A/N: A long-awaited, Christine-centric chapter
She leaves New Orleans on a train after two kisses – one from Sorelli and the other to her, and her lips are tingling with the taste even as she fights the tears that try to water in her eyes. It is not a goodbye to her best friend, not truly. They will still have letters, will send each other portraits and lines of poetry like a code, but it will be different. It will be wrong. Sorelli has been the most important person in her life for three years, picked her up after her father died and found her work in the theatre and settled on this mad scheme to find husbands when the theatre fell through and took her back with open arms after her return from Leadville. Leaving her is almost like tearing out a part of herself.
She clings to the memory of their last laugh together, before she left their room, as the train trundles across the country. "Tell him to get his good looking friend to write me if he wants a wife." Delivered with a saucy wink, and a new portrait of Sorelli herself slipped into the violin case. "Don't go forgetting me now when you're wrapped up in your husband."
"How could I possibly?"
A low whisper in her ear. "You know how it is with men." And a knowing glance that would have made the Christine of three years ago blush. "I have a parting gift for you."
Two violets, and a book of poems from an ancient Greek. Then the kiss, light and quick to her lips. "Remember what I taught you."
Christine's own kiss in return was firmer, lingered a little longer, as if she might try to tell her with it what she cannot put into words, not even to herself. "The memories are quite vivid."
And then they laughed, and hugged, and parted with the promise that Christine would wire her as soon as she arrived in Contention, and several times along the way. And the memories keep Christine warm as she changes from one train to another, bound for Cheyenne.
"But what do women do with their time?" Christine will be here in three days, and he has shelves stocked with books for her but surely she won't sit around and read all day. He and Aman keep a very tidy house already, and both of them are adept cooks. It's not as if she's going to have much work, and the question is more pressing now than ever.
What the hell is Christine going to do? Is she going to expect him to entertain her all day? That's an impossible ask! And he will not have her getting bored.
It's a quiet evening in the town, and Trev looks up from cleaning his rifle, not that the rifle needs much cleaning because he cleans it once a week religiously and barely touches it in between. "You're asking the wrong man. I've no intention of finding a wife."
"Yes, thank you for your enlightening remarks, Trevelyan." If his words are a little sharper than usual, Erik can't bring himself to care. He is well aware of Trev's proclivities and they are only a hindrance when he needs concrete answers. She'll be here in three days!
Aman sighs, not looking up from his stack of paperwork. "You have a standing invitation to the Cattleman's Ball in July. Getting a dress made will surely entertain her while she settles in. Tell her to get a whole new wardrobe!"
"How much would a wardrobe of dresses cost?" He's already running close to budget on the books and furnishings. It's a reasonable concern. Though there is that high-stakes game tomorrow night…
"No idea. But," and Aman's look is pointed, "if you run out of options, you could entertain her the way most husbands do." A raised eyebrow clarifies his meaning, not that it needed much clarification, and Erik fights the wave of nausea that comes over him.
The way most husbands do. He has a good idea of what that way is, and the mess of it all does not bear thinking about.
She spends one night in Cheyenne, in a boarding house run by an old woman, Mrs Londra, who fusses over her and makes sure she eats her fill at supper. Mrs Londra supplies her with a bath and a comfortable bed, but tired though she is, Christine cannot sleep. Her thoughts keep whirling, jumping over the train journey, over Sorelli in New Orleans, over the route to the stage station and busy-ness of the city and the dust and the landscape which is not so bleak as she expected it might be nor so green as she would like, but her thoughts keep coming back to tomorrow. To tomorrow, when she will spend twelve hours in a stagecoach so she can reach the town that contains the man who will be her husband. Tomorrow night she will sleep beneath his roof, in the house where she is to spend an untold number of years, unless things don't work out or they move on to another town or he dies. It's a frightening thought, and keeps her awake through the night.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…
She dozes, and dreams that she is still awake, still worrying over whether or not Erik will like her in person, or if he'll try to send her back, change his mind about everything. Dreams she is in the new strange house that is to be hers, and it's black as night underground, the walls closing in, closing in, squeezing all of the air out of the room, out of her.
Mrs Londra wakes her shortly after five, tries to persuade her to eat but she's not hungry and feels as if she hasn't slept at all, so she only takes a cup of coffee. Then it's off to the stage station, through the streets that are already almost fully light, in the watery vague quality of early morning when the world is half-intangible and it feels like dreaming awake.
She is not quite sure that she is awake. How can she know she didn't dream Mrs Londra waking her and is still sleeping back in the boarding house and going to miss the stage? Erik will think she's changed her mind!
For one horrible moment the panic flares inside of her, blocking the early morning bustle of people heading to work and heading home and heading wherever they go in the early morning. She might be dreaming. How does she know she isn't dreaming?
Someone bumps into her, almost knocks the violin case from her hand but she steadies her grip just in time and the world comes back into sharp focus. The city, false fronts and real around her, the dust, the horses, and the warm hot smell of them trotting up and down the street. Of course she's not dreaming. Of course it's real.
She breathes in deeply, and exhales slowly, like Sorelli taught her, and with renewed purpose walks on again, to the stage office in the distance.
She will not be able to sleep in the coach. She knows that from before, from the journey to Leadville. Sleep is simply impossible with all of that bouncing and jolting. But at least on the stage she will be getting somewhere, however crowded it is, however uncomfortable.
She presents her ticket at the station, one-way to Contention, pre-paid by Erik with a handwritten note, and prays that it's good enough, and then when it's accepted and her suitcase and violin case are stowed safely on top, she sends a quick prayer that she will not need the return ticket, and climbs in.
There is a man already seated inside, in a black suit, his hat pulled down low over his eyes though he tips it to her as she settles across from him and arranges herself in a way that (she hopes) will be comfortable for the day's journey.
Twelve hours even sounds interminable.
The coach fills up: a gentleman with a little boy of maybe eight or nine; a pretty black woman who smiles at her; an old woman, her face hidden with a mourning veil and a set of beads in her hands like the Catholics have in New Orleans; a dusty sunburned man with stubbled cheeks and torn clothes who smiles at them all and says in a cheery voice, "my horse was shot out from under me"; and another young man in a grey suit, his pale cheeks hollow as he sits across from the dusty one and they exchange grins.
And then they are off, the city flashing by, packed coach jolting and rattling. The mourning woman keeps up a steady whisper, fingers moving on her beads, and the black woman manages to sleep, her head resting on the shoulder of her black-suited neighbour whose long, elegant fingers toy constantly with his watch, make it play a tune and Christine catches sight of a woman in a portrait inside. The cowhand who proclaimed about his shot horse (and Christine shudders inwardly at the thought) falls into conversation with the man across from him who seems to be a consumptive if his hacking cough is anything to go by (and Christine is secretly relieved to be on the far side of the coach from him), a conversation that seems to mostly consist of nods and knowing glances and the occasional smile, as if they are in on a secret all of their own, though the cowhand does magic tricks for the little boy and tells him about galloping across the prairie after herds of cattle and surviving stampedes and breaking a nasty strawberry roan, while the consumptive gives the boy sweets from his pocket and the boy's father smiles at them.
Christine wishes she could read, but her book is in her suitcase and Sorelli warned her before that if she tried to read on a stage she'd make herself sick. So she settles for looking out across the land, the long dry grass that sways with the wind and the clustered black dots in the distance that might be horses or cattle or some of the buffalo that she's heard are still out her somewhere. A distant ridge of grey mountains, that doesn't change all day, not at the first change of horses when she gets out ad stretches her legs, and not at the second when they all have coffee and a thin soup that tastes better than anything she's ever tasted though she's hesitant to ask what's in it. The sun is high in the sky, the only clouds little white flurries, soft as wool, and the heat in the coach is oppressive. She's grateful for her seat at the window, and the air on her face which is warm but cooler than the air inside.
Then they are on the final stretch of the journey, and there is the shape of a town in the far distance, a cluster of darkness that doesn't seem to be getting closer. Somewhere there is her destination, is her future as a wife, is Erik. What must his house be like? Is it in good order or does it need a lot of work? Leadville was a mining town, full of houses that were built in a rush where tents once stood and the air was rank with fumes and grit from the mines. She did not have to stay in one of the houses there, slept in the hotel instead, but Sorelli has told her that houses out here have leaky roofs and no running water and the wind comes whistling through the timber like a thousand howling ghosts. But Erik's a marshal, and he has promised her running water, so he must have one of the better houses.
And the water. Is the water good, or is it vile with alkali? Are there many children? Do the cattle come right into the street? Do cowhands like this one she's sharing the coach with really gallop down the streets at night shooting at the moon and ride their horses into saloons and bordellos? Are there many other ladies? Or is the town full of fallen women like Sorelli once was, like she could have been?
She's woken from her reverie by the coach coming to a sharp stop, and she lurches forward, almost bumps her head against the man across from her. Outside there are loud voices, "whoa!"s and "hey!"s and she collects herself to peek out the window, the black women craning her neck beside her even as the widow (she must be a widow) prays harder. There are two men on dark horses, both of them wearing badges (though neither has a mask, that she can see) and both are covered in dust.
The closer one, with a thin moustache that might be blond, opens his mouth, but before he gets any words out, there's an outraged cry from on top of the coach, and a voice in a strange accent.
"You left him alone!"
"No!" The cry comes from both riders, and the closer one turns around, shushes the man behind him, before turning back to someone on top of the coach. "Of course not! Trev is with him. What do you take us for, Aman!"
Aman? The name rings a bell, and it takes Christine a moment to realise why. That was the name of Erik's friend, the one in the portrait, the one he shares his house with. It must be him! How many Amans do you meet every day? He's not the driver, she knows that much. The driver was tanned but not dark enough to match the portrait, so it must be the man sitting up beside him, with the shotgun across his knees and the cloth around his face for the dust.
Her heart thumps harder, and she listens back into the voices.
Someone – Aman on the coach, by the accent – is asking, "why did you come out here then?"
"There was word the stage would be hit close to town." The second man answers this time, riding up closer. "He thought an escort would be a good idea."
Who's he? Erik? It must be, and a frisson runs through her.
"You know how impossible he is to argue with." The first man again, and there is an incomprehensible murmur from the roof, before the stage takes off again. One of the riders falls in beside the driver and the other falls back behind them, and like that the excitement is over.
She might doze, now, but they are too close to town. Another couple of hours and she will be there, and she is restless with sudden energy, would run if she could but she can't and she's too cramped to move so she jiggles her leg and twists her handkerchief and checks her watch again and again and tries to remember what Sorelli said about breathing. Slow, deep breaths. In, and out.
The pretty black woman, who is a little reminiscent of Sorelli, really, only darker, pats her arm and smiles a bright smile at her.
"So what brings you to town?" she asks. "I hope it's something good."
"I'm getting married," she answers, and the girl's smile broadens.
"Congratulations!"
And almost before she knows, between telling the girl about Erik her husband-to-be and how she was widowed last year (only almost a lie), and the girl telling her about how she is going to work as a cook on one of the ranches, they're passing between buildings, the coach slowing to a crawl, and then it stops. Her heart pounds as the door opens, and a hand reaches in. She takes it delicately, and as she's helped out she realises it belongs to the blond deputy that rode alongside them. Up close, he's younger than she thought, maybe only a little older than she is. She smiles up into twinkling blue eyes, and he smiles back before turning and she turns with him.
Then she sees him, in a dark suit, taller than she expected, a badge pinned to his chest, left arm in a sling, mask covering half his face, and her breath catches in her throat, her head spinning.
Erik.
A/N: Yes, I did have to end it there. Yes, next week's chapter is a delight and very Erik-centric. Yes, feel free to curse me. But please review!