Christopher fairly staggered through the door. Lucien caught him by the elbow but then Jean ran up and took his arm, as she ought to, she supposed. She'd had a moment as she rushed to him when she thought perhaps she'd been wrong. Perhaps it would turn out to be Jack, road weary and worn, and she'd just seen his father in him. She'd be chagrined but relieved.
But no, this was Christopher Beazley, Sr. And she was not wrong, of course. She would know her husband anywhere, even after 14 years of being gone, reported dead, grieved for and let go. She would know him.
He took her arm and glanced up at her face, quickly, then away. "Jean," he said, as though to confirm.
"Ah, let's get you inside," Lucien said. He looked over Christopher's bowed head at Jean who widened her eyes back at him. I've no idea she was saying to his silent question of how, why, what now?
They both got Christopher situated on the very settee they had just occupied a very different moment ago. Jean looked deeply, longingly at the seat, and if wishes could transport her back into that moment she would be answering Lucien's question right now.
But wishes are nothing but the measure by which our hearts break. She knew that well enough. The weight of the ring box, carefully stowed in the pocket of her sweater, whispered to her that she'd been a fool to think otherwise. And so she sat next to Christopher. He had the same dark hollows in his cheeks, the same deep brown eyes, but the rakish smile was gone, replaced with, well, nothing just yet. Everything about his face seemed dark and blank.
He coughed, and Jean jumped up saying she'd get him some tea.
"No, let me," Lucien said. But she didn't let him. She needed a to take one deep breath, even if it meant leaving the two of them together to stare at each other. Hadn't she allowed Lucien that just a moment ago?
She quickened her pace to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. She set it on the stove and lit the burner, relishing the routine. This she could do. She knew how to make tea. She let herself fall into the ordinariness of the movement. But the most ordinary thing that had happened today was Lucien saving a little girl's future. Everything after that had shattered expectations. Jean found her hands trembling as she gathered cups and worried they'd slip from her grasp. She smoothed out her skirt, her sweater, trying to steady them. And she felt the ring.
She could just slip it on.
He'd nearly asked. And her answer would only have been one thing. Would she have even had words to craft an answer? She couldn't have done it as beautifully as Lucien said things. Perhaps she'd have just kissed him. Would it really be a lie if she just slipped it on now? In many ways, it would be the most truthful gesture. They'd come so close. The worst part was that she knew, somewhere deep inside. She knew this couldn't be true for her. It was too lovely, like moonlight that teases then slips away.
She chided herself as she readied the tray. No, she should be relieved she hadn't given an answer yet. How could she wish she had said yes to a marriage proposal when she was still another man's wife? And Christopher looked so ill, so tired. What was wrong with her? Hadn't she wished for years for a chance to smooth her last words? To assure him of her love? Shouldn't she get down on her knees and thank the heavens for this answer to prayer? She'd been foolish to think prayers expired like wishes.
Lucien did not remain with Christopher in the other room. He followed Jean and she jumped back when he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Jean, did you have any idea…"
"No," she cut him off. "No, I was told he was dead."
"Who told you? How did you find out?"
"Are you asking me if I misunderstood the two officers who knocked on my door?" Jean hissed. "No, no, I'm sorry." Lucien held his hands up in surrender. He could be so frustrating. She knew he wanted to understand how a man could be presumed dead for 14 years, but the answer did not lie with her. "Forgive me," he placed one hand on her far shoulder and pulled her into his chest.
He was so warm, so strong, so solid that of course, this would be alright.
She actually let her heart relax for a second before pushing back and saying, "I've got to bring tea to my husband."
Lucien looked struck. But he nodded, "yes, can we put him in Mattie's room tonight."
"It'll take time to make it up," she said.
"Then let him have mine. I'll take Mattie's. We'll all talk more in the morning."
Jean just managed a nod. Alright. Sleep would be best for everyone. She watched, numbly, as Lucien gestured for Christopher to stand, as he had done so recently with her, and escort him toward Mattie's old room. Jean felt a twinge of desire for Mattie's kind face right now but that would truly only make things worse. It would be one more face looking up to hers wondering what came next. And how did she know? But she would, wouldn't she. She'd determine what was right, and would just do that.
She squared her shoulders and followed Lucien into the room with the tea tray. She'd make Christopher comfortable for the night. That was the next right thing to do.
Lucien did not recognize the man in the doorway, but he apprehended that he was someone of importance from the countenance of the man's face. It could only be described as expectant. When strange men knocked on Lucien's door they usually looked hopeful, maybe their expression held a whisper of pleading. They wanted help, solving a case, finding a loved one, healing an ill. Sometimes they came looking angry. Lucien had a way of infuriating people that he'd long since made peace with.
But this look almost had an air of entitlement and Lucien was not at all comfortable with it. He understood it when Jean called out behind him. This man felt entitled to Jean. That didn't sit well with Lucien. She was her own, and no one else's. Not even his. Maybe especially not his.
He glanced at Jean but she was clearly as surprised by this as he was. She rushed to take Christopher's arm and Lucien felt a surge of protection rise up inside him. But her tears that day she saw their old farm came rushing back to him. This was a man she loved dearly. If this was what she wanted. How could it not be what she wanted? No, he wouldn't think of that now.
As soon as they got him settled on the sofa Jean jumped up to make tea. He watched her walk away and wanted to follow immediately but sensed she needed a moment.
"So, ah, Christopher? Christopher Beazley, is that right?" Lucien asked.
"Yes, and you're the famous Dr. Lucien Blake?" Christopher said. He tried to settle back against the settee but his long limbs seemed awkward and stiff. He leaned forward instead, elbows on his legs, and tapped his right knee.
"Don't know about famous, but you have my name correct."
"I've been looking for Jean for a while. Your name is always given with commentary," Christopher said.
"Ah," Lucien said, attempting a grin. "Well, you've found us at last. You look tired. Has it been a long journey."
"You have no idea," Christopher said. He allowed his head to drop at that last comment.
"Let me just check on your tea," Lucien said. He hurried to Jean's side. He asked if she knew, and how this could be, but of course those were the wrong words. He often had the wrong words for Jean. It was a wonder they'd come as far as they had and owing mostly to Jean's capacity to forgive, and to overlook flaws. He didn't want to think what that meant for both of them now.
He drew her to himself and felt her relax against his shoulder for the briefest of moments. But before her heartbeat could slow itself she pushed back.
"I have to take tea to my husband."
Her husband. What a thing to be her husband.
He was not at all sure the man on the settee deserved that title. And he was equally unsure what should be done about it. But they decided he needed rest and would offer up Lucien's bedroom. He'd give up anything for Jean, of course. Even Jean herself.
But as Lucien led Christopher to the room. As he found things for him to sleep in and watch Jean settle the tray on the night stand, most importantly as he watched Jean's unsteady, vulnerable smile he made a vow to himself. Something in Jean's countenance was asking this man's permission and everything within Lucien wanted to step between them and say that Jean needed no one 's permission to do anything at all. Her independence was hard won. She'd worked hard to provide for her children, heal her heart, keep Lucien from self-destructing out of her own generosity and by God she didn't need to appeal to anyone.
Lucien had given his blessing once before, hastily, and in an effort to prove he put Jean above himself, and Jean was the one who'd been hurt. Lucien would not make that mistake again.
This man had much to prove.