The tears were coursing down Mary's face as she lurched into the porch. The day had started out so well; the annual English writing and Art competitions were well underway at school and she had entered both. She had stayed behind to do some of her art work, in the quiet, just her and the teacher. The teacher had left her to attend a short staff meeting, but said if she needed him all she had to do was pop along to the staff room.

"It's going so well," he nodded to the portrait, "you have a real talent Mary, I hope your mother is prepared to nurture it."

"Oh yes, sir," she concentrated on mixing the colours she needed for the jacket, "and the two doctors."

"Good, so many parents don't see the value of art," he sighed.

"Dr Blake's wife was an artist," she told him, "her artworks are all over the house, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you wanted to have a look."

"I might just do that, my dear," he opened the door, "now, don't overwork it."

"I won't."

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She put a tiny touch of ochre in Lucien's beard, just a highlight and stood back to survey her handiwork. She was justifiably pleased with it, her portrait of Dr Lucien Blake, in his usual blue grey suit - she had thought about painting him in uniform but she would have had to get him to sit for her to do that. This way she could sit and sketch him in the house and garden without him paying very much attention.

The door opened, "think you're so bloody good, don't you?" Edward Tyneman, who was supposed to be rewriting his English piece for the competition, stood in the doorway, sneering.

"Don't know what you mean," she carried on, not turning. He had been particularly obnoxious lately.

"Two submissions," he waved at the painting, "and who wants to see a picture of Lucien Blake?"

"I do, his father will," she huffed, "anyway, it's the competence it will be marked on not the subject."

"You know I'm going to win the English prize, don't you?"

"That remains to be seen," she turned to see his gloating face and his hand reach for the turpentine bottle on the side. "Put that down," she snapped, "only art students are supposed to be in here, after hours."

He raised his hand and she could see the weeks of work going up in smoke, or down in a sea of turpentine.

"Edward, no!"

"Common little bitches like you shouldn't even be in this school," his arm went back.

"I won my place fair and square!" she hissed back, remembering the joy in the house when she had passed the entry exam to Wendouree Grammar, "I don't have to be paid for."

The bottle flew towards the painting, she dropped the brush she held, leaving a stripe of ochre down her grey school dress, and leapt in front of it. The lid flew off the bottle the contents splashed over her head and dress and crashed to the floor. She screamed.

Edward ran down the corridor, screaming that Mary Beazley had gone mad and was throwing turps about.

In the art room Mary stumbled to the sink where brushes and palettes were washed and splashed handful after handful of cold water on her eyes.

"Mary!" the Deputy Head teacher rushed into the room and surveyed the damage. A broken bottle of turpentine lay on the floor, her painting was on its side on the floor but the most pressing thing was the young girl pouring water over her face.

"Why?" he asked, pulling her away.

"No, sir," she gulped, "you don't understand, I ..."

He handed her a cloth, "clean yourself off and go home, we'll deal with this tomorrow."

"Sir, please," she grabbed his arm, "it wasn't me, Edward threw it at me, he called me names ..."

"His father funds the prize, Mary," he grunted, "now, home."

She ran all the way home, not understanding why she wasn't believed, she was the one covered in turps, her dress was ruined and her eye hurt horribly. She could barely see when she got there and lurched into the house knocking the hall table over in her haste to get to the surgery and Uncle Lucien, ignoring the impulse to run and hide in her room.

She barged into the consulting room blindly, and was caught by Lucien before she fell to the floor. He could smell the turps.

"Jean!"

She was close behind her daughter but pulled up at the sight of her in his arms sobbing and smelling of the paint thinner.

"Bowl of cool water, from the kettle and the eye bath," he commanded, "then run her a bath."

"Doctor?"

"Now, Jean!"

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"What happened, chick?" he asked gently as he dealt with her eyes. One seemed to have avoided the spirits, but the other was red and looked very sore.

"Edward came into the art room," she sobbed, "while Mr Hills was in the staff room. He called me a nasty name, said people like me shouldn't be in that school, then he threw a full bottle of turps at me. It broke."

"Did you swallow any?" he continued, soothing and bathing.

"No," she sniffed, "least I don't think so, Uncle Lucien?..."

"Shh, pet," he lifted her up into his arms, "I'm going to take you to your mother for a bath and to have your hair washed, and I'm going to bring you up some milk to drink."

"My eye hurts," she snuffled into his jacket.

"I know, love," he pressed a kiss to her forehead, "it will get better, because your tears washed it, though why they didn't send for a doctor or take you to the hospital I don't know." This angered him as did the involvement of Patrick Tyneman's boy. He had come across Patrick in the course of his duties as police surgeon, still full of himself, still blustering about and getting in the way, wanting cases cleared up without proper investigation. He also knew that Edward had upset Li, earlier that year, before he came home, but Jean and Old Man Tyneman had dealt with that. Well he was going to deal with this.

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Jean was pacing the floor in the bathroom wondering why her daughter was covered in turps and paint. She was usually so careful when she painted.

"Ah, Jean, good," Lucien set Mary down on the chair, "now, let's get her into the bath, if Miss Mary doesn't mind her doctor being present," he stayed calm though he was seething underneath, but for Jean and Mary ... "then I want her to have some milk, just in case."

"Lucien, Mary ...?"

"Let's see to Mary, first," he touched her shoulder, "then we'll talk."

He helped her undress and lift Mary into the bath and left them to go and get the drink.

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As he warmed some milk on the stove the phone rang. It was the school, asking to speak to Mrs Beazley.

"Sorry, she's unavailable," he hummed, "can I help, it's Dr Lucien Blake, here."

He listened while the Head told Edward's version of events, as told to him by the Deputy, and that it would be better if Mary stayed away until after Christmas.

"Really," he hummed, "and may I ask how much turps is on young Edward? He may need hospital treatment."

"I er, he went home," the Head stammered.

"Well, Mary won't be well enough to attend school until next week," Lucien used his most officious tone, "but that won't stop her entries to the competition, will it." He emphasised the last two words and signed off.

"Bloody little brat," he muttered to himself.

"Huh, what's that?" Thomas shuffled through, "what happened, I heard Mary?"

"Edward Tyneman threw a bottle of turps at her," Lucien poured the warmed milk into a cup, "then blamed her."

Thomas could see his son was extremely angry but his first thought was for the girl who had become a granddaughter to him.

"Is she alright?"

"Frightened, her eye is sore," Lucien grumbled, "it could have been worse. She doesn't think she swallowed any but I'm giving her milk, just in case."

"Why would the stupid idiot do that?"

"He doesn't think people like Mary should go to the grammar school."

"She got in on her merits," Thomas huffed, "she doesn't have to be paid for, scholarship girl is our Mary, a lot brighter than that pompous little twit."

Lucien couldn't help but smile at his father's defence of the child, but he was going to get Edward to admit it was all his doing whatever his father may think.

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Having seen that Mary was calmer, bathed and in her pyjamas, Lucien told Jean he was going to see Edward.

"Can I have Mary's dress please?" he held out his hand.

"Lucien, please, don't make it worse," Jean sat with her arms round Mary.

"I want the truth from Edward, Jean," he huffed, "he can't go around thinking he can get away with hurting people just because he thinks they are beneath him."

"He was cross because I have, or had, two entries for the Christmas competitions," Mary whispered.

"What was he doing there?"

"He was re-writing his English entry," she sniffed, "I don't think it was going well, he's been there every night I have. His father funds the prizes, he thinks he is going to win."

Lucien sat on the bed and stroked her cheek, "there are always going to be people who think that money is the answer to everything, no thought of justice, or doing the right thing, they just throw money at the problem."

"What are you going to do, Uncle Lucien?" she turned her face to him and he could see how sore her eye still was. "Edward is always trying to get the scholarship students in trouble, especially those who aren't well off. He tripped Charlie George up so he wouldn't win the tennis cup, he sprained his ankle and couldn't finish the match, had to concede to him. Everybody saw it."

"I'm going to have a little word with young Master Tyneman, my dear," he patted her cheek, "point out how dangerous it is to fool about with volatile substances."

"Lucien!" Jean called from the bedroom, "pick Li up on your way back, she's having tea with Elizabeth."

"Will do," he called back, glad that she hadn't had to witness Mary's upset.

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"Dr Blake to see Master Edward, sir," the housekeeper stood at the door way to the dining room.

"Study," Patrick pushed his chair back, why was Blake interrupting his dinner?

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"Patrick," Lucien held out his hand, not wanting to start the conversation on the wrong foot, "I would like a word with Edward, to see if he has any after effects of the turps in school."

"What turps?" Patrick huffed, "boy's in his room, didn't want any dinner." He looked at the bundle in the doctor's hands, and wrinkled his nose at the now fading odour.

"Shall we let him tell us," Lucien smiled kindly, it looked like Edward had gone to hide.

Mindful that Edward could be 'difficult' in school he decided that it would probably be best if he at least let Blake see the boy, especially if he had been hurt.

Edward sloped down the stairs, still in his uniform and stood in the study, facing his father.

"What happened, Edward?" Patrick loomed over him.

"Er, Mary threw turps, in the art room," he mumbled, sure his father would be on his side.

"Let's have a look at you, Edward," Lucien said, kindly, "make sure you aren't adversely affected."

"No, I'm ok, she missed."

Lucien looked him up and down, there was an oily splash on his trouser leg, below the knee, but nothing else.

"What were you doing in the art room, boy?" Patrick grunted, "you were supposed to be doing your English entry, for the competition, "as I remember the art room is at the other end of the school."

"I think Edward has a skewed idea of the truth, don't you, Edward?" Lucien scowled down at him, "I think Edward threw the turps at Mary, to damage her painting," he held up the clothes, "these are Mary's clothes, from today. As you can see, and smell, they are covered in turps. Her eye is very sore, and I will have to wait to see if there is any permanent damage."

"Edward ..." his father's voice had a warning tone.

"She shouldn't be at our school, dad," he gulped, "she's common."

"She passed the entrance exam, Edward," Lucien pointed out, "she has every right to be there."

"Why is she allowed two entries in the competition? Nobody else is?" He stuck out his lower lip.

"English and art," Lucien confirmed when Patrick looked confused.

"Two different disciplines," Patrick glared, "different donors for the prize, I donate the English prize. All entries are unnamed when they are submitted, so nobody knows who has painted or written what."

"Handwriting?" Lucien raised his eyebrows.

"The typing pool at the Courier type everything," Patrick shrugged, "no names ..."

"... no pack drill," Lucien hummed.

"Everybody would know which her painting was," Edward persisted, "it's of you," he hissed at Lucien.

"Really?" Lucien's eyes widened, "goodness, I had no idea. She's always drawing, got some lovely sketches of dad. Well, who'd have thought ... anyway, lad, I think you need to come clean to the Head, who has taken your side of the events and excluded Mary until next year."

Patrick put his hand on Edward's shoulder and gripped it tight enough to make the boy squirm. Regardless of Mary's station in life, he liked Jean, she was pleasant when she spoke, professional in her work as housekeeper and secretary and was well thought of in town, in spite of everything that had happened in her life.

"Dad?" Edward looked up at him.

"Patrick, Edward?" Patrick's father, Michael wandered in, "what's going on? Blake." He nodded in the doctor's direction.

"It's alright, father," Patrick shooed him out, "I'll deal with this."

"He been up to no good, again?" he pointed his walking cane at his grandson. "Well?!"

"It would seem that Edward threw some turps in the art room and tried to blame Mary Beazley," Lucien stepped in knowing Michael would find out, one way or the other.

"Again, boy!" he leaned down and pushed close to him, "two more parents have complained to me that you are bullying the scholarship students."

"What?" Patrick gasped, "when?"

"Over the time they have been working on the annual prizes," Michael stood up, "apparently this excuse for a Tyneman thinks he will get the English prize regardless of the standard of his work. The Head believes him because they don't want to lose the money you provide for the English prize." He looked across at Lucien, "is Mary alright?"

"Sore, time will tell if there is any damage to the eye ..."

"That her uniform?"

Lucien looked at the bundle of 'rags' and nodded.

"The family will replace it, and she won't be bothered by this," he waved his hand at Edward, "again, he will be going to school in Melbourne, next year."

"Father!"

"Grandfather!"

"Somewhere they don't know your family," he huffed, "where you will be the same as everybody else. Can we all meet at school tomorrow, clear up this nonsense?"

"Er, yes, I suppose so," Lucien was trying to recover from Michael's intervention, he had expected just to deal with Patrick and have difficulty but it would seem not, Michael was far more reasonable and was under no illusion about his grandson.

"Right, I'll call Wentworth, let him know we will be there, ten o'clock?"

"Thank you, Mr Tyneman," Lucien held his hand out, "until tomorrow."

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There was an almighty row in the study after Lucien left. Michael blamed Patrick for spoiling him, Patrick blamed Susan for not being strong enough, she said her son was uncontrollable.

"These people are our bread and butter!" Michael shouted, "if they don't buy the paper we are out of a job, as are those who work for us! If they don't buy our shoes we don't have any money to fund school prizes or your lifestyle!"

Edward looked mutinous, Patrick growled and Susan cried. Michael wished Mary was his grandchild instead of Edward.

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Lucien drove back to the house, briefly forgetting Li and having to turn round, thinking on Michael's reaction. Jean had said he was the one to stop Edward bullying Li, and how he had threatened to send the boy to boarding school, now it seemed he was going to carry out that threat.

"What's that smell?" Li wrinkled her nose as she got into the car.

"Turps," Lucien pulled away, "Mary's uniform."

"Mama isn't going to be pleased."

"Edward threw it at her," Lucien sighed, "he's in trouble with his grandfather."

"Serves him right, he's horrible," Li shrugged her shoulders.

"He's going to school in Melbourne next year."

"Good, is Mary alright?"

"She will be, in time," Lucien hummed, "her eye will need looking at, I'm going to arrange for her to see a specialist to make sure there's no permanent damage."

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Mary slept, as best she could, with her mother that night, and while she did arrangements were made for her to see a specialist in Melbourne at the end of the week. Jean argued with Lucien, about the cost, surely he could treat her?

"I can, Jean," he held her hand in the studio when she left her daughter for a brief few minutes being read to by Li, "but I am not a specialist and I just want to make sure. Don't worry about the cost, or paying me back. Family, Jean, family." He kissed her forehead and she leant against him, suddenly very tired.

"Now," he stood there with his arms wrapped round her, "you need to eat, your dinner is still warm, Li will read to Mary for a while, and I'll go and check on her."

All through the night Lucien kept a check on Mary. Every hour he would go into the bedroom; sleeping in Mary's bed to be close; and check her pulse and breathing. If she was awake, which she often was, he would look into her eye, stroke her head and tell her not to worry. Sometimes Jean would let him think she was asleep, sometimes she would look up and smile softly and he would pat her shoulder.

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The Headmaster was monumentally embarrassed. He had taken Edward's story and believed him, the boy seemed terrified, he said.

"Terrified of being caught," Michael huffed.

Professor Wentworth looked across at Mary and her mother. The girl looked pale, there were dark circles round her eyes and the one affected by the turps was read and weeping. Jean kept her arms round her daughter, she too looked tired but she was smartly dressed and well made up. Dr Blake looked stern, anger lurking behind his blue eyes as he waited for the apology Mary deserved, from Edward and Wentworth. It took a long time coming, but it was there in the end. Edward stood stiff and balled his fists as he muttered a 'sorry'. Lucien didn't believe him for one minute and even Professor Wentworth wondered if he should have listened to more of the parents instead of brushing it off as jealousy of the Tyneman's wealth.

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"...and how does it feel now?" the consultant put his ophthalmoscope down and looked at the young girl sitting in front of him.

"It gets a little better each day," she whispered, "but it's still very sore, like having sand in it, or grit."

"Well, there has been some blistering, on the cornea," he looked at Lucien who nodded in agreement, "but it will repair on its own and your sight should not be affected in the long run. Now, warm, plain water eyebaths to soothe it, boiled water, Mrs Beazley," he smiled, "when you want. I should like to see you again, after Christmas, say, the twenty-ninth?"

"That will be fine," Lucien agreed, "we shall be here."

"Good, good," he nodded, "now, young lady," he turned back to Mary, "you go and have a lovely Christmas, eat lots of chocolate and cake and play silly games."

Mary giggled, and Jean smiled, it was the first time she had laughed since the incident.

With her arm linked through Lucien's on one side and the other holding her mother's hand Mary felt safe and loved. With sunglasses on she didn't see the grateful smiles her mother gave the doctor or the gentle nod he sent back, but she felt them, felt the atmosphere. She knew Uncle Lucien was paying for her treatment and she would, when she could draw and paint again, make something just for him.

Professor Wentworth had called to say the art exhibition was being held in the main hall in the school and Mary's painting was included, did they want to go and have a private viewing?

"It's the least I can do," he sighed, "Mary has such a talent for one so young, so Mr Hills tells me, and I would not have dreamed of excluding her work from the competition. I am very sorry for what happened, our deputy, Mr Manston has always pandered to the Tynemans, and it is he who is in charge of the prizes, but the art prize is donated by the gallery."

They said they would go after Mary's appointment with the specialist but would collect Thomas and Li first.

"I'm sure they would like to see your work, Mary," Lucien hugged her, "I certainly do."

"It probably got ruined," she sniffed, "I heard it fall, and I don't know how much turps ended up on it."

"I think most of it landed on you, sweetheart," Jean squeezed her hand, "have faith."

And so they all squeezed into the Riley, the three ladies on the back seat, Mary cuddled against her mother, wondering what kind of reception she would receive. She needn't have worried, some of her friends had found out about the private viewing and had asked permission to be there. Professor Wentworth had agreed providing they were on their best behaviour.

"Oh Mary," Sheila Grange hugged her, "I'm so glad you're alright, we've been very worried, Mr Hills said you got the stuff in your eyes."

"Yes, but the consultant thinks I should be able to see properly, in time," Mary hugged her friend back, "Dr Blake has been treating me."

Sheila smiled shyly at Dr Lucien Blake, he was a lot better looking than her doctor, she wondered if she could persuade her mother to change.

"Who put Mary's painting up?" Jean asked, all they knew was it had been put on exhibition.

"We all went to see Mr Hills," another girl, Christine Evans, stepped in and took Mary's hand, "we didn't do anything to the painting but there is a tiny bit in one corner that caught the turps."

"We told him that if he didn't put your painting in the show then we weren't going to let ours go in either, not that any of ours are as good," Sheila folded her arms, "which would have left very little."

"There was no need for that, Sheila,," Mary reached out and touched her arm.

"Huh, says you," Christine huffed, "we're all in this together, remember. We made a pledge, that we would all try to get into art college, because if we all try then our parents will have a bigger battle on their hands."

Lucien laughed, so did Thomas, "so young to be thinking of college," Lucien kissed Mary's head, "did you think your mother would stop you, Mary?"

"No," Mary smiled, "but Sheila's and Christine's parents want them to have a career or a job that will make them a living. I can make and sell cards, to earn a bit ..."

"... and artists only make money when they're dead," Jean laughed, "I'd rather you were happy, Mary, and your art makes you happy." She thought she would teach her to type, just in case.

"Thanks, mum," Mary sighed, "suppose I'd better go in and survey the damage."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Thomas patted her arm, "and I'd like to see these young ladies' work."

"They're very good, gran'pa," she assured him.

"Well, shall we?" he stepped in front and headed into the hall.

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There were around a dozen or so art works on display, paintings and some sculpture. Apart from Mary and her two friends most of the other exhibitors were in the upper school. There was some good and not so good, but, Lucien mused to himself, they were school children. If he was going to be critical the still life of peaches and a jug of water lacked perspective, and a landscape was a bit flat, but, he reasoned, to himself, art was a subjective thing and one man did not have to like what another man did. Jean touched his arm and pointed. Mary was looking closely at the corner of a painting, her painting.

"It's rather good, isn't it?" she questioned her judgement, to her it was a near perfect representation of the younger doctor, "or am I biased."

"You and me, both," he leant down and whispered in her ear, "I'm impressed." Thomas had stumped up to her and touched her hand.

"I hope you are going to bring that home," he whispered, "I would like it framed and in the studio."

"Don't be silly, gran'pa," she hissed, "I haven't finished it."

"Oh yes you have, dear girl," he smiled, "it's Lucien through and through, that little curl at the back of his neck, just when his hair needs trimming, don't you dare change a thing."

The painting showed a near profile of Lucien, staring into the distance, obviously thinking of something, but he was calm, in the picture, soft.

Jean studied it and thought that she wouldn't mind it in her bedroom, staring over her bed. But, "darling," she squeezed Mary's arm, " it is perfect, grandpa is quite right."

Lucien was speechless, he thought he remembered when she had sketched this, it was after selling the Randall farm, he was thinking what it meant for Jean, did it change who she was?

"Mother would have been so proud of you," he muttered, "even if you aren't a Blake, genetically, or an Etienne, I'm speechless."

"Well, that's a first," Jean teased.

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"You do know you could have had Edward charged with assault, don't you?" Matthew hummed over a cup of tea. He had called in to see how his adopted niece was doing and to speak to Jean about Christmas. He had been invited, apparently he wasn't supposed to spend Christmas alone, but ...

"If the damage had been permanent you would have been arresting me," Jean huffed, "how dare he consider himself above her in school."

"Alright, Jean" he reached over and touched her hand, "I agree, he's too much like Patrick for my money, a visit from us might have given him the fright he needs."

"You have better things to do, Matthew," she smiled, "but, thank you."

"How is she?"

"Pretty well, considering," she nodded, "in school, her friends are making sure she doesn't trip or fall, and helping her write her work. The eye is much better, she rarely has any eye baths, but, we are going to see the consultant after the holiday."

"Do you need any help with that?" he knew how proud she was, how she wouldn't ask ...

"Lucien insisted on seeing to it," she blushed, a little, "he says we are a family."

"Sounds good to me, that's the Lucien I remember," he sipped the tea. "About Christmas, Jean ... it's just that ... well..."

"If you have another invitation that's fine, Matthew," she smiled, "we just thought it would be nice to have you here."

"It's not that," it was his turn to blush, properly blush, "well I asked Dr Harvey to join me, she would be on her own as well, and ..."

"Would you like to extend the invitation to her," she looked into his eyes, she couldn't remember the last time Matthew Lawson had stepped out with a girl, "she would be most welcome."

"That's very kind of you, Jean, but ..." he heaved a sigh, "she's different, shy, awkward, think that's why I like her."

"Why don't you bring her round for a cuppa, before the day," Jean suggested, pushing a plate of shortbread towards him, "I haven't met her, but Lucien and Thomas both hold her in high regard."

"Right," he muttered.

"I don't think you have competition," she laughed.

"Really, only ..."

Jean smiled and thought back to the night they had gone to the art exhibition - when all had gone to bed, except her and Lucien. He had taken her hand and pulled her towards him, and they had danced a slow dance to the soft music from the radiogram. They hadn't spoken, he had just held her and at the end of the song, kissed her ever so softly on the cheek, and bade her goodnight.

"Just ask her if she would like to come over, or perhaps ... yes, well, drop in for a cuppa."

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"You finished for today?" Senior Sergeant, soon to be Inspector, Lawson poked his nose into the morgue.

"Just about," Dr Alice Harvey pushed the tray of clean instruments to the back of the counter, "why?"

"Thought I'd pop up to see Mary," he had worked out a way to get her to meet Jean, "before I drop you off, at your boarding house."

"Oh, well, alright," she sighed, she wasn't confident in strange company, and she had been very surprised when the police officer had shown an interest in her, as a person.

"Jean won't bite, you know," he stood waiting for her to change out of her white coat into her duster coat, "I've known her nearly all my life, not a judgemental bone in her body."

"Hm .."

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Indeed Jean didn't bite, but while Matthew chatted with Mary at the table, she found out all she needed to know about Alice Harvey. How she had studied classics as well as medicine at university, how her family weren't impressed and that she lived in a local boarding house, which, in Dr Harvey's words,

"gives me a place to sleep and somewhere to store my things." Jean sensed there was more to her than met the eye.

"Are you going home for Christmas?" she asked, turning the roast over, and putting it back into the oven to finish cooking.

"No!" she gasped, "heavens, why would I do that?"

"To be with your family," Jean smiled.

"What a dreadful thought," Alice sipped her tea and nibbled the excellent shortbread.

"Oh, well, would you like to join us?" Jean sat down to peel the vegetables, "you can stay for dinner tonight, too, if you'd like to."

Matthew had surreptitiously been listening to the conversation, and thought now was a good time to step in.

"Smells good, Jean, what's on the menu tonight?" He drew a cup towards him and poured himself a cup.

"Roast pork, Matthew," she didn't look up, "apple sauce, veggies ..."

"Stop, my mouth is watering," he laughed, "I guess I'll do with a pasty."

"Oh no you won't, Matthew Lawson," Jean huffed, "you will sit down with us to a proper dinner, your mother would be horrified." She turned and looked at Alice, "his mother always insisted on a proper dinner, said he would fade away to nothing."

"Hello, Matthew," Lucien strode into the kitchen, "and Alice, well, what a lovely surprise, should we set extra places tonight, Mrs Beazley?"

"I think Dr Harvey is the only one who needs persuading, doctor," she laughed.

"Tosh!" he huffed, "of course you're staying," he looked at Matthew who had an almost grateful look on his face.

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Alice was still stunned as they left the house, she had effectively been railroaded into a family meal with a colleague and people she barely knew. And yet, it felt right. Nobody had asked her questions about her family, why she had come to Ballarat, or if she had any romantic entanglements. They had talked about art, which she knew nothing about but was content to listen to, the current case and stories in the Courier.

"Sorry," Matthew felt he should apologise, "but ... well Jean feeds anyone who arrives at the house."

She considered this before answering.

"Right," she took a breath, "so, if I drop by to see Dr Blake, I should expect tea and biscuits?"

"And if you time it right, dinner," he grinned.

They drove on in silence until Matthew pulled up outside her boarding house.

"So," he turned to look at her, "about Christmas ..."

"Um, I don't know," she answered, honestly, "they seem nice people, but ... oh, Matthew, it's a long time since I had a family Christmas dinner that didn't involve fists and arguments ... I don't want to get into that, again."

"There is absolutely no chance of that," he took her hand, "that house is a haven of calm, I don't know what Jean does but not even Lucien is angry there, and he has a lot to be angry about. If you find it a bit much you can always go and sit in the garden or the sun room, Jean won't mind."

"You know her well," she observed.

"I've known her most of our lives," he admitted looking out of the window and far away, "when she was courting Christopher, before Mary was born. I, we have always been friends, I was too scared to try my hand with her, and then ... well, you know, I don't think it would have worked; but I will defend her to my last breath," he puffed out his chest, "and you," he added, softly.

She blushed and said she would give it some thought.

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"She's interesting," Jean answered Lucien's unasked question on her opinion of Alice Harvey, "lonely, I think, but shy. There again, if her past is half as bad as I got the impression it was it doesn't surprise me that she comes over as stand-offish."

"Matthew's sweet on her, isn't he?" he swirled his whisky round.

"Oh yes," she grinned, "and I'm glad, he's always been a bit nervous around girls, but I think he's going to have to work for her."

'Know how he feels,' Lucien thought.