Finally the final chapter! Busy at work and a severe case of the rambles dragged this whole thing out. Thanks again to Aussie for a strong hand on the Aussifying.
He drew his nightmares with heavy dark charcoal on paper as fine as human skin. He supposed a head shrink would say that the act would help him exorcise his demons, but instead they held him fast in their dark memories. Blood was as real when drawn in black.
His mother had taught him to draw when he was a boy, but he hadn't done it for years. He'd been able to scratch out a few images with the ends of burnt sticks on the battered walls of the prison camp's huts. Those pictures were long gone. In Ballarat to recuperate after his release, he'd felt the compulsion to draw again. He'd thought to use his mother's supplies, but the door was locked to her studio. He'd laid a hand on the dark wood as though he could feel her warmth through the oak panel. He didn't dare ask his father to unlock the door. Instead, he bought pencils and pads and spent hours drawing the events which wouldn't leave his racing thoughts.
When the sketchbooks were full, it was as though some festering abscess had been drained. He felt well enough to leave Ballarat, or rather that he must leave. It was an urgent need to flee the normality of it. The Army offered the chance for for another sort of life and he welcomed it.
He considered burning the pictures like temple offerings in tribute to the dead. But in the end, as horrific as they were, he needed to keep them. He was a witness and his testimony must be recorded. Putting them in an old tin Army locker, he'd shoved the box under his childhood bed when he left.
Sometimes since then, he'd pick up a thick charcoal and put it on the paper, but could only draw a single line before his hand shook too hard, and black was just black...
Jean woke to Lucien moaning and thrashing in the bed beside her. She reached for him even whilst pulling herself out of her own slumber.
"I'm here, Lucien," she said, reassuring.
He gasped in agony and fumbled behind him. "Oh, my back—"
"What is it?" Jean turned on her bedside lamp. It was just dawn and the room was still dim. "What's happened?"
"Cramp," he gasped.
The utter banality of the situation made her giggle, feeling more relief than she had any right to, considering that his face was twisted in pain.
"Darling, tell me where," she said, cajoling as he continued to writhe on the bed.
"My back," he repeated, completely unhelpful.
Guiding him onto his stomach, she felt his lower back. Sure enough, his muscles were rock hard and spasming. He moaned, confirming her find.
"Can't imagine what brought this on," he huffed as she pushed her the heels of her palms into tightness, forcing the muscles to loosen.
"Really?"
His chuckles were muffled in his pillow. "A wife should flatter her husband and not remind him that he's losing a step."
"First of all, the vow was to stand by you in sickness and in health." She used her elbow on a particularly pesky knot and he groaned in delight and pain. "Not to lie and deceive." Surely as a doctor, he wasn't going to be one of those husbands who ignored a complaint until he was incapacitated, then would be the world's worst patient. She sighed. But he was a man, and that would trump any education and rational thinking.
When she crawled onto his thighs to get more leverage for her massage, she gave off her own grumble of pain. She hurt in places she didn't know existed on her body. "And second, we're both too old for this much activity after a period of being...sedentary."
He protested: "I think we've done pretty well, all things considered."
"No one's keeping score, Lucien."
He harrumphed into the pillow.
"How did you sleep—did you sleep?"
"I did, for a bit," he moaned, "Un...until this damn pain started—"
Jean ran her thumbs up his spine to his shoulder blades, causing him to giggle and groan in the same breath. She had to slide up and over his bum to settle on his back and squeeze his shoulders. He made a sound that was quite different from his exclamations of pain. After just one night, she recognised it.
"You are incorrigible," she murmured, leaning forward to kiss the back of his head. Then gave her own involuntary pain-filled hiss as her muscles protested from stretching.
He was quickly concerned and peeped up at her. "Dear, are you unwell?"
She eased off him and laid on the bed. "I will readily confess that I'm too old for this!" But her smile was gentle as she patted his bearded cheek.
"Where does it hurt?" He rolled over onto his side. "You can trust me. I'm a doctor."
She gave a snort. "Ninny."
"I'll have to make an examination." He got up on his knees.
"Don't be silly, Lucien."
"If you can't be silly in bed, where can you be?" he pointed out, kneading her abdomen with his strong fingers.
Gasping, she both welcomed the pressure on the tight muscles and responded to the caress.
He cupped her thigh and squeezed it rhythmically from hip to knee.
"Oh my...Goodness," she breathed. "That does feel nice."
He shifted his hands to the other leg, his expression serious and intent. "That's better?" he murmured, sounding very professional.
Jean would have thought he was simply being a dutiful caregiver, if his arousal wasn't bobbing in the shadow of his torso. Lazily, she stroked it, just to see his jaw clench. She liked this sense of power, even when she felt rather weak at the moment.
"A bit better," she whispered. "But I need more."
His head dropped and he snuffled under the curve of her breasts, the soft hair of his beard stroking the sensitive skin before he gently suckled at her nipples, first one, then the other. He massaged her shoulders, eliciting approving gasps as she arched up to his touch and mouth.
"More?"
What a foolish question. She pinched the tender flesh under his lowest rib and he huffed, breathing in her breast. His hand drifted down her torso, pressing his thumb along the muscles. She rose to meet the pressure, humming with pleasure. But then his fingers eased between her legs and she couldn't stop a gasp of pain.
He settled back on his heels. "I suppose there are some limits," he said regretfully.
"It'll be fine," she reassured him, sliding her hand up his leg toward his straining erection.
He shook his head and wagged his finger as he shifted away from her reach. "That won't do."
Laying down, he scooted under the covers again, then held them up for her. "I'm prescribing bedrest."
She grumbled but settled down beside him. "I'm fine," she insisted again. "Fit as a fiddle. You just surprised me, that's all." Draping her leg over his hip, she rubbed against him...and bit her lower lip at the discomfort.
Lucien raised his eyebrow. "Trust me. I am a doctor, you know. The tissues have become inflamed as a result—"
She lay her fingers to his lips. "Do not take the romance away, if you please." After heaving a martyred sigh, she rolled over so they were spooning. "I suppose that you're right. Get a bit more sleep and then we'll need to bathe and dress before Charlie's here at noon," she said drowsily.
He growled in her ear and pulled her tight to him. "And then the fun really begins. Off to see the world."
Tucking his arm under her neck, she gave the inside of his wrist a kiss. Her body was still thrumming. She blinked slowly, her fingertips tracing up his forearm. His lips tugged at her earlobe. Surrounded by his smell, heat and heavy limbs, the last thing she wanted to do was sleep.
Lucien sighed and buried his nose in her hair. He had no interest in sleeping, truth be told. He burrowed under the covers with his hand and cupped her bare hip, giving it a squeeze. He supposed that they would return to wearing nightclothes after tonight, but for now, he enjoyed feeling her warm skin against his. She shifted back against him, her bum sliding along his twitching erection. He groaned again, the sound rumbling through his chest. He heard her giggle.
"Tart," he murmured in her ear.
"The nerve," she said softly but not sounding the least bit angry. Actually, she pushed back harder.
"Shouldn't start something that we can't finish," he chided, even as he traced circles on her belly.
"I'm going to sleep. You're the one who's..." She inhaled as his thumb stroked the inside of her thigh. "You can't keep your hands to yourself."
"No, I can't." He suckled at her neck.
She trembled at his words and that pushed him over the edge. He slid his hand between her legs from behind. She gave only a deep moan when his fingers entered her, not another gasp of pain. Encouraged, he lifted her leg to rest on his hip and replaced his fingers with his length in one easy stroke.
"Lucien?" She sounded unsure and he immediately stilled. Shaking with want, he kissed her shoulders, swept her curls aside to press more kisses to her spine...
"Lucien." This time, no question, but a shuddering note and the need there nearly overwhelmed him. He took a deep breath to maintain control before pulling back then pushing in again, slow and shallow.
"Does that hurt?" He tried not to sound like a doctor, but she still gave a ragged laugh.
"Oh Lucien..." She placed an open-mouthed kiss at the inside of his elbow and added, "No."
"Goo...d," he panted. He was strung tight as a violin string, ready to snap. He pressed his face in her hair and kept his arm slung low across her belly, holding her firmly in place as he continued his measured motion.
Even as unnatural as this position felt, Jean was glad he couldn't see her face. She was beet-red from embarrassment and slack-jawed from arousal. He wasn't fully seated but somehow every stroke was...she didn't know what he was doing to her, but her entire body was quivering, flushes blooming over her skin whilst it was also peppered with gooseflesh. She didn't want him to ever stop. All the other times, she'd felt a pressure building, a fabulous and urgent need for completion. This sensation was as though waves of ecstasy washed through her with every movement of his hips.
Lucien had felt close to death plenty of times, but this was a different sort of torment. He wanted to fight for his life, to pound into her, overwhelm her, to carry her away—instead, he balanced her body on the tips of his fingers, a soap bubble that he never wanted to see burst. He loved this, feeling her shimmer and shine in his grasp. He suckled at the tight tendon connecting to her shoulder, the strong muscle bunching by her shoulder blade as she pushed back against his short thrusts.
"Jean, please—" He was begging for his life. He'd done that before, but this was from pleasure, not pain.
Hearing his desperation, she rolled onto her stomach and rose onto her knees. He covered her, heavy and powerful as the night sky, his sweaty chest slid across her back, his shaking hands planting on either side of her head. Gasping into the sheets, she could only nod as he rasped into her ear, "You are the world, Jean." What a silly thing for him to say, she thought vaguely. This was the universe as he finally fill her completely, his thrusts now deep and frantic and the sky was full of stars, spinning and flaring down to earth.
Lucien crashed to the ground. His fear was gone. He'd passed away and found that it was light and warm and all the colours in the ocean...He could feel Jean fighting for her breath under him. Bloody hell, he was crushing her.
When he rolled off, reality struck, cold and cruel. "Oh, my back," he gasped, fumbling to squeeze the spasming muscles.
Resting her cheek on his chest like shipwreck survivor grasping onto a life raft, she weakly mumbled, "Go to sleep, my dearest fool."
He kissed her forehead. He wanted to tell her everything—how he'd found this merciful peace in her embrace, how he finally had some hope to be a better man, how she'd given him a reason to try, if not succeed—
"Jean?"
"Mmm?"
"Love you."
"I certainly hope so."
He pressed his lips softly to her brow again. Her limbs went limp; she was asleep already. His teeth flashed in the dimness as he smiled down at her and he finally let his eyelids drift shut.
His mother had kept bright, garish flowering plants in the sunroom. The room would be heavy with musk when they were all blooming. After her death, everything was left to wither and die. The first time he walked into the sunroom when he came back, it was filled with life, green and warm and smelling vital. There was no clinical odour of his father's encroaching death here. He'd sank to the seat, the book that was his excuse to hide here slack in his hand. Jean had bustled in. She obviously didn't see him. She started and nearly dropped the pot she was carrying. Its bright pink blooms quivered indignantly.
"Oh!" she said disagreeably.
He smiled vaguely. "Sorry."
"Can I help you?" She held the pot tightly.
"No, that is, I'm just here to read." He waved his book at her.
"Alright then." She took the plant to the table and began to dig around in the dirt, a mysterious process that he had no idea what she was on about, but it somehow relaxed him. He leant back on the seat, his book forgotten beside him.
Jean was absorbed in her tasks. As she watered and trimmed spent blooms, the floor became scattered with lush petals. She began to hum; he recognised it as the tune that they'd sung for his father. That coupled with the smells of loam and perfume as she stirred the soil and foliage, aroused him but it was something more primal than sexual attraction. His gaze settled on Jean's sleek form. She was the lithe deer moving through the dappled forest. She rose on her toes to tend to a hanging plant and her backside and long thighs tightened with the effort.
He crossed his legs and had his gaze firmly on her face when she turned back. A tendril of hair had come loose from its hairpins and she brushed it aside with the back of her hand, only to have it fall in a lazy curl across her brow. From that day on, he'd never be able to enter the sunroom without feeling both comfort and desire.
"Oh blast, we'll be late," she barked in his ear.
Lucien had been sleeping deeply for once. Jean's words broke through a jumble of his dream involving floating flower petals, dappled light under trees heavy with apples, and a stream babbling somewhere near.
He groaned. "I'm up." But she already was, snatching her dressing gown from the back of the door and dashing from the bedroom. He stretched, his spine cracking the effort. This time it was a good pain. He scratched his belly and grinned. He liked this whole married thing quite a lot.
After putting on his own robe, he wandered into the kitchen. The kettle was on, and Jean was gathering the makings for a quick breakfast. She swatted his bottom as he got in her way, nosing around the cupboards in some vague semblance of helping. "Get in the bath, and I'll have your breakfast ready when you come out."
"We've got time," he said, "and I want to help."
She turned to get the milk from the fridge, but he was in the way. She took a calming breath. "Fine. Sit down like a good boy."
"But I want to—"
"That's the best help that you can give me."
With a wordless grumble, he sat.
She served three minute eggs and a plate of toast with a full pot of strong tea. They sat side by side at the big table, their thighs touching. Like some teenager, he draped his arm on the back of her chair, making eating more difficult but twice as delicious.
Keeping an eye on the clock, Jean announced that they must bathe, and now. He padded after her to the bathroom, content in a way that he hadn't felt in a number of years. She opened the taps full bore, and ordered him to start brushing his teeth whilst she tied her hair up with a ribbon. They jostling at the sink, elbows knocking, somehow pleased him greatly. It meant that they were truly married.
She tested the water and announced it was suitably hot. "Ladies first," he said but then gave her a smirk. "Unless we can share."
Squinting at him distrustfully, she dropped her gown and stepped into the tub. "I doubt that will actually make things go more quickly."
He was too enthralled to comprehend what she was saying. He saw nude female bodies every day, but this was Jean's, and she was revealing it to him easily and without shame. Frankly, this part was surprising him. He'd hoped that she'd be passionate under the covers, but her eagerness to enjoy these smaller intimacies was giving him nearly overwhelming joy.
His wide grin made her heart constrict and she had to look away as she settled into the water.
"I can wash your back whilst you do the front," he offered virtuously. "You'll be clean in half the time."
She scrubbed with a washer while he swirled soap around her back and shoulders in gentle strokes. They both rinsed the suds with handfuls of water and she ignored his kisses on her bare spine. When she stepped from the tub, he was waiting for her with a large towel and wrapped her in it. He kissed the love bite that he'd left in the crook of her neck. She watched him in the mirror. "I'm just glad that I've put out a blouse with a high collar," she said.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm a brute." He sounded more proud than apologetic as he slid the towel down far enough to expose her shoulder blade and a beard burn for him to kiss.
Reaching back, she patted his cheek. "They'll fade."
"But I'll be giving you new ones," he said wickedly.
"I suppose you will."
He peered in the mirror and ruffled his beard. "I could shave this off. Surely my scar won't horrify anyone after I've shocked the town in so many other ways."
She laughed.
"I'd be a stranger, though. It would be like a whole new chap in bed with you."
She flashed to the handsome young man that he'd been, all dimples and golden curls and she blushed scarlet. "I know what you look like without a beard," she stammered, trying to keep her cool.
He noticed her embarrassment. "That's right. You saw me before going to Edinburgh. God, all I did was lay around the house and mope—" His brow furrowed. He'd done a bit more than mope, if he remembered. Courting the virtuous Monica had left him seriously frustrated which led to—
He cocked his eyebrow as he noted Jean's reddened cheeks and shifting eyes in the mirror's reflection.
Pressing his mouth to her ear, he murmured, "Were you a naughty girl, Jeanie?"
"I'll be naughty all right if you don't get into that bath." She pulled the slipping towel up tight to her throat.
He wasn't cowed. "I certainly hope so." He couldn't stop teasing her; his heart was bursting with happiness. "If you like, you can watch again—"
"Lucien!" she gasped.
As much as he was enjoying this, she did have a point. Time was ticking. With a sigh, he took her place in the cooling water. Only to burst out laughing when she started to comb his damp hair. "I'm not one of your boys."
"Then stop mucking around like they do!"
Another deep sigh and he grabbed the bar of soap. "I am finding marriage very rewarding, Jean."
She was at the mirror, trying to get her own hair back into the lovely set that she'd had yesterday. First order of business in Melbourne would be to visit a salon. For now, her hat was going to have to cover its disarray. "That's good," she said, distracted.
"I mean beyond the obvious. This, this is quite nice."
She turned around to chide him for blathering and then noticed his eyes were shimmering with tears. She cupped his cheek, and gave him a gentle kiss. "It is, rather, isn't it," she said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere, Lucien."
His jaw clenched beneath her fingers and he looked away. Planting another kiss on the top of his head, she asked, "Would you like me to wash your back too?"
"That would be lovely, thank you."
Silence but for the splash of water, and they washed his body, cleansing him in more ways than one.
"Thank you," he said again as she poured water down his back.
"It's a wife's duty." Jean felt as though she was trying to break some spell. Tears were prickling in her eyes too.
"Do you know how I solve crimes?"
That was an odd thing to say. She sat back on her heels and grasped the bath's rim for balance.
"I visualise the scenes, imagine what the killer was doing, thinking—"
"How...upsetting."
"No, not really. I've found that the unimaginable is the most terrifying thing. If I'm there, in the action, I can't be afraid. I can manage it."
"Alright," she said slowly, stroking his hair which was trying to curl up as it dried. He'd need some hair cream to keep it in place.
"I'll admit—" He peeked at her over his shoulder, looking all the world like one of her boys when they were about to confess to her. "I visualised how...last night would be." He wasn't going to say that he imagined having sex with her regularly. Even with a wedding ring on her finger, it seemed a violation.
"Did you now." The side of her mouth quirked with a smile.
"And you know what?"
"What?"
"It was nothing like I imagined." At first she had a stab of worry at his words, that it meant he'd been disappointed. Then he gave that wide, enticing grin again, and she had to kiss him, just soft lips and a trace of warm tongue, an enticement returned. Everything was going to be alright, at least for one this one golden moment in the bathroom, with a sponge floating between his raised knees and the sink tap dripping in the background.
She stood. "I'll put the sheets in the washing machine. We can leave those on the line for Sally to iron and fold."
"Surely Sally can wash them as well," he called after her.
Jean stuck her head back in the room. "I will not have her seeing our sheets in that condition," she said severely and he could only laugh and splash the water like a baby.
Doing his washing was the first thing that he allowed her to do for him, yet it had felt so oddly intimate to find his underpants ironed and folded at the foot of his bed. Even more so to discover a hole in the seat of one pair very neatly darned. As Thomas had slept more and more, Lucien spent evenings in the lounge, with the wireless playing music, and would read through the musty novels that filled the cases. His heart rate was finally slowing, as though he'd been running for miles and the race was over. Jean would join him with her sewing basket or knitting bag. But it was all so foreign and unknown to him. His mother had not been a housewife sort, and certainly not Mei Lin. He wasn't sure if his lovely wife would even know how to thread a needle. For some reason, these very commonplace activities filled him with wonder. The curve of Jean's neck as she was bent to her tasks. The slow swing of her foot, her legs crossed and calf flexed with the motion. The flash of her fingers, red nails leading the way. She'd glance up and catch his gaze. At first, she seemed afraid, but then a small smile, encouraging, and his eyes would go back to his book hurriedly.
"Ow!" she cried out.
He put his book aside. "What is it?"
Her finger was in her mouth. She smiled around it. "Nothing," she mumbled.
"Did you hurt yourself?"
"Just a prick."
"Let me get your a bandage. With all the cleaning up after Father, you need to keep any open wounds covered."
Ignoring her protests, he sat beside her on the sofa with the first aid kit. "Let me see."
His leg was touching hers. "I can put it on myself."
"I'm a doctor."
"It's not something that quite requires a GP," she said even as she offered her hand.
He smiled but carefully examined her finger. "There it is," he said, spotting the drop of blood oozing.
She was staring at his strong neck and watching the slow movement of his Adam's apple as he spoke. His top buttons were undone and she could see his bare chest. Her head was swarming. If he'd taken her in his arms at that moment, she would not have resisted.
"There we go."
She blinked. A bandaid was secure around her finger. "Thank you." He would leave as soon as his father died, and she was glad. There was no way that she could live this way.
But he hadn't left.
The ambulance had carried away Thomas Blake's body. The district nurse had cleaned up and the smell of disinfectant still hung in the air, stinging their eyes for days afterward. As though dark drapes were closed on their tentative relationship, they'd spoken only of what was necessary to arrange the funeral. She was afraid of reminding him to leave, forcing her to find a new position and home, and he was terrified of her grief.
At the graveside, no one would have been wrong for identifying her as chief mourner, as she wept openly into a black-edged handkerchief and Lucien stood behind the first row in his odd suit and bushy beard. Thomas Blake had been a popular man, and a pillar of the community. It was a large crowd. Afterwards, everyone went the Colonists' Club. In those hallowed halls, Lucien had been even more uncomfortable. That place had reminded him of everything that he didn't like about Ballarat.
"Drink, Master Lucien?"
He looked around, and at his elbow there was a little man in an uniform offering a tray. He squinted at the old waiter—well, he was on his way to being an old man himself.
"Cec, bloody hell, is that you?"
"Yes, sir. I suppose it's Doctor Blake now. Or do you prefer Major?"
Lucien's wide smile faded. "Lucien is fine."
"As you wish, sir." Cec held the tray closer and Lucien snagged the whisky glass with a smirk.
"You know what I need, Cec."
Lucien could see Patrick Tyneman approaching and he steeled himself. Cec faded away, leaving him alone to face whatever hypocrisy the town's most prominent citizen was about to put forth. These sort of encounters were definitely a strike against staying here.
At the last moment, he turned away rather than talk with Tyneman—an terrible social snub which set the room buzzing—and fled to the snooker room. He was racking up a game when a dark figure appeared in the doorway. He squinted, about to tell whoever it was to bugger off, when the man stepped into the room. He was in a police uniform, and there was something familiar in his sharply-planed face. Lucien allowed himself to smile.
Finally home, and drained from being pleasant to dozens of strangers and near strangers, Lucien found Jean in the kitchen, washing up the few dishes from the morning. She was still dabbing her eyes, this time with the corner of her apron.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said. "I hadn't said it earlier."
Lucien leant on the table and folded his arms. "It's not a surprise. I knew the outcome of his disease."
She stared at him. "I meant, I should be comforting you. He was your father, and here I am—" She tossed up her hands. "Being a useless sop."
"He was my father, but your—" Lucien floundered. "Your good friend," he muttered.
"Doctor Blake was a very good friend to me." She raised her chin. "He paid for night classes so I be his medical receptionist, not just a useful broom. He encouraged me to read anything in the house, to join the local theatre group...He was a very good friend," she ended softly.
Lucien finally understood. He was ashamed of his earlier assumptions about their relationship.
"I want you to know...that is...if you want to stay...nothing is to change."
She didn't understand. "What?"
"Matthew Lawson—You know Matthew?"
"Chief Superintendent?" Lucien nodded. "I know of him," said Jean, "he was at funeral."
"Yes, he found me at the club. He's offered me Father's old job as police surgeon."
"I see." She didn't.
"And some of the practice's patients seem willing to give me a chance. So I thought I'd give it a go. At least for a bit. See if I can stand it."
"It?"
"This." He waved his hand around aimlessly.
She furrowed her brow.
"Ballarat. All the old names and places. This house."
"I see." She still didn't.
"You would carry on as before."
She took a deep breath, a loud sound in the deathly silence kitchen, and he knew she was going to start crying again. She fled the room rather than doing it in front of him. Relieved, he went to the office.
Quickly flipping through the practice's ledger, he wrote down the amount of quarterly billings on a notepad and added on the figure that Matthew had given him. Then he pulled the letter from his pocket from a private investigator in Hong Kong who'd given Lucien an idea of his fees. On Lucien's salary at the mine clinic, he couldn't swing it, but now it was possible. He would just have to manage living in his father's house, in his father's life, with his father's obligations.
Lucien started to go through his father's desk methodically. Keys to the cabinets, a number of rubberbands, a case with his mother's photograph and a lock of her hair. When he pressed his nose to it, he swore that he could still smell her. At the very back of the drawer, he found a heavy key on a red ribbon. He instantly knew what it was. Since entering this house, he hadn't even tried the door. Somehow he'd known it would still be locked all these years later.
Rising, he crossed the corridor. He looked back at the desk. He could fetch the key. He returned to the office and poured himself a whisky instead. And another. Then found another bottle.
Jean came downstairs, her tears wrung out and face washed. Time to get supper started. Routine kept her steady. She almost tripped over Lucien's prone body slumped against the studio door. When Jean had offered to clean the rooms, Thomas had refused so strongly that she'd known not to bring up the topic again.
She shook his shoulder. "Lucien?"
He blinked slowly. "I"m awake."
She hadn't thought that he was asleep. "Did you want the key for the studio?"
"I know where it is." He dragged himself to his feet. "This is just where I came to rest."
She tried one more time. "Would you like me to clean the studio?"
He showed the whites of his eyes. "Not necessary." And he was gone, dissolving into the corridor shadows.
She followed. "Will you be taking Doctor Blake's bedroom? It's convenient to the door and phone, when after hour emergencies happen."
He stood in the doorway, staring at his father's stripped bed. "I...Yes."
"I'll get on it then."
He turned and was suddenly looming over her. "I'll go to Melbourne." If she'd known better, she would think he was staring at her breasts. "Need to get some business done. Then I'll be ready to start."
"I'll give everything a wipedown and a wax while you're gone then," she said as she crossed her arms. "But I won't go through anything. Doctor Blake was a very private man, you see, and I'll leave that to you."
He'd much rather that she sort through his father's intimate mementos. One drawer had nearly killed him. But Lucien had nodded numbly.
The first night back from Melbourne, with the wireless mumbling off in the lounge, Lucien had armed himself with a fresh bottle of scotch and had started to go through the drawers of the bedroom dressing table.
In an old stationery box in a bottom drawer, he found what Thomas hadn't been able to say to him. It contained clippings about the Singapore siege and fall, and the few sparse reports about Commonwealth prisoners during the war. There were the photographs of Lucien, Mei Lin and Li which he had sent his father. Lucien was deeply grateful to have these pictures now. He put them aside on the bed with a shaking hand. At the very bottom was Lucien's own angry letters to his father, and last of all, letters from Thomas to Lucien written, but never sent.
Lucien scanned the letters. In them, Thomas expressed his remorse, and tried to explain himself. How Thomas himself had brought an exotic orchid to the hay field that was Ballarat, and had regretted it in many ways.
I would want your family to have all the happiness, Son, and that may not be possible here.
A letter dated February 1942, urged Lucien to send his wife and daughter to Australia. I fear for your family, Lucien. Have them come to me, and we'll sort it all out later. Surely they will be safe here—
Tears blinded Lucien, but there was no more to read. It was the last letter written. The only other correspondence was a telegram from the war office, telling Thomas of Lucien's status as prisoner of war.
Lucien felt as though he was going to be ill, and even reached for the waste paper bin, but his stomach finally settled. Pride may have cost his wife and daughter their lives, and he could never forgive himself. If necessary, he would spend every pound, down to his last shilling and penny, that he could spare to discover their fate. If they were alive, he would find them and finally bring them to this house as Thomas intended. He'd fetched the tin box from under his childhood bed, and had added the letters and photographs to his collection of horrific sketches. When he put that box away, it was to his new bedroom.
The sheets hung out, Jean hurried to dress. She had put her going-away outfit in the bedroom wardrobe, along with her undergarments in the drawers which Lucien had cleared out for her. Now she lay out their things on the bared mattress, hers beside his. He joined her, scrubbing his hair with a towel.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, giving her cheek a peck.
Somewhat self-conscious, Jean wiggled into her foundation garment. Then again, Lucien had somehow extracted her from it yesterday evening with little effort and she had no real memory of how he accomplished the task.
"Need a fasten up?" he asked and she turned her back to let him assist. This earned her another quick kiss on her bare shoulder after the final hook was latched through the eye.
"You don't need this," he said, nearly spanning her waist with his big hands.
"Yes, I do, dearest," she replied. "Or everyone in town will think I'm the sort of woman who doesn't wear foundation garments."
He furrowed his brow in confusion but it all made perfect sense to her.
As she did up her stockings to the garters of her girdle, Lucien watched appreciatively in the dressing table mirror. He had no quarrel with this part of her ensemble.
Frowning at his reflection, he viciously smoothing his hair flat with comb and Brylcreem and she wondered how to tell him that she preferred it curly. Perhaps point out that she found Charlie's hair adorable with its thick waves?
He reached for his shirt, but she stopped him to tuck his singlet into his underpants back and front.
"Don't wake the dragon," he warned playfully.
"No pet names, dear," said Jean airly, "it's crass." She held out his shirt for him and after glaring her down, Lucien slipped his arms into the sleeves. She came around to button him up.
"I can do that," he said.
"I enjoy doing this," she said carefully, and handed him the trousers for the suit.
After he fastened the fly, he told her, "Your turn then. You're behind." He held her slip above her head and after a moment of hesitation, she raised her arms to let him slide it down. He smoothed the silk over her hips and she gave him yet another peck as a reward.
Her pale yellow chiffon blouse was delicate and she was actually grateful for the assistance as he fastened the tiny mother of pearl buttons up the back.
Her suit was one of her new outfits. Lucien had taken her to Melbourne to purchase her trousseau, after much protesting on her part. But in the back of her mind, she'd realised that she was to assume a quite different role now, and should dress the part. And she preferred not to purchase her clothing in Ballarat for that part she was to play. It would not do to arrive at a social occasion in the same outfit as Susan Tyneman. Nor should she make her own clothes anymore, regretfully. Lucien had also pointed out that she should only get enough garments for the journey to London, as she'd want to purchase the latest fashions there.
She'd considered arguing with him that she was hardly some clotheshorse to acquire mounds of fancy goods, but then realised that she had to expand her wardrobe a great deal to be Mrs Blake. With that in mind, her going-away suit was a herringbone pattern of seaglass blue and yellow wool, a slim skirt with a kick pleat slit in the back and a collarless jacket.
She'd helped Lucien on with his waistcoat and tied his best silk tie. She would need to update his wardrobe next, she thought. But for now, she simply smoothed his suit jacket along his shoulders and deemed his ready to go.
"You can help me with this," she said, holding out her new pearl necklace.
The jewellery had been yet another spat before the wedding. Just one day after she agreed to marry him, even before she would wear his ring in public, he'd taken her to the bank to view a box full of jewels. Her head had swam at the sight.
"You had these all along? Why didn't you sell them?"
He'd tipped his head, puzzled. "These belong to Mrs Blake, whomever she is. Not me."
Feeling the weight of his gaze, and that of the bank manager, she'd sorted through the items. They were all of the style of the last century, although some were of an artistic type from the teens. There were precious gems, but few pieces were anything which would go with her current wardrobe. What had caught her eye were the lovely cameos and ropes of large pearls. Those were timeless.
"Do whatever you like with them. Have them made over or sold to buy new," Lucien had said. "They're all yours now."
"Surely not," she'd said, even as her mind was working. "They were your mother's—"
"Not really. As I said, they were Mrs Blake's. Some my mother never even wore. Most she found too old fashioned, and that was in 1915."
So she'd taken the pearls to the jeweller's, and had them restrung as a lovely three strand piece, and he used the large diamond clasp for one of the more hideous necklaces to fasten it closed. From the remaining pearls, he made two sets of earrings, one elaborate drop style, and one everyday pair of posts for her new life as a doctor's wife. She'd worn the drops for her wedding and now put on the posts.
Turning her back to him, she held up the necklace for Lucien to fasten for her. He looped the two ends behind her neck and carefully held the jewelled clasp away from the delicate silk of her blouse's high neck, flouncy folds that thankfully covered her love bites. When he had worked the clasp closed, he nosed aside her hair to press a kiss behind her ear.
"Lovely," he breathed.
After she toed on her new snakeskin pumps—her faithful old suede pumps had been put in the charity bin—she locked the new jewellery case which was on the dressing table. In the past, any jewellery which she carried on trips went in a velvet bag tucked her handbag. Now she had a crocodile-hide case with a sturdy lock, part of a large set of luggage, also purchased in Melbourne. Most were still there, waiting at their hotel to be filled with the garments which were being tailored for her and Lucien; evening dress for both, more day suits and dresses, even a few fur stoles and wraps. There had been another discovery, that this mythical Mrs Blake also inherited a refrigerated room of furs. All out of style and completely unsuitable. Jean had felt overwhelmed for a moment before she'd gone through them, and decided which pieces could be made into collars for her new cashmere overcoats, or the wraps for evening. Her work in the theatre made her keep seeing these as costumes for a role, but as she looked at herself in the mirror and tucked a curl behind her ear, a weight settled on her shoulders. This was her new life, not just a nightly performance on a two week run, never to go back to Jean Beazley, housekeeper.
But her practical spirit lived on. Most of the jewellery had been turned over to a discreet man in Melbourne, who'd remake the uglier and outdated things into useful pieces. For now, she'd have enough for their travels; a few diamond brooches and the cameos, a sapphire necklace, bracelet and earring set which would go with her evening gowns, along with a lovely group of opal pieces which had caught her fancy.
Lucien fastened his watch on his wrist. "Charlie should be here soon. Best take one last look around the house, see if we've forgotten anything." When he added, "We'll not be home for months," her heart fluttered uneasily.
They went to the lounge. "If you like the job that Sally Watkins does while we're gone," Lucien said, "if she keeps the house to your standards, we can retain her."
"For what?" Jean was checking her knitting needles, assuring that she had all those which she'd need whilst away. Although she supposed that last night had shown, like Lucien's reading, that she'd not complete as much as she expected.
"As a housekeeper."
"What need would we have for a housekeeper?" She turned to face him and he was struck again at her transformation in her smart suit, updated hairstyle and lovely pearl pieces.
Lucien opened his mouth, then closed it. He sensed thin ice. He chose his words carefully. "You're my wife now. There's no need for you to be working all day—"
"What else would I do? You've said this is my home too. I want to keep my own house clean and orderly." Her voice was high-pitched.
"You don't need to do that anymore," he repeated. "You can finally relax. Put your feet up and be a lady of leisure."
This outraged Jean greatly. "What, I'm to co-chair the Garden Club fete with Susan Tyneman? Sit around with those toffy-nosed wives in the Colonists', drink gin and tonics for lunch?"
"But Jean—" He held his arms open wide but she didn't step into them. Her head was whirling and she felt something close to panic.
"Do you think...Do you believe I married you so I can put my feet up? For these?" She flipped the pearl necklace. "To dine in the ladies' lounge at the country club?"
"No one will think that—"
"I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks. If I did, I wouldn't have married you. It's been the hardest thing that I've ever done to put my pride aside and marry you, despite knowing everyone in town thinks I'm after your money, or to have Mrs Lucien Blake engraved on my stationery."
He was just staring at her and even in the flurry of a row, she was drawn to him. Loving this man had been hard enough, but now she'd learnt what he could do to her physically, and that she could never leave him. She had always thought she was stronger than any sexual attraction, but she was wrong and this terrified her. In frustration, she pressed her balled fists to his chest. "I care what you think! I love you, you idiot! I married you because I love you!"
"That's good...to know," he stuttered.
Still furious, she whirled away. She shouldn't say anything more, she shouldn't— "I know that you just assume this house takes care of itself whilst you're off all day, but it doesn't. If you married me to keep things comfortable and to your expectations, we shouldn't change anything now—"
He gripped her shoulders. "What? Why do you think that I married you? To have my slippers waiting by my favourite chair?"
"You need order, regularity. I'm most definitely that."
He pressed his face against her hair. His chuckle was full of tears. "Who ever told you that? You're the most aggravating woman I've ever known. I never know what you're going to toss at me day to day. Thank God that I love you, or I'd have fired you years ago."
That got her goat. She jerked out of his grasp and turned to face him, hands on her hips. "Well!" she hissed, tossing her head back, ready to offer him an annulment, but then remembered they'd rather shot that option in the last twelve hours. "I'm not the one using the dinner joint for target practice or causing minor explosions in the house."
Maddeningly, he simply said, "But you always know that I'm going to do such things."
She blinked, knocked speechless. He only grinned at her. She began to worry for his mental health.
"What are you smiling about?"
"You love me."
She was not amused. "I've said it before."
"But never when you were angry. You must really mean it."
She unbent a bit. Laying a hand on his chest, she could only shake her head. "Of course I do," she grumbled.
He held her stiff body in his arms. How could she be so strong, ready for battle, when he was shaking like a puppy in the cold? "As much as I love your roast chicken, I've selfishly kept you here because you keep me sane, make me want to be better—"
She could speak her greatest fears while focused on the dark wool of his shoulder. "If the war hadn't happened, you'd be married to someone like Monica, or some English girl, or even living in Singapore with Mei Lin. Not me. Not a farmgirl."
"I suppose," he admitted slowly. "And I'd be worse for it. You think I'm a right bastard now, imagine me without the humbling experience of a few dozen canings." He chuckled, but she squeezed his waist in reproach. Her arms had somehow found their way around his middle.
"Don't even joke about that!" Tears filled her eyes. "I'd give this all up for you to have been unharmed—"
"I know. And that's why I love you." He breathed at her temple, stirring the fine hairs there. "This is not the life that I would have imagined for myself at twenty, at thirty, at forty. But sometimes we end up right where we're meant to be. This is exactly the life that I want. And if you want to be on your knees scrubbing the floors—"
Damn her lipstick—Jean kissed him deeply, needing to find a dark, comforting place in the bright room. When their mouths finally eased apart, they leant foreheads together, and smiled.
He stroked her jawline with his thumb and just when she felt the haze of desire descending over her, he jerked her away by saying, "I wanted you to know, I've gone to a few AA meetings."
She stepped back and smoothed her hair. "You don't have to do that—"
Folding his arms, he said tightly, "I think that I should try."
"I mean, you don't have to tell me. From what I understand of it all, you would want to be, well, anonymous."
"But you're my wife. You should know. I just...I can't promise you anything."
She tipped her head. "I wouldn't have married you if I didn't believe in you. But it's on you, what you decide to do and how much effort you put it in it. Stop trying to be the best man for other people, Lucien. Do it for yourself. Forgive yourself."
"What have I got to forgive myself for?"
"For living. For making it. It's alright."
She found that he wouldn't meet his gaze. It reminded her of how he'd show her nothing but the whites of his eyes in the early days. Turning away, she busied herself with writing last minute instructions to Sally.
"Yes, right." He pulled down his waistcoat. "Is there anything else that you want to check?"
"I better look into the sunroom," she said brightly, stepping behind her own walls.
She moved quickly from plant to plant, checking the soil for moisture. She'd left very specific instructions for Charlie on a clipboard with each pot's water needs spelled out.
She was nearly finished when Lucien eased in, a rolled up booklet in his hand. "Everything shipshape?"
She brushed her hands together. "I think so. Just need to close up the suitcases and put them in the boot, I guess."
Just to aggravate her, he sat down and started thumbing through the booklet.
She checked her watch but he was intent on his reading. It was the International Shipping News, she noted.
"I thought that all our tickets were arranged."
"Perhaps we'll want to make a change," he mused without looking up.
"What?"
"We could leave off going to Germany, and take an earlier boat to the Far East." He flashed her a smile. "We'll be back to Europe someday. And perhaps it's best for you not to see the scenes of my misspent youth."
"We'd come home early?" This surprised her.
"No, I think that we should add Papua New Guinea."
She shook her head in confusion. His gaze remained firmly on the page. "To visit Christopher's grave."
She sat suddenly beside him. "Visit...his grave?" she echoed.
"It seems about right. If we're visiting the rest of the family."
Family. She supposed that they had formed a rather odd and far-flung family unit with this marriage.
"Yes," she managed to say, "that would be lovely."
She leant against Lucien and he kissed her hair. "Then I'll change the tickets when we are in Melbourne," he said quietly.
Their peace was broken by the ringing of a bike bell. Charlie had arrived on his pushbike. Jean quickly wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and Lucien cleared his throat.
"I better repair my makeup," she told him, rising and smoothing her skirt down.
"I'll start taking the luggage out," he said. They were both glad for the call to action.
After she'd freshened up and put on her hat and coat, Jean joined Charlie and Lucien at the front of the house, tugging on her gloves.
Charlie appeared surprised at her transformation. "Mrs Beaz—" He cringed at his mistake. "Mrs Blake, how fine you look."
"Don't you think it's about time that you started calling me Jean?" she suggested.
He looked horrified, so she didn't press. Lucien tossed the last suitcase in the boot. "We're ready," he called out and slammed it shut.
Lucien sat with Jean in the backseat, draped his arm across her shoulders and snuggled her close to him. Charlie's gaze shot up to the rearview mirror but Jean decided not to dissuade her bridegroom. She lay her hand on his thigh and he smiled at her. Lucien nuzzled her neck.
"It's been a few decades, but I seem to remember that making love on a train was particularly enjoyable," he murmured. "The motion, of course."
"You are insatiable," she hissed back. She quickly glanced at Charlie and could swear his neck was blushed red.
"I am indeed." Lucien was unrepentant. "I've got this insatiable bride you see. I'm just trying to keep up."
"I've been thinking," Charlie said loudly.
Lucien had slipped his hand under the hem of Jean's skirt, his thumb stroking her kneecap. She gripped his wrist and asked Charlie brightly, "What is it?"
"I got to talking with a few chaps at the wedding, and they're looking to share a house. Looking for one more. I thought it would be for the best."
Lucien leant forward to squeeze Charlie's shoulder. "You don't have to that. You know that you'll always have a home with us."
"It's time," he said shortly, his eyes quickly shifting from the mirror.
Jean flushed at his discomfort but Lucien settled back beside her and his hand cupped her knee again. "I understand, Charlie. A bloke likes to get out on his own."
"You'll always be welcome for tea," Jean said.
They arrived at the station with just minutes to spare. Lucien called over a porter to take their luggage. Jean hoped that Lucien would have better time management on this trip, or she'd get grey hairs.
She kissed Charlie on the cheek. "Goodbye, Charlie. We'll write."
"Bon voyage," the young man said with a bit of a flair. "Jean," he added, giving her a shy smile.
She kissed him again, squeezing his arm for emphasis.
Baggage sorted, and the correct train car found, Lucien returned. He pumped Charlie's hand and added to the promise to write.
He slipped an arm around Jean's waist. "Come along, Mrs Blake," said Lucien. "Your carriage awaits."
She tucked her arm through his. "Right you are, Doctor Blake. Let this journey begin."
~ End