the kitchen in working order, and it needs to look inviting. At the moment it looks rejected, abandoned. Perhaps I should wait to sell the land until I can show it is fertile."
"But wouldn't that mean waiting a good six months, if not longer?" Lucien swung the Riley onto the drive, "you couldn't plant anything now, could you?"
"I could try a winter crop," she knew he was right, planting a crop in the field would take all her time and energy, and she wasn't paid to run her farm, "no, you're right, I shall have to rely on the good memories of the local farmers."
"I know nothing about farming, Jean," he admitted, turning off the ignition, "but could you sell the house and the land separately. Then it doesn't have to be a farm. I did hear that builders are looking for land, you know, for houses."
"I never thought of that," she accepted his hand as she got out of the car, "it's always been one thing to me, a farm."
Lucien smiled, she looked so dainty as she stepped out of the car, he felt she was meant for a better life than farming or being a housekeeper.
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Mr Jeffreys stood and extended his hand. He had no problem meeting the daughter of the deceased couple, and said how sorry he was that she had lost both her parents so close together.
"Thank you," she smiled and sat down in the seat opposite him. "I have a copy of my father's will, and I was wondering if my mother made one."
"Actually, I believe that was what she wanted to talk to me about, today, but ..." he sighed, "I suppose that the one your father made, in ..." he checked his notes, "August, is the only one."
"I'm sure you realise I have read it, but it is the comment on the bottom, in mother's hand that I worry about," she passed over the document.
"Oh," he raised his eyebrows and adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, "well, that's different. However," he put it down and looked at her, "this had no legal standing, your father's will states you have everything, sell the farm and give a portion of the money to your daughter. Your mother didn't make a will, Mrs Beazley," he harrumphed, "the house, land and paraphernalia all are yours to do with what you will."
"Oh right, well," she took her father's bank book out of her handbag, "the bank will not let me access the money in the account. I have to pay Dr Blake back, he loaned me the money for the funeral mass. It was a kindness that I must repay."
"I shall see to it, for you," he smiled again, "if there is anything I can do, to help you at this sad time ..."
"Mr Jeffreys," she stood and extended her hand, "you have helped me enormously already, but, should I ever need legal advice I shall be sure to come to you."
"Given your father's will, Mrs Beazley," he shook her hand, "if I can help you with the sale, I shall only be too happy."
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It was very close to Christmas to auction a farm but Jean wanted it out of the way. It preyed on her mind, even gave her the odd nightmare, so she persisted in organising, cleaning and throwing out the things that were of no use or value.
Lucien had found her an auctioneer who wouldn't charge her the earth and the day was set. It was bright and sunny, hot and the weather drew the crowds. Jean prepared jugs of lemonade for those who required it, tea for those who wanted it, which at least showed any prospective buyers the kitchen worked.
The first things to be auctioned off was the furniture. The wardrobes and bedside cabinets went quickly, but not for much, the beds were next then the desk, to a young couple who were setting up home in a small farm on the Daylesford road, and the church paid a pittance for the couch and chairs, which they found out later were for the church hall.
The next things on the list were the tractor, and other pieces of machinery. All had been looked over by local famers, the tractor engine had been turned over and Jean had reassured prospective buyers it worked very well.
Jean had had to be there on her own. The girls were at school and Lucien had been called out to a death by Lake Wendouree so she didn't have him there. He dropped her off before heading to meet Matthew and Ashby. Thomas was at home, manning the small surgery and, for an independent woman, she felt strangely lonely. She kept telling herself she didn't need support from either man, but all the same ... it would have been nice.
When all that was left to sell was the house and the field Jean was beginning to flag. The bids for the house seemed to be going slowly. The auctioneer pointed out it's good points: well maintained, two bedrooms and modern plumbing, clean, bright kitchen with a working range, room to extend ...She barely noticed the figure hovering at the back of the crowd, occasionally whispering in a buyer's ear but in the end it sold, for a fair price, when all was said and done. The final sale was for the field. This was offered as prime farming land, which she wasn't sure about, as nothing was growing there, or good development land. There were three bidders and again the figure hovered, and she realised it was Lucien, upping the bids, playing one buyer off against another. Whether she was grateful for his 'interference' or not she wasn't sure, she had made enough to pay back the loan for the funeral with some to spare even taking into account the auctioneer's fee, so Mary would have some for her savings account. She wondered if Lucien would be offended if she added some to Li's account, the one Thomas had set up with the legacy from Mei Lin's father. Technically she had nothing to do with her family, no right to expect anything but she was just as much a daughter to her as Mary was. Perhaps it would be better if she just bought her a treat, something a bit special for Christmas.
The bidding was finally over, and despite Lucien or possibly because of him, the land had sold for what she considered to be a good price, what, for her and the agent Lucien had insisted look over it, felt the land was worth.
"Mrs Beazley," the auctioneer held out his hand, "that's all done. I shall sort out the income for yourself, less my fee and it should be with you by the end of the week."
"Thank you," she took his hand, "you have been very helpful, I'm glad it was all able to be completed in one day."
"I agree, it doesn't do for these things, in these circumstances, to drag on," he tipped his hat and lifted his briefcase, "I shall be in touch."
She watched him leave and sighed, he was right, it was good to get it over with, she could go on with her life, such as it was. Though Mary had said it was a good life, the day she had told her the circumstances of her conception and the reason for Jean ending the marriage to her father.
Lucien waited until she was on her own, but left her to her musings a few minutes more. She felt him at her side, "thank you," she whispered, not turning, still staring over the field, for possibly the last time. "You were a bit naughty though, doctor," she turned and smiled a little smile, "playing one off against the other."
"Well, I thought the bids were a bit low," he grinned, "given what the agent said the land was worth."
"The land is worth what someone will pay for it," she hummed, "but I know that, should you dispense with my services Mary and me will be able to set ourselves up in a small house."
"What?" he laughed, "and how am I supposed to manage without a daily piece of shortbread, and you know I would be no use at running the business side of things," he took her hand, "I have no intention of 'dispensing with your services', Jean. Anyway, we are a family, odd though it seems, disconnected as we may be, I think we are a family, don't you?"
"In an odd sort of way, I suppose you are right," she looked into his blue eyes, the ones she could happily drown in, "now," she sighed, "I suppose we had better collect the jugs and biscuit tin and go home."
Lucien held her basket while she loaded the things she had taken with her and then carried it to the car.
"Thank you, Lucien," she smiled, "for all your help, with everything."
"I'm sure it wasn't easy," he touched her arm, "but I hope I wasn't in the way, or interfered. I know I can go a bit too far, sometimes, I just wanted to help."
"Oh Lucien," she laughed, "you didn't interfere, well not too much, just enough. It's a long time since I have needed help, or even had someone offer." She heaved a sigh, "you made it easier, just by being there," she blushed furiously, this was not a conversation between employer and employee, it was between friends.
"I'm glad to help, Jean," he rubbed her arm, "you don't have to do everything on your own, you know."
They stood staring at each other, Lucien fighting the urge to kiss her, just gently, on the cheek, and Jean battling her need to fall into his arms, even though she wasn't crying, this time.
"Well," she swallowed, "we'd better get back, if anyone wants any dinner tonight."
"Quite."
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"Are we having two trees again this year, mum," Mary started to untangle the strings of coloured lights.
"I don't see why not," Jean nodded, wondering how a set of lights that she had put away neatly wrapped around a piece of wood could get so badly tied up, "best ask gran'pa if he wants them, though."
"Ok," she smiled, "though you know what he's like ...?"
"What who's like?" Thomas' voice floated from the dining room where he was setting out a pile of Christmas music to be played on the piano, "anyone I know?"
Mary laughed, "you, gran'pa," she teased, "over trees, Christmas trees in the house."
"Cheek, you youngsters these days," he stumped through, "two I hope, unless you can think of where we can put a third."
"You don't have to vacuum the needles up, Thomas," Jean huffed good naturedly, "two is plenty, one in the studio and one here."
"Can't we squeeze one in the surgery or at least the waiting room?" he raised his eyebrows and looked hopeful.
Jean laughed and shook her head, then returned to the kitchen to finish preparing the dinner.
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The trouble with having Thomas in the house all the time was nobody could sneak anything in, so the box sat in the boot of the car for three days.
"What is it, Jean?" Lucien was like a small boy, desperate to know what she had to hide from his father.
"Wait until he has gone to bed, tonight," she smirked, "then you can help me."
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They were the only people left. The girls had gone to bed, Thomas had, finally, retired for the evening so Jean felt it was safe to pull Lucien into her little surprise for the elder doctor.
"Every year," she smiled as they headed up the hall to the front door, "since we opened the studio and started putting a tree there as well as in the living room he has asked if we can have one in the waiting room."
"Where on earth would it stand?" he asked unlocking the boot for her and lifting out the box. "That room is so small."
"Exactly," she nodded firmly, lifting a second, smaller box, "so, this year I had a good look round town and found the solution."
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She cleared a spot on the corner of the desk she usually sat at and moved the typewriter further over from the centre.
"Shall I open it?" he asked, eyes wide like a child.
"Oh go on then," she laughed, "and I thought I only had two children in the house." While this remark was one she would not have made a month ago, something had happened the day he had picked her up from the auction, they had changed. He had said they were a family, which she had always believed, but now she felt it even more. The only difference was she was paid to be there.
"Jean," he grinned, "this is the first Christmas I have had in five years, and only the second I have had with my daughter. She wasn't a year old at her first, I am very much looking forward to it."
"Sometimes, Lucien," she went over to him and touched his arm, not something she did, it was usually the other way round, "I forget you have been away, I'm sorry, I just feel you have always been here." She blushed, which made him laugh, but she blushed even harder when he picked up her hand and kissed it, lightly.
"It's been remarkably easy to slot in," he smiled, "and that is all because of you, you took my arrival as if I had just been away in Melbourne for a while. So many times even the professionals tiptoed round us POWs as if we would break. Thank you."
She cleared her throat and drew her hand away, slowly. "Shall we," she waved at the box.
"Oh," he gasped, "oh Jean, what a lovely idea."
He pulled out a small tree, the branches were made of rayon and came off a solid trunk of plastic, he thought. It had a box base which had a small key hole in one side. He set the box where she had cleared the space and started to pull the branches out.
Jean opened the smaller box and took out some baubles, tinsel and a string of lights, and a small star for the top.
When it was decorated and Lucien had put the star on the top, Jean took a key from the box the tree had come in and turned it in the keyhole. Silent Night tinkled from the box and when Jean turned the lights on they stood side by side to survey their handiwork.
"Jean ..." he breathed, "it's lovely."
"Happy Christmas, Lucien," she whispered, it seemed appropriate she should say this now, while they were alone and all was quiet.
"To you too, Jean," he bent and kissed her cheek, swiftly, the softest of touches.
She turned and lifted herself onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, "good night." This time she didn't blush.
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Jean lay in bed and smiled at the memory of his beard tickling her cheek when he kissed her, and that she wasn't embarrassed or offended. They had come to this stage in their relationship very quickly but it seemed right. Of course he had had girls, young women flutter their eyelashes at the handsome doctor who had taken over his father's practice, but they were giddy, giggled like schoolgirls when he spoke to them. She had seen them, in town, in the surgery. There were those who made appointments with no reason, but she couldn't refuse them, just to have him smile at them or listen to their lungs and hearts. He knew, in fact he said as much, but he also said it was rather off putting and he was perfectly capable of choosing his own lady friend, as he put it. She did wonder if he had chosen her. Would this be the love she should have waited for, a love based on trust and respect?
Her hand moved to the curls at the apex of her thighs and she wondered what it would feel like to have Lucien do this to her.
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Lucien was having trouble sleeping. He had gone to bed and thought about how Jean had kissed his cheek. He had wanted nothing but her friendship, to begin with, but more and more, as she moved about the house, discussed, with intelligence, his cases, the goings on in town, looked after the girls, teased his father and gently organised the older man, he wanted her love. She was totally different to any woman he had ever met. She made no demands on him, like Mei Lin had, didn't expect more than he gave. She didn't flutter her eyelids at him, like the young women who came to his surgery or giggle girlishly at his silly remarks, she often had her own put down or rejoinder.
He wasn't interested in bedding any willing female that came along, those days were gone, now he would have to wait until Jean was ready, and he was absolutely sure she would not sleep with him outside the bounds of marriage, but were both of them ready to take that step, just yet? His hands wandered to the hardness in his pyjama trousers and he knew, again, he would have to satisfy himself, blushing that she would know ... she washed his bed-linen. As his release came, he wondered if she did the same.
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While Christmas had always been a time of joy in the Blake/Beazley house this year the air was charged with excitement. Lucien was a cross between a naughty puppy and a small child, his happiness was infectious. Jean pretended to be annoyed at his constant questions, dipping his finger into mixtures for things she was baking and his constant humming of Christmas carols - though his voice was rather good. In truth, she didn't mind and he didn't seem to mind having his knuckles rapped with the spoon.
Then there was the question of gifts. What could she get him? She usually gave Thomas a copy of a book he wanted, or a record he had mentioned. But for Lucien she wanted to give him something a little more personal, without it being inappropriate. She thought of a tie, but he had bought ties when he had had his suits made for duties as a doctor and a police surgeon, and only wives of girlfriends should buy men ties, she was neither. He went through handkerchiefs with alarming speed but Li was going to give him a dozen with his initials embroidered in the corner; Mary had designed a monogram for him and Li was steadily stitching her way through the pile. Mary had painted a picture of Li and was having it framed for him, Thomas was having the plate at the end of the drive replaced with his son's name and occupation. Jean was at a loss. In the end it was he himself who gave her the idea. She couldn't find the pen she habitually used to write her shopping lists, do the accounts with or write letters. It wasn't an expensive one, just a standard ball point, one she could easily replace at the newsagents, but she wanted to write some appointments in the diary. She resorted to a pencil out of the drawer.
Lucien wandered through to the kitchen, surgery over, nothing down at the station he was wondering if Jean wanted something doing, or if he could annoy her in any way. There were no interesting smells coming from the kitchen so there was nothing to dip his finger into, sadly.
"Lucien," she turned from writing the appointment, "don't suppose you know where my pen is, do you? It was here on the diary."
"Oh," he patted his jacket down, "er, this one?" he held up the item, retrieved from his inside jacket pocket, "sorry, mine is making holes in the paper, I dropped it and the nib's bent."
"You're as bad as my father used to be," she laughed, "never mind, you hang on to it, I'll get another when I go out, tomorrow."
"Sure?"
"It's fine," she closed the book, "now, can I do anything for you?"
He thought there were quite a number of things she could do for him, and most of them required her to remove her clothes, and he his.
"No, actually, I wondered if there was anything you needed doing," he shoved his hands in his pockets.
Jean had much the same thoughts as him, but ...
"You can make a cuppa," she suggested, "I haven't had time and your father will be wanting one."
"Where is he?"
"In the garden, reading the paper."
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"Hello, son," Thomas removed the paper from his face and sat up in his chair, "sent out?"
"Jean said you might like a cuppa, she's busy doing something," he put the tray down and shrugged.
"She's always busy, haven't you noticed?" his father smiled, "I don't think I've ever known her sit down with her feet up, except when I wouldn't let her do anything after Mary was born."
"Mm.." he hummed and sat down opposite him, "yes, nothing is ever left, is it?"
"Will you take me into town, tomorrow, I need to get her a gift, and the girls," Thomas poured them both a cup of tea, "you need to think about it too."
"I thought I might get Li a book, or maybe some jewellery, a locket, perhaps," he mused, "Mary needs some art things, she doesn't have a proper easel - but it's Jean, I don't have a clue what to get her, without offending her."
"She's not easy to buy for, I'll admit," Thomas agreed.
That was no help.
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In the end Lucien took a day off from all duties and went to Melbourne. Shopping for a Christmas gift for his housekeeper in Ballarat was bound to get tongues wagging, and if he was to get Mary an easel he needed to go somewhere he hoped was still trading - the art shop his mother used to get her supplies from.
With the easel tucked under his arm he wandered the streets wondering what he could buy Li and Jean. He knew Li had a gold locket, one of his mother's apparently so he thought a silver one would be good, and headed to the jewellers. where he found what he was looking forward. Heart shaped, with delicate engraving of a flower on the front. He wondered if he could get it engraved, in Ballarat, before Christmas. Now to Jean.
He wandered, deep in thought. What did she do, apart from cook and clean? She knit, sewed; a new sewing machine would be good, the one she used was a little old and battered, but ... no, a little too much for ones housekeeper. Her sewing basket was nothing special, just a basket that she rummaged through for the thread she needed or her needle packet. He sighed, was there such a thing as a sewing basket, purpose made for the keeping of haberdashery?
He was just considering he was out of luck when he passed a drapers and haberdashers. It couldn't hurt to ask, he supposed, rather glumly.
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"I see," the woman behind the counter nodded when he told her of his dilemma, "well, perhaps I may have what you are looking for." She bustled into the back of the shop and presently returned with a wooden box under her arm. She set it on the counter and started to explain how it worked.
"You see," she pulled the top two handles apart and it opened on a cantilever - three layers - the top two split and the bottom on was the base, long and big enough to store spare knitting needles, he thought. "easy to find everything one needs, threads on the top one side, needles and pins the other?" She suggested.
"Yes, quite, perhaps a few things in it, would appropriate," he hummed, "she replaces a lot of shirt buttons," he reddened slightly, "so, er ..."
"How about," she reached under the counter and brought out threads in black and white plus the primary colours, "one of each, then," she added needles and a box of pins, a tape measure, scissors, a triangle of something he had no idea what, safety pins, a card of two sizes of poppers and one of shirt buttons. "That should cover everything," she smiled, "and there's room for the things she already has."
"Goodness," he pushed his hat back on his head, "I had no idea there was so much to sewing."
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Sneaking his purchases into the house was not easy. Jean heard him as he banged through the front door.
"Is that you, Lucien!" she called, wiping her hands on her apron.
He looked round, making a dash for it down the hall was not going to work, the guest room, just by the front door ... he slipped in and pushed the packages under the bed and closed the door quickly.
"Yes, I'm back!" he smiled at her as she greeted him. "Miss me?" he teased.
"Did you get what you were looking for?" she smiled, she had missed him, strangely, it had been quiet, she had forgotten what 'quiet' was.
"Yes, got a lovely locket for Li, and an easel for Mary," he put his hat on the hook and followed her to the kitchen, "could do with a cuppa."
"You shouldn't go spending money on my daughter," she chided, "it's not right."
"Jean, I have missed eight Christmases with my family," he touched her cheek, "I have a lot to thank you for, a present for Mary, something she wants and needs is not an extravagance. Indulge me, this year, at least."
"It's just .." she muttered.
"I know, I am your employer and she is your daughter but, as I have said before, we are a family ... and it's Christmas, goodwill to all men, housekeepers and housekeeper's daughters." He raised his eyebrows and grinned.
As she made the tea she was pleased with her choice of gift for him, more than a housekeeper should choose for her employer, but if he was going to spoil her daughter ...
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