Epilogue
Ironwood, Wyoming 1884
THE TRAIN SWAYED AND shook, the whistle blasting the air as the wilds of Wyoming rushed past. Great expanses of green extended in either direction, cut only by the iron and wood of the tracks, and in the distance, snow-capped mountains towered majestically. At least, Alice assumed that’s what was outside the window. At the moment, she couldn’t force her gaze past the worn fabric of the private compartment’s seat opposite her.
Digging her hands into the plush of her own seat, she forced her stomach calm. She had no call to be so all fired anxious, and feeling ill besides. From any side she regarded it, excitement should have set in by now. Instead, she felt as if she would decorate the insides of the private carriage with the contents of her stomach.
Pressing her hand to her stomach did nothing to still the roil. Her skin looked fragile and pale against the fabric of her gown, the gold of her wedding ring the only colour to contrast the blue of the taffeta.
Hauling herself upright, she swayed as the train sped toward the station. Exhaling, she fought to remain steady on her feet, hoping like hell the action would force her nerves to calm.
It didn’t.
The train slowed, and it could only mean one thing. The train was preparing to pull into the station.
Less than ten minutes and she would be in Ironwood once more.
Pressing her hands into her sides, she exhaled again, desperately hoping a repeat of the action would do something. Goddamn it,shewas the one who’d insisted they return. She had maintained to Rupert the boys should grow in Ironwood, that she wanted her children to know the town that had formed her. And now she was four months gone with their third, it had seemed the perfect time to put thought to action.
Rupert hadn’t cared much where they lived, the deadbeat. True to his word, his home was wherever she and the boys were, and if she was all fired certain she wanted to return to Ironwood, then he was more than happy to oblige.
Bracing her hands in the small of her back, she paced. Distraction. That was what she needed. There was no point in this fussing. She was only making herself sick. The moderate nature of the carriage didn’t allow for wild perambulations, but it felt right to be undertaking action in one form or another rather than sitting and stewing upon things best left unthought.
Eight years had passed since she’d walked the streets of Ironwood, since she’d stood before the Diamond, and much had happened in that time. Accepting the offer of Wyoming Coal to purchase her claim had resulted in a tidy sum and, combined with Rupert’s savings, enough to pay for their establishment in Montmartre, Paris. A tiny apartment onRue la Bruyerehad been their first home, and a rundown theatre a few blocks from there had been the start of her new theatre. After a time, Rupert had found employment with a coal company out of London, and she had put all her energy intoLe Petit Bijou.
Her theatre, her little jewel, had been a rousing success. At first, she’d offered a small weekly show, but quickly demand had been such that a nightly performance turned a profit. Finally, she’d built a reputation and gained enough of a loyal audience that she’d had the courage to stage a proper production.
The Saloon Girlhad been a moderate hit, playing for nigh on six months before ticket sales had shown any sign of waning. Even now, four years after its beginning, the production still ran—every third Saturday, in deference to the other shows she’d created. In a year or two, maybe it was they would return to Paris, if only to oversee the theatre’s operations for a spell. But that would be in a year or so. She’d no wish to leave Ironwood before she had to.
She exhaled forcefully. It had been so strange, the onslaught of homesickness that had felled her, all sudden and quick-like. The build-up—if there had been such—had been so gradual as to not garner her notice. Then, one day as she’d been preparing for a show, a wave had hit her so bad she hadn’t been able to stand. After that night, thoughts of the town she’d called her home for nigh on a dozen years haunted her, and as time had passed, the longing for Ironwood, and the desire to raise the boys in the town that had been her home for so long, had become undeniable.
Her stomach turned upon itself, as if that was the purpose for which it’d been designed. Pressing her hand harder against the gentle mound of her belly, she scowled. This was pure foolishness, is what it was. There was no godly reason to feel poorly, and be worried besides. Damn it all, she’d just recovered from the sickness of the voyage across the sea and carrying the new baby had brought. Why did her body see fit to try her with this new nausea?
The door banged open. Heart pounding and breath gone, she jerked her gaze toward it as two small bodies flew through, launching themselves at her. Catching them into a ferocious hug, gladness and intense love filled her. Here, just when she most needed it, the best of distractions.
Rupert had been her husband four months when she had first suspected she was pregnant. Though they used the same precautions they had prior to their marriage, apparently nothing was infallible, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. Six weeks on a ship battling both morning and sea sickness hadn’t been how she’d wanted to spend the voyage across the Atlantic.
By the time they’d docked in Le Havre, she’d been about ready to kill him for his part in her misery. He, of course, had been his usual cheerful self and taken her death threats and curses in stride. When he’d arranged their first French hotel room and all but forced her to remain in bed the first three days of their arrival, she’d been ready to have him canonised.
Thank God she hadn’t had to travel anywhere while pregnant with Victor. A sea voyage while suffering the worst morning sickness in the history of the world was not something she wanted to repeat. Ever. However, it seemed fate hated her, for once more she’d travelled the Atlantic with child, vomiting every step of the way and confined to her bed when she wasn’t retching.
Now, Rupert followed them in, looking harried and somewhat bemused, but he often wore that look when he trailed after their children. Again, her heart felt too large for her chest, her love for this man swelling her to bursting. He’d given her so much—the confidence to open a theatre in Paris, unconditional love, their children. She couldn’t see her life without him.
Oliver tugged at her sleeve. “Mama, did you see? We’re pulling into the station. Victor wants to see the Diamond so bad.”
Turning to her eldest son, Alice smiled. Seven years of age, and Oliver still insisted on saying his brother wanted to say or do what he clearly wished to. “Victor wants to see the Diamond, does he? Are you sure it’s not you, Oliver?”
Oliver shook his head. “No, Mama, don’t be silly. Victortoldme.”
She shifted her focus to the small body snuggled into her other side. His thumb lodged in his mouth, Victor stared up at her from dark brown eyes identical to his father’s. She raised her brows at her almost three-year-old son. “Victor, is this true?”
Solemnly, Victor nodded, never releasing his death-grip on the now-tattered rabbit Rupert had given him upon his birth.
“Well, what does your father say?” She raised her gaze to Rupert’s, all expectant-like.
Taking on a long-suffering expression, he sighed expansively. “I think you boys areverylucky to have a mother who is so outstandingly talented she has theatres intwocountries.”
“France and America,” Oliver announced.
