Jean had always known the right thing to do, even when she hadn't done it. Last night, she made up Mattie's room for the man she'd hoped to marry. She showed her husband where to sleep for the night. She came upstairs and sat at her garret window. And then she was completely out of ideas as to what possibly the next thing was to do. Sleep, she supposed, but sleep wouldn't come.

Instead her mind skipped back to the simple act of making Mattie's bed up with Lucien. As they each tugged up the corners of the coverlet, they paused and looked into each other's eyes. And she knew she dare not give herself an unfilled moment in the room. She saw questions in Lucien's eyes, but they were questions for her, and she couldn't answer them. He stood by the door as she hurried from the room. He didn't block her way, but he did hold out his hand and she caught it as she passed. She held it and stopped. She did not want to pass through that doorway.

"Jean," he whispered in that deep, throaty rumble that made her pay attention.

She should have his mother's ring on her finger. She should be going to sleep tonight with thoughts of things to come.

When Lucien opened that jewel box he opened up a lifetime. Where before she'd seen one day at a time, that ring said, come dream with me. In an instant she saw herself sleeping with her head tucked against Lucien's shoulder, his hand warm on her hip as he held her to him. She saw little Amelia Jean coming to play and Lucien holding her on his knee, kind and strong as he always was with children. She saw down a path of years that would be both completely unpredictable because life with Lucien always was, but also completely dependable. She saw joy. But now, now she was back to doing the next right thing – if she could even figure that out.

She let go of Lucien's hand.

As she had thought, as tired as she was, sleep was a long way off. She sat instead and looked at the moon out the window. They hadn't been friends, once, when she was a child. Now it's cool light fell on her face as tears fell against her cheeks. It felt like a kind of comfort, being seen like that. She chided herself for the superstition, but she and the moon had a history. She supposed a door still opened before her, but now lit by cold moonlight, rather than the heat of the sun she felt with Lucien. It was a different door, with a different man, but unchangeable all the same.

Sleep finally came for her as her sensible mind made her lie down eventually and she woke before the rest of the house as usual. She managed a tense breakfast with Lucien and Christopher before sending Lucien to work and excusing herself to get dressed. She said so little to him. After Lucien left she found herself looking at him as he sat at the table, slowly sipping his coffee.

"Where were you," she managed. It came out thin and strained, but without tears.

"I told you, I was recovering, first in Germany, then in London," Christopher said, concern in his eyes. "I was badly injured and had been rescued from the battlefield but I didn't know myself for a long time and when I did… I was in no shape to see you."

"Your son needed to see you," Jean said. "Whatever shape you were in."

"I'm sorry," Christopher said. "Truly, I got home as soon as I could."

Jean nodded, taking in his words, and pulled her robe more tightly around her.

"I need to get dressed," she said. "I have work to do."

"Yes, Lucien keeps you busy, I see."

She'd had no response to that as she climbed the stairs. Once she knew what she exactly what she would say if she ever saw Christopher again. She'd apologize, she'd open up her heart and pour everything out that she'd held onto for so long. Many nights while he was gone imagining their reunion was what kept her going. She'd been wrong to say what she did. He'd left because she was ungrateful and impulsive, but she'd make it right when he got home. She'd tell him he was enough, she'd wear a special dress.

She hung onto that dress for years, letting her fingers run over the blue fabric with its scattered white flowers when she missed him the most, even after those officers knocked on her door, even when she knew he wasn't coming home. Something about that dress gave her comfort. But eventually it passed out of style, and it only served to remind her that she'd been uncharitable and unkind. Still, she couldn't quite bear to get rid of it. So she'd altered it. She made it two pieces rather than one. She brought up the hem a bit, added some detailing on the sleeves. It had been a dress to signify new beginnings, so she'd worn it, recently, when she needed the strength to do just that.

Much like the dress she felt the apology resident in her heart alter as well. But was that for the best? Perhaps it should have stayed whole and unchanged as well as the dress.

"Jean?" Christopher called from downstairs.

How long had she stood here dithering about clothing? Honestly, Jean, she thought, and grabbed the striped shirtdress she had on yesterday morning.

"Just a moment," she called back as she slipped yesterday's clothing over her head. She reached for her cardigan and sped toward the door, but felt a weight in the pocket. Lucien's ring. She hesitated at the door, slipped her hand in her pocket and pulled it out. She opened the box and stared at the perfectly arranged stones, clear and bright and sparkling. Then she opened her jewelry box and nestled it in, just next to the one Christopher had given her as a girl, when he rescued her from a life of scandal and shame. How could she even think of withholding the apology he was due?

"Frank, I need to get home for lunch…" Lucien began to explain when Frank stopped him with his palm outstretched.

"We've got a young woman butchered by the lake, Lucien. I know what you have at home, but I need a cause of death before we can move forward with the investigation."

"Yes," Lucien said, his hand on the back of his head.

"And you seemed to know her? What do I need to know?"

"Well," Lucien truly wanted to speak to Jean before proceeding, to quell the mounting unease he felt, but also because he'd gotten on the wrong side of her before regarding Jack. He wouldn't tell her anything yet, but he did want to know if she'd located him. It might mean something. As Lucien cast about for a suitable way out of this particular issue his eyes lit on Charlie.

"Charlie! Eh, right Frank." Lucien motioned for Charlie to come with him. "I'll just have Charlie give me a lift." Lucien motioned for Charlie to follow him out of the station.

"We just need to make a stop first," Lucien said.

"I'm not taking you home, Doc," Charlie said.

"As Frank pointed out earlier, and seems to have forgotten, I've left Mrs. Beazley with a man who's as good as a stranger."

"Her name is Mrs. Beazley. You do realize what you're saying."

"Do you know the man, Charlie?"

"Are you saying that's not him? Mrs. Beazley is a smart woman. She'd recognize her own husband."

Charlie knit his eyes together like he did when he thought Lucien was being unreasonable. He actually looked a lot like Jean in those moments, Lucien thought. But Charlie was a reasonable man, and he cared for Jean. He could make him see sense, and this time, Lucien was the sensible one.

"I've been to war, Charlie. It changes a man."

Charlie sighed and looked off to the side, considering.

"And we still don't have a good answer for what kept him away so long. He didn't claim to be in a prisoner of war camp. Did he really just wait to regain his strength for 14 years?"

Charlie met his eyes again, decisively.

"I'll drop you at the morgue…"

"Charlie!"

But Charlie held his hand up to interrupt.

"I'll drop you at the morgue and then I'll go and check on Mrs. Beazley myself. If anything seems at all out of place, I won't leave. You're right, someone needs to watch out for her, but I'm not sure she needs you and Mr. Beazley under the same roof right now."

Lucien dropped his shoulders and took a breath. Charlie was right, but he didn't like it. He just wanted to see her.

"You do understand it's my roof," he said, as they walked to the car.

Charlie cracked a smile.