The old man doesn't have much time left. Every breath is an obvious inconvenience for him. The priest hunches over the dying man like a raven feeding on a carcass. His beads rattle around in my skull.
When he leaves, Father brings me close.
"You failed your wife. I failed my wife."
The cracks in my head widen, and the late afternoon sun burns my thoughts.
"Don't fail her when I'm gone."
It's so hard to concentrate. "Who?"
"Jean, of course, you imbecile. Your wife."
Yes, I'm married to Jean. Look around the dark bedroom. It smells of death and decay, but she's not there. Must find her—
The halls are so dark, knocking from table to walls, shaking the vases and making pictures go askew. The studio door, closed as always. It was her place, her sanctuary. Us boys weren't allowed in.
And one door opens, a feminine voice calls out, "Lucien, mon cher."
Mother needs me. The smell of paint and turps and lilac perfume. She's at the fire, a dark figure swathed in an Oriental dressing gown, shimmering silk with snakes coiled up her body. She wears red slippers—no, she stands in a puddle of red paint.
My wife turns to greet me. "Lucien, you're finally here. I've been waiting for ages."
It's her; she's finally all mine! "We can be together," she says. "I've wanted you for so long, I need your touch—" She opens the gown with a smile.
Blood courses down her chest, from where her breasts should be, flowing over her belly to flood at the apex of her thighs, and along her legs to pool at her feet.
"Is there a problem, Lucien?"
"No, nothing, no—" I can't stop babbling; it's the only thing keeping the vomit down.
"You know what the Japs do to us. You've seen it before. Why would I be different? After all, you weren't there to protect me, protect Li—"
I can only sob. "I'm sorry."
"And now you just got rid of me. Like this, I'm no use to you anymore. Jean's the one you want—"
"It's not like that, Mei Lin.."
Her smile is cold. "But you can't take care of her either." She tips her head.
Jean on the couch. Reclining, sleeping...No, twisted, ashen in death, the cyanide burning her mouth, the agony still in her eyes—
Must run, must go, can't face all this—
Hands reaching for me, grabbing, holding me back, fight, fight, fight for your life, that's all you can do—
Jean tried to stop Lucien's thrashing, She'd woken to his cries, his powerful limbs reaching for her and pushing her away at the same time. If only he'd wake—
His eyes snapped open, but his vision was blank. She tried to get his attention. "Lucien!" He grasped her and she felt all his power in one frightening instance.
She slapped him, hard. His breathing stopped in a huff, and started again like he was running. Then he was up, out of the bed, and gone from the room.
She must follow. Snatching her dressing gown from the end of the bed, she pursued him. "Lucien!" she called out again. Catching him by the front door, she yanked at his bare arm, tugging him around. He was naked and she couldn't get purchase on his sweat-sheened skin. She wrapped her arms around his middle and held him fast. His breathing was like a racehorse, thundering in her ear.
"Jean," he rasped, sounding full of wonder.
"It's fine, it'll be fine," she fiercely promised him, moving her arms to around his neck. He met her gaze. He was wide awake now but his eyes brimmed with fury and fear. "I'm not going anywhere," she said. She wasn't afraid. As long as she could touch him, she'd never be afraid.
Suddenly, he was lifting her, slamming her the short space to the wall, making her gasp with shock. Before she could say anything, his mouth was on hers, urgent in his need. She had to reassure him, her lips and tongue salving his pain. She tugged at his short hair, wild with sleep, showing him the way to return her assurances. Her gown's sash came loose and they were skin to skin, his length pressed low on her belly.
He hitched up her legs, and in one thrust, made her gasp out again—she hadn't been ready—but then a flood of arousal washed over them and she clung to his neck, her head falling to his shoulder.
"Oh my God, oh my God," she chanted, her teeth grazing the tendon tightening as his strong arms held her fast to him.
Or was she holding him? Keeping him from running out the door, never to be seen again? Holding him up so he didn't collapse like sand at her feet? She flung her head back as her power coursed through her limbs, radiating out from where she held him, he joined her—
He couldn't leave, never again. She locked her ankles behind his back, low where the muscles bunched with his exertion. He was fleeing the beasts that pursued him. She could shelter him against their attack; another shock of heat and energy struck her and now she chanted his name, calling him to her. Clawing at his head, she turned up his face to look at her again.
"I'm here, I'm here," she swore before kissing him, frantic, bruising kisses to seal her allegiance. Her body shook with another release—or had she never stopped?
His voice was pain itself. "Jean, please, please, oh God..."
Furious at whatever demon possessed him, she sank her teeth into his throat where his pulse jumped. He jerked, froze for a terrifying moment, then it was the calm of the storm. His frantic thrusts slowed. He planted one hand behind her head, leaning heavily on it, and supported her whole weight easily with the other hand cradling her bottom. His breathing was deep, brushing her breasts with his chest in the lightest and most painful caresses. His gaze pinned her down. He whispered against her lips, "I love you so much, Jean," and she came again, sobbing and clutching to his shoulders.
His release was one more cry, "Oh God," as he surged, all his muscles strong and alive in her hands. Then they were clinging to each other, leaning on the wall, weak and battered as the storm moved far off, the thunder distant.
Her every gasp was full of tears. His thumbs stroked the moisture from her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, so...sorry..." He was crying too. Pushing her away, fleeing again—
"No, Lucien!" But he only went to the lounge and collapsed on the settee. Finding her balance, Jean pulled her gown closed, and ever practical, retrieved his new cashmere gown from the bedroom to drape it over his bent back.
Tugging him close, she cradled his head against his belly. "Don't cry, my love," she murmured.
"I hurt you."
"I was the one who slapped you," she pointed out.
His brow furrowed. "Did you?"
"You were having a nightmare."
"I can't do this—" He tried to rise. "I'll leave—"
He frightened her with such talk. She pushed him back down and he fell to the cushion easily. "What are you on about?"
He hung his head. "I hurt you," he repeated.
She traced the red half-moon left by her teeth of his neck, then the scratches on his back. She quickly hitched the robe to cover the marks. Her limbs were still shaking, her skin was tingling, and she saw stars when she blinked. She felt as though she'd been at sea for days, and didn't have her land legs back yet.
"No," she said carefully. She and Christopher had always enjoyed themselves in the bedroom, but this was an entirely different sort of experience. She'd known women who'd left perfectly nice husbands for some rotter, and were heard to breathlessly say that it was because he had a way about him. Jean had just discovered what that meant, right down to the breathless part. Only her lover was no rotter. If anything, he was being a bit of a clueless clod.
Perhaps it would help to talk things out. Jean usually didn't like to discuss her feelings to death, but she would use that as a distraction for Lucien—a case for him to solve.
"It was lovely!" she barked out. "Quite."
That got his attention. He stared up at her, gaping. She pushed her hair back nervously. "Not that I know much about these sort of things. I mean, what have your other...friends said? About doing...that?" Using that word reminded her of Richard Taylor, how he'd ranted to her in the garden about men who wanted to do that to women, and how disgusting and beast-like that made them, and in the moment, she knew that she did not wish to see him again.
Lucien's Adam's apple bobbed. His eyes shifted. She waited.
"I really couldn't say." He cleared his throat. "Well, right. Then that's sorted."
"Yes," she said, relieved. For once, Lucien was going to let a matter drop—
"Although I can't really promised that sort of experience every time," he made clear. "Besides, with Charlie living here, we can't be really—"
She rushed in. "No, best not—"
"Perhaps when he's on shift—" Lucien suggested, the wheels turning in his mind.
She drew his head to her chest and his palms smoothed her hips with the silk of her gown. "Silly sod," she whispered as she kissed his forehead.
He laced his fingers behind her back and took a shattering deep breath. She feared what he was going to say next. "It just doesn't look as though we can share a bed. I was worried about that, you see."
She didn't sound very convincing when she said, "Oh, it's no bother."
He only tightened his grip.
"What were you dreaming about?"
His silence stretched on. "Nothing," he finally said.
"Didn't seem like nothing."
"I can't remember most of the time, that is. Just always the same sort of thing, anyway."
"I'd been having the most anxious dreams before the wedding. Icing cakes, hundreds of them," she said, "I expect it's just been all the fuss, change, concern about the future and such."
He didn't look convinced. "I'd hoped that they'd go away now that we're married. I haven't slept with anyone since before the war—that is, well, you know what I mean."
She really didn't, but patted his shoulder nonetheless.
"There's nothing that can stop these terrible dreams?" she asked gently, but he still pulled away, leaning back in the sofa and folding his arms tightly.
"No. I could drink myself into a stupor, but I want to enjoy my time in bed with you, not be passed out, spreading my stink on you."
She remembered washing his sheets and clothing, too often spoiled with the stench of alcohol, smothering his usual delicious smell.
"And I don't want to harm you," he muttered.
She got down on her knees so that he was forced to meet her gaze and put her hands on his thighs to get his attention. This was very difficult for her. So often, they'd had their most intimate conversations without daring to look at each other; a confessional of sorts. But now they were married, and she needed to face him down.
"Then you will have your nightmares and I'm so very sorry that you're in that pain, but when you wake, I'll be there. I'll always be there."
His face constricted as he tried to maintain control. "Some husband I am. I can't even protect you from me."
She hopped up, ignoring the groan of her joints, and sat beside him on the couch. "I'll be here," she repeated, refusing to acknowledge what he'd said. Pulling his head over to rest on her shoulder, she held him close. His whole body shook as he bit back sobs, so she just hummed tunelessly.
In Thomas's last days, when he couldn't go any farther than this couch, she had sang for him because he'd always enjoyed her voice. It had soothed him, so perhaps this would work for his son.
The last time that she sang had been the first time that she'd felt sympathy for Lucien.
"Alright, Doctor, you'll have to accompany me on the piano." She was hoping that she'd show some vitality.
He'd shaken his head. "I'm comfortable right here on the settee," he'd said, a warning in his tone. "But Lucien should be able to pick out a tune on the keys." He called over his shoulder to his son, who was reading the international newspapers at the dining table. "You do remember how to play? You haven't tossed that over like you did performing surgery?"
Lucien carefully laid his paper down. "No, Father," he said blankly.
"It's fine," Jean rushed to say. "I don't need to be accompanied. Goodness knows, I usually just sing along to the radio—"
Lucien came around to the piano. His encouraging smile was something new and different to Jean and she shied a bit from it. "Do you have something in mind?" he said gently.
"I don't know. Do you have a favourite, Doctor?"
He smiled weakly. "How about S'Wonderful. It's cheerful."
"Of course." She looked at Lucien nervously. He'd sat at the piano and opened the cover. His hands rested lightly on his thighs as he waited for her.
"Do you know it?" she asked.
He nodded, then asked, "Do you need a key?"
"This is hardly the stage at the Regent."
She simply started to sing, because that's how she did things, and he matched her key and pitch within a few notes. He played easily and well, and she shot Thomas an indignant look.
Then Lucien joined her, his voice rusty-sounding at first, but they were soon exchanging verses. It reminded her of the family sing-alongs they had when she was a child and she moved to lean on the piano, smiling down at him.
"You've made my life so glamorous...You can't blame me for feeling amorous—"
He focused on the keys but she saw his beard twitch, surely with a returning smile. He took the line, "'S wonderful...'S marvelous...That you should care for me—"
When they had finished, Thomas had weakly clapped, Jean had thanked Lucien for joining her, but he had only closed the cover on the keyboard without responding. She had felt as though he was closing a door on her brief view of a different man.
Lucien seemed to be calming. His muscles relaxed under her gentle caresses. "Love you," he murmured, sounding as though he was possibly falling asleep. She smiled with triumph. She would rather they were in bed but she'd take what she had.
She plucked at his hair, which was trying to curl despite all his best efforts with a comb and Brylcreem earlier in the day. Goodness, had they only been married twelve hours? It felt a lifetime. She smoothed his scalp with her palm and the curls bounced back behind her hand.
She had been the first one to touch. With his father's funeral the next day, Lucien had gone to the shops and had returned with a serviceable black suit and white shirt. Tailoring the garments gave Jean something to distract from her heartbreak and she eagerly offered. Only to realise that meant holding the tape at the point of his shoulder and pulling it down to his bum, and around his waist...and his strong neck...she steadfastly refused to measure his inseam. "I'll just get it off your trousers," she'd announced, turning away as he fought a grin.
She'd been making quick chalk marks on the jacket for her alterations when Lucien had said, "About my hair—"
"Yes, it's a right rat's nest," she said.
"I suppose I can try for the barber's first thing tomorrow—"
She thought of him at the barber's, with all the local men sitting around, and how uncomfortable that would be for everyone. "I cut my boys' hair, my husband's, even Dr Blake's at times. I can do yours."
And that's how they found themselves at the kitchen table, Lucien with a tea towel around his neck and Jean running a comb through his thatch of wild hair. "These curls," she fussed, covering her uncertainty. "My Jack has curls and they can be a devil to cut."
"Just cut it all off," Lucien said. "I'm used to a military cut. I've just let myself go, that's all."
So she did. Somehow it brought her nearly to tears to see the golden twists fall on the floor around the chair. And the shorter his hair became, the more she had to touch his warm skin. Her fingertips stroked at his temple, along his ear, up the nape of his neck.
The kitchen was very quiet, but for the snip of the scissors and the tick of the clock.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"None of that idle chit-chat like you get from barbers."
Her back went up. "I can chit-chat."
"No, that's alright."
She decided that she was finished. She caught herself before she put a kiss on the top of his head just as she would have with Christopher or the boys. Instead, she briskly brushed the last hairs from his shoulders. "I've done the best that I can, but I think it's going to take a big dollop of hair cream to hold it down tomorrow. Perhaps it'd be best for you to see a barber...and there's the matter of your beard—"
She leaned over as though to snip that as well but he rose from the chair and held out his hand for the scissors. "I'll take care of that."
"Fine." She found the broom and swept up his hair with vicious swipes. "I best start tailoring that suit of yours."
He had been quite the sight at his father's funeral, in a well-fitted but cheaply made suit, his father's favourite black silk tie and best black shoes, his hair slicked down from a sharply combed part but with his beard still thick like that of a bushranger.
She gave his hair another ruffle. Perhaps he'd grow those curls if she asked nicely... His voice was muffled against her breast. "I didn't stay because my father asked me to look after the house...look after you."
"Dr Blake asked you to look after me? He didn't have to do that. I would have sorted myself out." But she still felt tears come to her eyes. The old man had been so generous with her all those years, giving her a position when no one in town would hire her. The situation with Jack had tainted her, as much as she'd hated to acknowledge it. Not only had Thomas Blake hired her, but he'd encouraged her to take typing and bookkeeping courses so she could assume the role of his receptionist. And he'd allowed her to finally read those books which had fascinated her so many years ago. It was when he saw her interest in films and theatre, he'd suggested that she try out for the local theatre troupe.
With his death, all that had been torn away. Danny had come around to let her know that she could move in with his parents and their two daughters who were still at home. Her older brother, then another, had rung up with the same offer. With each one, the same vision came to mind. Always being a guest, never finding a real home. Although her house was long gone, owned by the Dempsters. She had dared to feel some sense of home here, but Dr Blake's death showed her how tenuous that was, with her fate now in the hands of his unstable son.
"Yes, I think he was appealing to my sense of chivalry. The town needed me, his patients needed me, and his housekeeper, that poor little widow, needed me." His voice was regaining its strength and he chuckled. "I didn't want to cause him more distress, so I said I would stay."
"But you didn't just say it to comfort a dying man. You did stay."
"I did it for the money," Lucien admitted. "I had been earning well enough at the mine clinic, but his practice, the police surgeon position, brought me enough money to hire Mr Kim, the investigator who was searching for Mei Lin and Li."
"Good! That's the man I love."
He peered up at her.
She planted a kiss on his nose and gave him a small smile. "You did anything that you had to do to find your family. Even tolerate this judgmental housekeeper and Ballarat's townspeople snubbing you at every turn."
"You weren't judgmental," he protested.
"Let's get you into this gown," she suddenly announced, standing and pulling him to his feet. He groaned and grumbled, but obediently held out his arms for her to tug the sleeves up his arms. Settling in the corner of the couch, he brought her down to snuggle into the cradle of his legs. "That's better," he said, his fingers weaving through her hair to caress her scalp.
She liked this a great deal. She mirrored his intimacy, sliding her hands inside his robe. There was still so much to explore on her groom. His body was solid, but his skin wonderfully sleek under her palms, like petting a well-groomed cat. "I was," she conceded.
"I was just different," he said soothingly. "That feral dog."
"You did finally clean up,' she said reassuringly.
He pressed his lips to her temple, and his warm chuckle brushed her brow. "With a bit of encouragement."
She shifted guiltily. She had been thrilled when he told her that he intended to stay and take over his father's practice, retaining her as the receptionist and housekeeper.
Even his rather half-hearted enthusiasm as he'd stated, "We'll see how things go," hadn't palled her relief. She'd looked him over critically. With some attention, he could be presentable, and surely blood would tell with his manner, and he would settle down. She mentally flipped through her catalogue of available women at church... Perhaps it was a bit soon to start inviting them over to lunch... Surely he would take up his family membership at the Colonial Club. She'd encourage him to attend on Ladies' Nights... It would need to be the right sort of wife for Lucien Blake, one that Jean could manage—get along with...
"Yes, you see, Matthew Lawson has talked to me about coming on as the police surgeon."
She had felt a prickle of concern. "Your father did that when his friend Doug Ashby asked the favour. But he didn't really enjoy it."
Lucien had shrugged. "It's a pay cheque."
Her mouth twisted in distaste. "Right, well. You'll be expected to present a certain image—"
"Image?" He'd been going through files in the office cabinet and looked at her.
"As a pillar of the community. A representative of the city."
He smirked. She had a quirk of dread, but pushed it away. "I'll do my best," he said, all innocence.
His gaze seemed to linger for a moment and she smoothed her hands down her skirt. "I'll get dinner then."
"I don't know if I'll be hungry—" he called after her as she bustled off to the kitchen. He did sit down to the meal that she prepared, but just picked at the food before announcing that he would go to Melbourne the next day. "I need to see my solicitor, make some business arrangements and such..." He ducked his head. "And I'll get some suits, right?"
Jean had dropped him off at the bus depot in his father's old car, fighting her worry that she'd never see him again. She'd returned to the house, where she was alone for the first time in her life. She'd rattled around for several days, rushing to answer the phone every time it rang. It was never Lucien Blake.
On the fourth day, she was bustling through the house, intent on fetching her sewing basket; there was a button off her cardigan which needed to be put back on quickly before one of her friends noticed it and saw it as a sign that she was letting herself go. A man was sitting in the lounge, causing her to start. "Excuse me?" Had Lucien allowed some friend to have a key?
The man stood.
"Lucien!" His shaggy hair had been properly shorn and slicked down straight. His beard and moustache had been trimmed equally short. He was wearing a tailored blue suit with a waistcoat.
"You told me that I'd need to clean myself up if I'm going to do this job," he said uncertainly.
"Yes, well—" Emotions warred in Jean. "You look very smart. The beard though. I'm not sure that patients, particularly women, will want a doctor with a beard."
He motioned her closer. She cautiously stepped to within a breath.
"There's a reason, you see," he explained. He ruffled his beard on the left side of his face. "Look closely."
She forced herself to focus in. A thin red line was visible under the facial hair. "A scar?"
"A rather significant scar."
"The war?"
"No, an evening in a disreputable nightclub in Berlin ended with a chap trying to slit my throat. He missed." Despite the blood-curdling tale, Lucien was grinning.
Jean took a step back. "Alright then."
"So I'll do?"
"You'll do." She straightened his tie. "People will say you're dignified."
His hand cupped her elbow. "Thank you, Jean."
Jean was not a woman to invite the touch of men outside her family. In all her years working for Thomas Blake, he'd never touched her like this. But she didn't step away from Lucien for some reason.
"You're welcome, Doctor Blake." The name stuck a bit in her throat, but she got it out.
He had caught the significance. "I feel as though I should look around for my father when you say that."
Brushing an invisible fleck of dust from his lapel, she had said quietly, "No, you're Doctor Blake now."
~ end chapter five
E/N: This should probably be the end of the story, but I have notes for another chapter, so one more!