There's grief of want, and grief of cold,—

A sort they call "despair";

There 's banishment from native eyes,

In sight of native air.

-Emily Dickinson

The last of the guests had finally left, murmuring their condolences and offers of help as they walked through the door into the early winter afternoon. Dr. Thomas Blake responded as custom dictated, thanking each one for coming to the funeral and, yes, he would be sure to let them know if he needed anything. They gave small, polite smiles, knowing that the request would never be made, and trying to ignore the twinge of guilt at the feeling of relief. They had done their duty; they were absolved, free to continue with their lives.

Thomas made his way into his surgery, lighting the lamp on his desk. The house had electric lights in all the rooms, but he still preferred the light of the oil lamp. Its soft glow was modest and refined, unlike the harsh illumination of its modern cousin. He sat at the desk and tried to think of what to do next. He was not a man who lived life in the spur of the moment. He made plans, carried them to completion, and then filed them away before moving on to the next task. His wife had died, he had buried her, and now he must move on to…what? What was he to do next? How could he move forward when everything that mattered was behind him and moving further and further away? Genevieve was dead.

He could feel the stinging behind his eyes and the tightening of his chest begin again. This would not do. Thomas looked around his desk for something to distract him – patient notes, a medical journal, some unopened mail – and spied the envelope from Melbourne. Xavier College. Sursum Corda – lift up your hearts. How very hopeful. He slit open the envelope, removed the thick sheaf of papers, and began to fill out the forms, never bothering to read past the first paragraph offering the warm introduction and gratitude for considering Xavier as a choice for his son. As if he had a choice.

Genevieve would have fought him. The thought of Lucien being sent out of her sight was enough to trigger the tears and hysterics and tantrums that Thomas found incomprehensible. The boy was ten years old now; too old to be coddled and cosseted like a favoured pet. He had become spoiled and soft, and Thomas' attempts to involve him with activities like footy or Scouts had only led to dramatic rows. Thomas loved his son, but he could not be the kind of parent that his wife had been. And now the very sight of his boy tore his heart to shreds, and he could not bear it.

Nor could he bear for Lucien to hear the gossip that was already beginning to swirl around Ballarat. How his beloved mother died at a party after his father had left her there, claiming fatigue from a long day caring for the sick. How she was drinking and dancing and flirting, basking in the attention that fueled her existence. Genevieve: the White Wave, of the race of women, defender of Paris. Ballarat was too small for her, so she created her own world of color and light and life and set it spinning at a dizzying pace. Thomas heard the gossip, the comments made by casual friends and patients, saw the way they looked at him, gauging his response. They had an understanding, he and Genevieve. He never really doubted her fidelity. But then Doug Ashby would not meet his eyes…

His thoughts were providentially interrupted by the sound of teacups rattling on the tray, and he looked up to see Agnes Clasby standing in the doorway. As if his day was not already unbearable. He hated the very sight of the woman, and was aware that the feeling was mutual. Now, however, Agnes seemed to be making a peace offering, or at least a temporary cessation of hostilities. Thomas sighed and gave a nod, which Agnes understood as permission to enter. She set about putting the tray on the corner of the desk, filling the cups and fussing about the few tired-looking biscuits on the plate. Thomas watched her carefully, aware that she was stalling for time. He felt a small smile creep upon his lips: an anxious Agnes was a novelty. Whatever she had to say to him was bound to spark an argument, and Thomas found himself looking forward to the diversion. He did not have long to wait.

"Nell and I have been talking. We want Lucien to come and stay with us for a while. We can look after him while you…" Agnes waived her hand over the papers on the desk, "…deal with all this. I don't suppose you've considered taking some time off?"

"Whatever for?"

"You've just lost your wife. People don't expect you to…"

"You're wrong. People expect a great deal. People assume a great deal." Thomas looked pointedly across the desk, "And people will expect me to carry on as before. I can't just walk away from my job. I am not some clerk to be easily replaced."

Agnes drew a deep breath. "Very well, all the more reason for Lucien to come with us while you 'carry on'. At least until you sort things out and make arrangements for his care. He should not be left on his own." Agnes was aware that the Blake's housekeeper was not keen on children, and was unlikely to stay now that Genevieve was gone.

"Arrangements have already been made." He would not meet Agnes' eyes. "The boy is going to school. He starts next week at Xavier College." Thomas kept writing, refusing to look up. He could feel her stare burning a hole in the top of his head.

"You heartless bastard."

Agnes and Thomas both started. Nell Clasby stood in the doorway, her body rigid with rage. Thomas felt himself deflate a little; while he relished sparring with Agnes, his feelings toward her sister were quite different. "Nell, please let me explain…" He got no further.

"There is nothing to explain. That poor boy has just lost his mother, and now he's to lose his father as well? Thomas, how could you even think to send him away?" Nell was on the verge of tears. "Let him come to Agnes and me, at least for a little while. Then, maybe, we can think about sending him to school next term."

"There is no 'we' here. Lucien is my responsibility, and I will deal with it as I see fit."

Agnes glared at Thomas. "Genevieve did not want her son sent away to school!"

Thomas rounded on her. "How do you know what my wife wanted? How do you know what we discussed? Did she tell you all this while painting your portrait? Is that what kept the two of you locked up in the studio all that time?" He felt a savage satisfaction as the color drained from Agnes' face.

A child's cry from somewhere upstairs stopped them. Nell made to leave, but Agnes stood up. "I'll go." She hastily strode from the room. Thomas and Nell faced one another.

Nell pleaded. "Thomas, please. I'm not sure you've thought this through."

"The matter is closed."

"Lucien…"

"…is not your son."

"No, he is not." Nell looked over at the man she had known since childhood. "But we both know he should have been."

Thomas could only watch as the door slammed behind her.