Chapter 8
It felt like the longest day, perhaps because I hadn't slept the night before. The case was unsettling, to be sure, but so was knowing Lucien was out there working it on no sleep and little food. He'd done it before, but somehow that night everything felt more urgent. I suppose, had things turned out the way we'd hoped a long day, punctuated as planned, would have been lovely. But thinking back on it, it's really just exhausting. It's hard to believe that all the events of that day were contained in twenty-four hours.
Jean had sent him on his way, as she knew she must and as she was accustomed to doing. But she quickly found her thoughts went with him. She tried to busy herself with her tasks but when she found herself trimming a plant within an inch of its life she retreated to the sitting room where at least the bookshelf would survive a third dusting. She was getting nothing done and even that she was getting done slowly. She hated feeling useless. If she was going to worry about Lucien's health she may as well see to it herself.
She went into the kitchen and put together a lunch faster than she could talk herself out of it. She'd make enough for Frank and Bill and Charlie as well. It would just be a kind thing to do. They wouldn't mind. They'd raise an eyebrow, perhaps, comment behind closed doors, but they wouldn't mind.
Oh, just stop thinking, Jean, and get in the bloody car. Fortunately, Charlie had taken Lucien in and left his new, mercifully reliable car for this particular errand.
She strode into the police station girded with her basket of food and the confidence that comes from not allowing yourself to think too deeply about your actions. She obviously interrupted some discussion of the case as she entered. Frank was instructing Bill to check every shed when he noticed her.
"Mrs. Beazley, the doctor is still on his way."
She had, of course, noticed his absence.
"I know, I thought you might all be hungry."
"Very thoughtful of you," Frank said, though he looked a touch uncomfortable. No matter. Men loved food. She would just unpack the basket. It wasn't just Lucien on her mind, though, the very idea of a woman being held against her will somewhere, well, it was hard to shake. To feel so powerless is gutting. So much spins out of our control when we have both hands available to us, but this woman was bound somewhere, waiting for her world to slip away from her. And with a child to care for. Jean shook it off, brought her attention back to the station.
"Has anyone called?" she asked.
"No, uh, not the call we were hoping for," Frank said.
"Poor woman," Jean said. "Kept me awake at night thinking about it." She paused. It wasn't the only thing she was thinking about last night but it had been a piece of it. And her mind had worked. There was something she hadn't had a chance to tell Lucien that had been troubling her. "Did Mr. Chapman buy the lottery ticket himself?"
"Um, as far as we know, yes."
"It's just that when I bought my ticket, most of the customers were women," Jean offered. "The ladies were all talking about it. Though it's probably nothing." It wasn't nothing, she knew. But she also knew Frank Carlyle was not Lucien Blake and she couldn't insert herself into the investigation quite as boldly as she'd do with a more confident man.
"No, it's actually a very good question," Frank said. He sent Bill to look into it just as Lucien entered the room. She felt him before she saw him. Her heart leapt toward the door and she both chided herself for feeling like a school girl and enjoyed every moment of it. She caught his eye and saw surprise, perhaps, and a moment's hesitation before showing Frank Carlyle what he'd found in the dead man's gloves.
Jean couldn't help but glance at them herself, but of course she knew what they were. Just then, Bill returned with word that indeed the ticket had been bought by Mrs. Chapman. Of course, it had. The men all turned to her like she were some sort of witch. It only takes paying attention, she wanted to say. Not to the clues, necessarily, but to people, and details. She found men often so caught up in their own stories they missed what was right in front of them. Just like now.
"These little buggers are driving me mad," Lucien said, a bit of exasperation in his voice.
Jean moved closer, peered over his shoulder. "I think I know what they are."
She had all of their attention and found she quite enjoyed their astonishment. And she very much enjoyed that her mind was so well suited to this sort of work. But more than that, today, she would just like this case solved and off Lucien's mind. They had things to talk about, she was quite sure.
Today seemed like a perfectly good day to wash and dry all the linens in the house. It actually was not the day she did this at all, but it would be something to do while she tried to keep her mind off the fact that Lucien rushed right back out without eating a thing. He was grown. He managed to survive the war without her, surely he'd survive this case. But once you grasp something… once you realize you want something and want never to let it go, don't you start thinking of all the ways it could be taken from you?
She'd just find another set of sheets to wash. Surely, they needed it. And standing out in the sunshine would do her good.
Ah, but there was the crunch of gravel, and the thud of the car door she'd listened so intently for last night but had never come. She smiled to herself as the welcome footsteps approached. She kept on with her task. She'd let him find her.
"Jean!" he called out. She could feel her smile taking over her face. She'd just take one more minute to fasten this sheet while she got control of herself.
"Jean!" He called again.
"Lucien, I've saved some lunch for you!" She dried her hands on her apron. Their warmth might betray just how quickly her heart beat when she heard his voice.
"Lovely," he said. And, yes, he was. But he held his arm out in a gesture as though he had something to show her. Something small. And around the corner came a quiet little girl in long braids and short socks. Jean knew who this girl must be and her face darkened at the thought of what this small child was suffering.
"Is there enough for two?"
"Well, of course there is," Jean said and then she smiled on the girl with all the warmth that emanated from her like the bright Australian sun.
"Come with me and we'll find you both something to eat," Jean said, extending her hand to the small girl who shyly took it as Jean walked past. Jean gave Lucien a look that asked for an explanation and he inhaled in a way she knew well. He'd explain shortly.
"Why don't you wash up in here," Jean pointed toward the bathroom, and I'll fix a sandwich.
The girl did as she was told and Jean looked over her shoulder at Lucien as he began helping her with the food.
"You sit. You've had no sleep and nothing to eat and I won't have you slicing off a finger with any of my knives." Jean gestured, a particularly sharp looking one in her hand.
Lucien, too, did what he was told.
"Rose brought Elizabeth to the station," he said. "No one was looking after her."
"Oh, that poor girl. Who could just abandon a child?" Jean asked.
"I thought you'd be the best to… well, no one takes care of people like you do. And she needs the best." Lucien held Jean's eyes in a gaze that made her hands weaken as she set a plate in front of him. She had no idea how to respond to that. He was always better with words than she was. But she did lay her hands on his shoulders and lean in to leave a lingering kiss on his forehead. Her hands moved of their own accord as they slipped up his neck and along his soft beard and rough skin. His heart beat beneath her fingers and she thanked God for the life it stood for and the man in front of her. She left her lips on his warm skin long enough to feel the texture of him, to breathe him in, to be sure of him for that moment. As she pulled back, already regretting the separation, Lucien cleared his throat and indicated the doorway. There stood young Elizabeth, just watching.
Jean recovered herself with a swing of her shoulders but felt a strong need to leave the room.
"Let's find a nice cheery place to have your lunch," Jean said. She carried the plate to Elizabeth who followed her dutifully back to the sunroom.
Jean gave the girl some space to eat, and herself a chance to shake off the moment's embarrassment turning to the plants around her that needed tending. Finally, she turned around and looked at the girl. Children should be worried about learning and playing and growing into people. Their innocence should be protected by the adults around them or their dreams, well, they learn not to dream.
So much hung in the balance for this girl. And Lucien was the one who would make it right, she knew he would. Her heart was torn between deep pity and soaring pride. She wished she could make Elizabeth's world right, herself, but all she could do was feed her, and watch her, and let Lucien do his job. Elizabeth's eyes were downcast. Her sandwich barely touched.
"Not very hungry?" Jean asked.
"No," Elizabeth had a disarming, lilting voice. "But that was lovely." She looked into Jean's face. "Thank you, Mrs. Blake."
"You're very welcome. You've got lovely manners." After all, how was dear Elizabeth to know they weren't married after what she saw in the kitchen. Still, it needed to be corrected. "And I'm Mrs. Beazley. The doctor and I aren't married." The words tumbled out quickly, almost as if she'd rather not say them.
"Why not?"
"Well," Jean found herself looking around for help but of course none was to come. She crouched down and met Elizabeth's eyes. She deserved a serious answer. "We used to be married to other people, and now we live together so I can help him with his work."
"Do you love him?"
Lucien sat in his surgery, poring over the details of the case. The arrival of the little girl only intensified his desire to find her mother. Murder was one thing. It was an event over and done. The killer had already, at that point, done the damage he or she was going to do. And it was up to Lucien and, he supposed, the police force to bring justice for the victims, to protect the rest of society. But this… this damage had not yet been done. This girl's future hinged on his ability to find the patterns, sort it out, and something about the crime still being in the realm of the not yet made it that much worse. Who could orphan a little girl? How could he allow it? He trained his mind back to the problem at hand when he heard Jean walking with Elizabeth back to the house, past his window.
"Do you love him?" Elizabeth asked.
And for all of Lucien's dedication and intensity of focus he would think of nothing, hear nothing, be nothing, till he heard an answer. Did she love him? It was the question ever present on his mind. She seemed to. She acted like it, he thought, perhaps. She seemed glad of him in Adelaide. She touched him like she cared, but she'd said nothing. Nothing. He knew she wasn't given to outpouring of emotion but surely she'd have said something. Hadn't he made himself clear? Or had he? He held the ring box, still. He reached for it every time he entered this room, now. It held every hope for his future. He thought tonight he'd have his answer, but now, he couldn't even think about tonight. Everything rested on Jean's response to an impertinent question from a scared little girl.
A knock sounded at the front door. "I'll get it!" Lucien yelled quickly, hoping Jean wouldn't be interrupted.
"I think perhaps we should clean up these dishes." Jean's voice wafted along the warm air, through his open window. Bloody hell. He sighed. Well, there was always tonight. She'd say yes, or she wouldn't. Surely, she'd say yes. But oh, he was such a mess of a man. She'd be well within her rights to say no. It would be the wise choice, and Jean was a wise woman.
He stood up. He'd answer the door. He shouldn't be listening at windows, anyway. But as he did, he could see her through the shutters, just now passing.
"Elizabeth," Jean said. She turned, tenderly toward the girl. Being with Jean was like standing in sunlight. That little girl must surely feel warmed by her. He'd done the right thing bringing her home. "I think you're a girl who notices things, aren't you?"
"Mm, hmm" Elizabeth said.
"I think you know the answer to your question."
"You love him," she said.
"Yes," Jean said, "I love him very much."
The knock came again and Lucien tripped over his chair on the way to the door catching himself on his desk with a thud. Jean would hear that. He didn't slow down, though. He couldn't, really, his heart beat too fast with the words he'd given up on, but so longed for. He feared Jean would hear him and know he'd heard her. But wondered also if she hadn't timed her response just so. At any rate, she'd said it. And he knew it. And for this moment, his heart felt unable to be contained in even his expansive chest. He would do anything to right that little girl's world and set his to right as well. Thank God for small children.