1 December 1958

Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking.

In point of fact, Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking, or drinking, or fornication. She did not entirely approve of Protestants and she did not suffer fools. Mrs. Beazley frowned at any sort of excess, material or gustatorial. She had no sympathy for sons who went decades without speaking to their fathers, and even less sympathy for doctors who spent their Sunday mornings in bed nursing hangovers rather than sitting in the pews at mass. In short, Mrs. Beazley did not approve of Lucien Blake, not in any way, shape, or form.

Goading her had been something of a sport for him, in the beginning. She was a beautiful woman but hard, brittle, made of steel. Everything about Lucien, from his clothes - too flashy - to his beard - too rough - to his diction - too posh - to his bearing - too proud - bothered her in some way, and having discovered that there was no way to please her Lucien had instead indulged in an almost childlike desire to ruffle her feathers. Over the last month she had not raised her voice to him once, but he was certain there were new lines forming on her delicate face courtesy of the many times her eyebrows had jumped toward her hairline in distress at his antics.

Now that the reality of his father's impending demise had sunk in, however, such distractions held little charm. He had been civil to Mrs. Beazley for the last three days running, and she in turn had been quiet and withdrawn. In point of fact he'd hardly seen her since the night his father was loaded in the ambulance and taken to hospital. Thomas Blake would not be returning home, even now lingered in a strange sort of purgatory, unable to speak, unable to move, hardly opening his eyes. The doctors had sent Lucien home earlier in the day, encouraged him to get some rest and allow his father to do the same, though their pitying expressions told Lucien quite plainly that they believed the old man was not long for the world.

It seemed cruel, somehow, that Lucien had finally found his way home at last, only to discover his father mute and all but paralyzed. So much time he had wasted, so many opportunities missed, and soon the old man would be gone, and all that would remain to Lucien was grief and guilt.

No different from how I've spent the last sixteen years, he thought glumly, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

Mrs. Beazley did not approve of smoking, and so out of deference to her sensibilities Lucien had banished himself to the back garden. Soon to be his back garden, he realized as he wandered through the soft grass. His garden, his house, his practice - if he wanted it - and, most troubling of all, his housekeeper, for Lucien would inherit Mrs. Beazley along with the rest when his father finally passed.

And in his heart, he knew that she would likely prove the most troublesome bequest of all.

The house and all of his father's effects could be sold, the practice shuttered, and Lucien could make his way back to London, if he so chose. Likely the inestimable Mrs. Beazley could find employment elsewhere; no one had ever spoken an unkind word about her in his hearing, and in point of fact it seemed that everywhere he went people inquired after her health and sang her praises. She was a pillar of the community, Mrs. Beazley, as much if not more than Thomas Blake himself. No, Lucien did not worry about her ability to fend for herself, should he leave town; she would be all right on her own, and he could easily provide an attractive severance for her. In his heart, though, Lucien knew that Mrs. Beazley would not approve of him dividing up his father's estate and leaving town as fast as possible, and he knew that her displeasure would follow him wherever he went like a baleful dog, a constant reminder that he had, yet again, disappointed a beautiful woman.

To complicate his situation still further, there was no job waiting for him in London, should he chose to return; a soldier turned spy turned vagabond, he would make a poor surgeon now, with his trembling hands and his penchant for drink. What could he possibly hope to make of himself, out there in the world? He did not know the answer, but he did know that a ready-made life was waiting for him here in Ballarat. A home, a profession - he had already assisted Matthew Lawson twice, serving as police surgeon in his father's stead, and old Mrs. Clasby had popped round to see him about her heart - a housekeeper to look after him, and a young lodger to dispel any rumors of impropriety between himself and Mrs. Beazley. Patrick Tyneman had even sorted a membership at the Colonists' for him. It was all done, the wheels already in motion, even now while his father still drew breath.

It would be a kind of death, he thought, to linger in this place. To become all that he hated, to assume his father's mantle for himself. All his life he had railed against his father, his coldness, his patrician ways, his puritanical community, and now Lucien stared up at that house and felt as if he were gazing at his own coffin, primed and ready to accept him.

And yet. Mrs. Beazley was a fine cook, and Mattie was a delightful young woman whose company brought him comfort while he could not be with his own child, while he did not know if she yet lived. Danny was always getting into mischief and Matthew Lawson was always keen to sit at the Pig & Whistle and grumble over a pint, and Lucien could not deny that the call of a steady income, a place to call home, and a ragtag band of people to share it with was as alluring as a siren to him now, as his fiftieth birthday loomed closer and the certainty that his family was lost to him forever solidified day by day. This would not be such a bad place to die, he told himself. Changi would have been worse.

Discreetly - for even though Mrs. Beazley was otherwise occupied he felt her gaze everywhere he went - he dropped his cigarette in the grass and snuffed it out with the toe of his shoe before lighting up another. His feet began to carry him off again as he paced restlessly round the perimeter of the garden, thinking morose thoughts about the endless marching of time. Before he realized it, his steps had led him to the clothesline where his makeshift family's laundry fluttered in the light breeze beneath the warm summer sun, and he stood for a time, staring at it.

Strange, he thought, how something as simple a clothesline could carry with it such significance. Three sets of posts, and three long lengths of twine, and row after row of neat wooden clips, and there hung all the little pieces that made each of them who they were. There were his white shirts, and undershirts, and trunks, and socks, all in a row; he had been perturbed, in the beginning, to think of Mrs. Beazley washing his underthings, but she had brooked no argument, had been unwavering in her conviction that the laundry was her purview, every stitch of it. Her practicality had eased his squeamishness, somewhat, but still, the thought of Mrs. Beazley with her hands on his trunks - for any purpose - set his mind to wandering down a strange, not altogether unwelcome path.

She was, after all, a beautiful woman.

A beautiful woman who hates you, who would laugh in your face if you praised her.

He turned his attention then to the ladies' things, trying to sort out whose were whose. The trousers and the little red dress and the flower-patterned intimates were Mattie's, he thought. He smiled at the sight of them; she was a bright, hopeful girl, though her sheltered life had left her a bit naive in the ways of the world. That naiveté was fading, day by day; she was reading Lucien's books, now, and scribbling constantly to a suitor off in London, and the way she teased Danny carried with it a rebellious edge, albeit one that reminded Lucien more of his daughter when she was small, pushing the boundaries and watching her mother out of the corner of her eye, wondering how much leniency she would be allowed. Mattie's clothes were bright, and cheerful, and spoke of youth, and it was that youth, swerving from innocence to courage and back again, always on the edge of some grand discovery, that had brought a liveliness to Lucien's days he had sorely been lacking before her.

The rest of the clothes, he supposed, most have belonged to Mrs. Beazley. There were her stiff, straight skirts - Christ, but that woman's skirts seemed to have been designed specifically to drive him mad. It was quite cruel, he thought, that a woman could be blessed with a figure as fine as Mrs. Beazley's, and yet also possess a heart so determined to think the worst of him. He should not admire the flare of her hips or the curve of her bum, but it was hard not to notice, when everyday he found himself in close proximity to her.

A sudden suspicion rose in the back of his mind, and so Lucien tucked his cigarette between his teeth and approached the line, glancing once over his shoulder to make sure he was properly alone before his investigation began.

It seemed strange to him that Mrs. Beazley, who otherwise was not possessed of an ounce of vanity, should choose to dress in manner that flattered her figure so deliberately. Lucien's examination of the skirt closest to hand proved the right of it; she had made the thing herself, for there was no label, nor any trace of one having been cut out, and the skirt - all of her skirts - fit her too well to have been purchased off the rack. And wasn't that curious, he thought, that she had made this thing herself, had chosen, quite intentionally, to emphasize rather than diminish her own attractiveness.

He made to step away, intent on finishing his cigarette before going in search of his supper, but something else on the clothesline caught his eye, something that had the breath catching in his throat in a moment.

It was a single pair of old, rather faded satin knickers. They had probably been bright white, pristine even, once, but now they bore a faint patina of age. The seams showed some evidence of having been neatly repaired, and the fabric was very nearly transparent in places. Perhaps they were a particular favorite, he mused, worn so often that eventually time took its toll, or perhaps - more likely, given Mrs. Beazley's rather modest means - she simply did not have very many, and so endeavored to make what she had last as long as possible. Lucien very nearly reached out to touch them, but then it all came crashing down on him, where he was, what exactly he was looking at, what purpose they served, where they served that purpose, and he very nearly swallowed his cigarette, choking on a puff of smoke in his haste to escape.

From a more respectable distance he considered those knickers, and the strange sense of melancholy they instilled in him. Mrs. Beazley made her own clothes, and of those she did not have many; Lucien was fairly certain he could rattle off an accounting of her entire wardrobe from memory, and he'd only known her for a month. Her knickers were old and worn, and perhaps most distressing of all, they were almost depressingly utilitarian. No bright colors or patterns or modern cuts for Mrs. Beazley, no adventure or drama or frivolity, no lace or silk. Just plain, old, and rather tired looking knickers. She lived alone in a small room at the top of the stairs, a perpetual guest in her employer's home, with no one but a girl and an old widower to look after - and now, of course, Lucien himself. He did not know anything at all about her life before his arrival, he realized as he puffed pensively on his cigarette; he knew that her husband was dead, but he did not know when or how or why. He knew she still bore the man's name and wore his ring proudly, but he could not, for the life of him, recall having ever heard her speak his name. The way she interacted with Danny and Mattie had made him think she must have children of her own, but she had not spoken to him of them, either, if in fact they existed. Such a small life, he thought sadly. No bigger than my own.

"Everything all right, Doctor Blake?" a cool voice called from over his shoulder, and he spun on his heel to find himself facing a familiar, curious stare beneath a single delicately arched eyebrow.

"As well as can be expected," he answered in a tone of forced cheerfulness, and as he spoke Mrs. Beazley's bright grey-blue eyes followed the progress of the cigarette in his hand, and his heart sank, as he realized he had been caught. Just another misstep, then. One of many. "And how are you this fine afternoon?"

"I'm well, thank you," she answered primly. On her hip she carried a laundry basket, and having dispensed with the niceties she made her way to the clothesline at once and began to gather up the laundry.

"In the future if you could smoke on the other side of the garden, that would be a help, Doctor Blake," she called from amid the rows of shirts and skirts and intimates.

"I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Beazley," he called back, feeling properly chastised. Likely all those fresh-laundered clothes now smelled faintly of smoke, and he did feel a bit bad about it.

Her head popped up from over the clothesline and he found himself staring into her face, taking note of the rise of her cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the beautiful, almost indescribable color of her eyes. She really was a lovely woman, but as he looked at her a strange thought floated across his mind and he had to drop his gaze and chide himself for wondering which pair of knickers she was wearing today, and whether they were in a better state than the ones he'd seen. He rather hoped so; she was a fine strong woman, Mrs. Beazley, and she deserved more, he felt, than what she had.

"You should call me Jean," she said, and his gaze snapped back up to her face at once. Her cheeks colored faintly, as if she could hardly believe she'd had the gall to tell him such a thing, but she squared her shoulders and faced him resolutely. "If you're going to stay on here, well, I just thought -"

"That's lovely, thank you, Jean," he answered warmly. "And you should call me Lucien. Doctor Blake is my father."

She smiled at him, a bit sadly, and then went back to her work, and suddenly the state of his future seemed a bit brighter to Lucien than it had a moment before. This life would not be so bad, he told himself, and if he were careful, it might actually go quite well for him. And this, he felt, was the perfect moment to start, here in the garden on a sunny afternoon. He did not know much at all about Mrs. Beazley - Jean - but he had always been a quick student.

He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his shoe, and then approached her with his hands in his pockets.

"Tell me, Jean," he said as he drew near. "Do you have any children?"