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mtraki · 5 years

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Catherine found him hours later, working through everything he now knew, and everything he felt. He surprised himself, how little anger there was with the conclusion of things. The news of Dutch’s execution was bitter, but not as painful as the reflection on his betrayal of everything he’d held dear and taught them in exchange for everything he’d told them to deplore. In the end, the man who’d been hanged, Arthur supposed, was not the man he’d grown to love. If that man had ever existed in the first place...

“You haven’t told me your decision,” The lady said softly, taking a seat by the fire next to Arthur who closed his journal as she did so.

“Mrs. Cornwall… seein’ as you’ve been gettin’ letters from everyone, you surely know already that I’ve got TB.” He replied quietly, “So I ain’t gonna be any good for any sort of job you might offer me for long, and I ain’t got much use for your six thousand dollars.”

“Mister Morgan,” She answered in a similar tone, “you aren’t dead yet, and while that remains true, I have invested interest in how you want to spend your remaining days. All I’ve offered are tools to go about securing that future. If they’re insufficient, I am open to suggestions.”

He didn’t have any, really. What he’d wanted, starting out, was more or less already around him. It seemed she’d been genuine, and the people he cared for, who were still alive, were safe, and would remain safe for some years yet, if they were wise. He hadn’t planned any further than this. He supposed he hadn’t expected to live this long.

When his silence lingered too long, Catherine spoke again, “May I make a suggestion..?”

“... May as well,” He sighed.

“Come with me.”

“To California? Sure--”

“To my house. Stay with me.”

Feeling his back teeth grind, Arthur shook his head, “...Last thing I want is to spend my lingering days tucked up in a fancy bed all hours--”

“--Then don’t. The estate has a stables and three orchards, a vineyard and wine press, two workshops, miles of hunting and trails, two or three streams. Indoors, I’ve managed to collect the largest private library west of the Lanahachee River. There’s also a gaming room where the men like to play cards three nights a week. Spend your time how you want. I just… I want you there.”

Meeting her eyes, he saw that she meant it, and not from a place of pity. “...It sounds real fine...”

“It should,” She said softly, “I had you in mind when I had it built.”

He slept most of the train journey, truth be told, in the private sleeper car she’d had made for them, just behind their private passenger car-- where they were all seated in comfort. He was informed afterwards by John, Uncle, and Miss Grimshaw, that the journey had been a peaceful one. Jack was excited about his chance to go up to the engine car with the engineer, and to pull the whistle. He spent the next week telling his parents he was going to be a train engineer and a gunslinger, and nobody would rob his trains ever.

Arthur would only really remember the morning they finished their journey over and through the mountains and into California proper, seeing the pale purplish light of dawn reflecting off the snow-capped peaks and shifting the thin mists over the rolling hill country with its carpets of wildflowers. Catherine had stopped beside him to look out the window as well, and as the light slowly turned from purple to gold, he felt her fingers brush shyly against his before he took her hand and held it. Only for a few moments, but the warmth of her skin and weight of the intimacy in the touch lingered long after she stepped away again.

There were a number of passengers not related to their party, and they were continuing on to San Francisco Their own stop came not long after sunrise, and another large camp was formed and the train partially unloaded. After the train moved on, they spent the rest of the day putting wagons back together and walking out the horses and getting everyone used to their feet again. The horses seemed to have journeyed well, despite most of them not having been packed for shipping before. The following morning, the smaller group of them-- the remnants of the Van der Linde gang, Mrs. Cornwall, Barnabas, and some of his men-- rode out, leaving the nervous ledger man, whose name Arthur never caught, and the workers and their big tents to deal with themselves.

It was beautiful country, rolling plains of green and golden grasses in the valley and wooded foothills and towering cliffs over those. A waterfall could be heard in the distance, even over all the horses and the wagons.

They kept a steady pace, stopping for lunch, where Catherine pointed out the town nearest her home, Flintpoint Hollow. Arthur was paying more attention to the woman, herself. There seemed to be a strange air coming over her, at once she seemed more nervous and more exhausted. He wondered if she were not used to traveling days in her new life of wealth. That didn’t seem right, though, because only a year ago, when she’d come from a similar life, she’d never seemed worn by the rigors of the outdoors.

It broke like a fever in her that evening when they arrived at the estate. Whatever she had been anticipating, she anticipated no more, for it was upon her. Before them was a beautiful mansion in the Spanish style in a clearing surrounded by ancient trees. Three grooms met them to take the horses to the paddocks, and after a brief debate on the matter-- which the grooms surprisingly won-- they proceeded to the gate of the house where they were greeted by the biggest black man any of them had ever seen. He dwarfed Arthur by at least a foot, and even at his strongest and healthiest, this man had to outweigh him by fifty or more pounds. His clothes were clean and well-tailored, and he held himself with rigid, almost military dignity.

“Welcome home.” He opened the gate and bowed his head to Catherine, his voice deep and bass, the words rolling with an unfamiliar accent.

“Thank you, Mister Hawthorne.”

Looking them all over, Mister Hawthorne seemed to take their measure in an instant and reported to the lady, “Supper will be ready within the hour and the spare bedrooms are prepared with linens and hot water for our guests. Will Mister Misser and his men be joining us at table?”

Barnabas spoke up, “No, that’s--”

“--Please join us for supper, Barnabas, at least. There’s room at the table.” Catherine smiled graciously, then indicated the huge man, “My friends, this is Mister Dmitri Hawthorne. He runs the manor. My dear Mister Hawthorne, these are our long-awaited guests: Miss Susan Grimshaw, Miss Karen Jones, Mister Javier Escuella, Mister John Marston, Missus Abigail Marston, Mister Jack Marston, Mister Arthur Morgan, Missus Sadie Adler, and the good-natured fellow we all agree to call ‘Uncle’.”

“A distinct pleasure to finally meet in person.” The goliath responded, his tone quiet and cool, and yet there was no hint of sarcasm, either. With one massive hand, he indicated a mousey woman in a plain dress and apron, “Miss Withiers, please take Miss Grimshaw, Miss Jones, Missus Adler, and the family Marston to their rooms so they can refresh themselves before supper, after their long journey. Mister Escuella, Mister Morgan, Mister Uncle, I will show you your rooms, if you would follow me. Mistress--”

“--Catherine, Dmitri. Really.”

“--Mistress Catherine,” Mister Hawthorne continued, nonplussed, “I request you retire to your bedchambers and not your office before supper. Mister Misser and company, I believe you know your way to the front lounge?”

“We’ll be fine, Hawthorne, thanks.” The moustached man assured him, gesturing for his men to follow him.

Inside, the mansion’s warm cream walls glowed with lamplight. The rooms were large and airy, and though the furnishings were of good quality, they were not oppressive in their presentation, and very little was present without a clear function. Miss Withiers led the ladies and Marstons up the central stairs while Mister Hawthorne turned to the right, pointed out the dining room-- which was already lain with about twenty place settings on a long table-- and the adjacent parlor where Barnabas and his men situated themselves to smoke with the big windows open. They passed a few more closed doors before the big man opened the door at the corner.

“Mister Morgan, this room has been prepared for you. If you need anything at all, there is a bell pull just inside the door, or you can ask anyone in the house.”

“... So I jus’ stay here…?” Arthur gave the goliath and the men still behind him a dubious look.

“You are welcome to go anywhere you like, but please keep in mind supper will be served shortly.”

With that they left him.

The bedroom was decently sized with large windows and access to the outdoors. A sinfully comfortable looking bed awaited him, covers already turned down, but Arthur ignored it, as he

suspected he’d sleep right through supper if he laid down.

Not that he was hungry at all, really. He just wanted to sit with everyone what few chances were still afforded him.

He wanted to see the Marstons flabbergasted at real silver flatware they could eat with instead of steal and fence. He wanted to see Karen speechless to be waited on. Susan gobsmacked with the number of courses in the meal. Javier praising the wine in Spanish. He wanted Sadie to struggle to find something to be discontent with. He even wanted Uncle to try and make up a story about how he’d once had a _finer _meal somewhere. He wanted to see Catherine’s pale eyes smiling at them all from the head of the table over candlelight...

Decidedly avoiding the standing mirror in the corner, Arthur washed up in the basin, discovering the water was indeed heated as Hawthorne had said, and then stepped out the side door into the evening to watch and listen, taking in…his new home…?

Some time later, the big black man came to collect him for the dining room, suggesting he leave his gear in the room, but not insisting when Arthur made no move to take anything off.

The meal was everything Arthur had wanted and more. It did not take long at all for everyone to relax warmly into each other's company with good food. The outlaws kept a modicum of decorum in the fancy environs of their hostess, but table manners were largely overlooked and indeed ignored by everyone except the lady in question, who had been reared with them in her education. At the very least there was no spitting or smoking at the table.

Everything was going very well until that terrible, familiar feeling clenched through Arthur’s chest like a vise and he began coughing hard and rough. Having mind enough to step away from the table, the food, and the others, he made it only two paces before the inability to inhale clean again stole the strength from his limbs. Inky dregs of darkness began to swallow the outside edges of his vision. He was drowning on phlegm and blood again…

Some part of his awareness caught snatches of activity: how the voices from the table asked after him, John and Catherine getting to their feet…

Someone’s hand on his elbow just before his knees buckled.

Trying to gasp protests as somebody-- or more than one person-- lifted him to be carried.

He woke what must have been hours later, moonlight streaming in through the windows from the space between drawn curtains, and someone mopping the horrible night sweats from his face, neck, and the exposed part of his chest with a cool cloth that smelled like mint and lemon. He knew it was Catherine from the way the fingers of her other hand smoothed through his hair at his temple.

Despite every desire to say something to her--maybe to ask her wryly if she was sure this was what she wanted in her fancy house, exhaustion and fever dragged him down again. It was later that John told him they’d spent three days convinced they were just waiting to bury him.

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