AN: This is the last chapter of Intermezzo, and if you know Esme's story, you know this one earns its rating for character death other issues that may be triggers. Many thanks to Woodlily for betaing. I've tweaked it since, so any errors are my own.

June 1920

I walked up the drive, clutching the paper with the address in one hand and my suitcase in the other. I wasn't even sure how long I'd been awake at this point; I'd taken the overnight train to Chicago, then a mid-morning train to Milwaukee, then a cab to this address, where I hoped I'd find welcome.

My cousin answered the door, stunned to find me, and even more stunned to find me in this condition: a bruise on my forehead from the fall down the stairs, and wincing with a likely cracked rib when she embraced me.

"I'm sorry to put you in this position," I whispered as she hugged me more gingerly around the shoulders. "I just need a day or two to get healed enough for real travel, and then I'll be out of your hair."

"Nonsense! You can stay as long as you like. I'd heard rumors that things weren't good, but I didn't want to believe them," she said, leading me into the house.

I shook my head. "They'll find me here. It will be better for both of us if I don't stay long."

The bath she offered was glorious. I knew I'd be covered with the grime of travel again soon, but the reprieve felt luxurious. It also gave me a chance to survey the damage to my body, most of which seemed to be focused on my shoulders, ribs, my left hip, and head. I must have tucked in when I rolled down the stairs; my abdomen seemed unbruised.

I wrapped a bandage tightly around my ribs and took a cautious breath. It was better. Maybe I'd be able to leave even sooner than I'd anticipated.

When I went back to the spare room to change, I opened my suitcase and studied its contents for the first time, realizing that some things were unfamiliar. There was a manila envelope with newspaper cuttings for teaching positions in different states, as well as the addresses of four different Hospitality Houses, in towns ranging from Indianapolis to Portland, Oregon. And there was a letter from Rachel praising my skill as a teacher and my reliability as an employee.

But that wasn't what made me cry.

There was another envelope with seventy dollars that I knew I hadn't saved, and a note from Rachel telling me that I should consider it back wages for my long service. There were scissors and a nail file and extra pairs of stockings and a brown felt cloche, not as fashionable as some, perhaps, but perfectly serviceable as a travel hat.

But they didn't make me cry either.

The yellow baby blanket, crocheted by hand of soft yarn and hidden under my clothes: that made me weep for my friend and sister. Even now, when I'd stolen away under cover of darkness without saying goodbye, she was taking care of me, and giving me the tools to take care of myself. I didn't know if I'd ever find love like that again in my life.

I realized I'd been upstairs too long; I packed everything carefully away, dressed, and dried my eyes.

Mildred's husband came home at five o'clock, surprised to have company, but not ill tempered about it. Over dinner he asked of my plans, and I vaguely said that I would go west and become a teacher, as I'd intended to do before I married. I kept my answers ambiguous, and neither he nor Mildred pushed, all of us realizing that the less they knew the better.

The meal was pleasant as I became reacquainted with Mildred and newly acquainted with her husband, Daniel. They were kind, in a general sort of way: happy to help, but relieved I wasn't staying long or asking too much. They seemed to realize that my safety was in their hands, and Daniel was uncomfortable with the situation. So I didn't give details about my treatment from my husband. They knew the rumors and saw the evidence that was visible. I didn't tell them about my work at the Hospitality House, saying merely that I had volunteered with war widows and children. I didn't tell them I was pregnant, and was grateful that I'd left before I'd started showing. If Charles ever found out I was expecting his child, I knew he'd never stop looking for me. It was better not to risk that secret with anyone.

I slept for ten straight hours, and felt so much better the next morning that I resolved to leave the following day. I liked my cousin; we'd had our adventures on the farm when I was growing up, and we never lost a fondness for each other, even as we grew apart. My father would know to call her whenever Charles informed him I'd run off. I didn't know how long it would take for Charles to go to my parents, but I knew I didn't have much time. It would be better for Mildred and Daniel if I were already gone when the call came in.

I studied the train schedules I'd collected carefully, looking over the newspaper clippings Rachel had given me, and formed my plan. I spent the day with Mildred in her garden, helping weed and tie back the tomatoes. Both of us savored the time together, realizing that it was probably the last time we'd see each other. That night at dinner, I asked Daniel if he could drive me to the station the next day. I told him that there was a morning train back to Chicago I wanted to take, that would allow me to connect to a train heading for Idaho. I left the newspaper cutting for the teaching position in Coeur d'Alene on the floor by my bed, as though it had accidentally dropped. If Daniel had second thoughts about keeping my secret and gave my father my destination, that's what he'd tell him.

Mildred was hugging me farewell the next morning when the phone rang and my eyes widened. She answered, shooing Daniel and I out the door. As I crossed the threshold with my suitcase I heard her say, "Yes, Aunt Evelyn, she was here, but she's already left. No she didn't say, exactly. Somewhere out west." She blew me a kiss as the door closed.

Daniel was very quiet on the way to the station, and I knew he was less comfortable than his wife with lying to my parents. As he dropped me off, he wished me luck, offering to go in with me to purchase my ticket. I didn't trust his motives and told him I'd be fine. When I bought my ticket I made a point of only asking to go as far as Chicago. I'd transfer there, and be untraceable, even if Daniel did come in and ask the stationmaster for my destination.

When I reached Chicago, I moved though the crowds to the large ladies' room. I exchanged my sweater for a jacket and removed my wedding ring, placing it in my tin to pawn later. I took the scissors that Rachel had packed for me and cut my hair to shoulder length — not quite brave enough to don the fashionable bob — receiving disapproving scowls from two older women powdering their noses. Then I tucked my hair into the felt cloche, and left the ladies room feeling like a new woman.

When I reached the ticket counter, I asked for the time for the train to Idaho, and then quietly purchased a ticket north, to a town in Wisconsin so far north it may as well have been in another country. And like all emigrants, I hoped the far off shores of that distant, exotic land would be full of promise, and my troubles would not follow me there.

Ashland, Wisconsin, it turned out, was not particularly exotic. There were docks, a hospital, and a small university. There were railroads for transporting the ore mined nearby, and mills for processing the lumber harvested from the surrounding forests. There were fewer farms than I was used to in Ohio, but there were hay fields and people on the outskirts of town raised cattle, sheep and horses. It was large enough that a newcomer was not of any particular interest, but small enough that I could find a niche of friendly people by identifying myself as a widow and a teacher. In other words, it was perfect.

Mrs. Brighton, the superintendent at the local school, hired me almost immediately when I applied. I told her I was a pregnant widow of a war veteran and had experience teaching small children. Rachel's letter helped, as did the fact they were down two teachers, both of whom had moved south after their husbands returned from war.

She leaned over her desk to shake my hand. "Welcome aboard, Mrs. Carmichael!"

"Esme," I said smiling. "Please, call me Esme."

She arranged a meeting for me with a woman who ran a boarding house. Her tenants were all women, either single or widows, working in the world. Some of us were teachers, a few were nurses, and two worked as operators for the telephone company. My new home consisted of a studio room with a small kitchenette and table for two. There was a radiator that took the chill off the air in the autumn, and a window that opened wide enough that I could get out onto the fire escape for fresh air in the summer. But I kept it shut and locked, knowing that if I could get out on the fire escape, others would be able to get in.

The day I moved in, three of my neighbors brought me a potted geranium that brightened my little table considerably. I made tea in a metal pot and they each brought a mug over so we could socialize, though I was careful to say as little about myself as possible. I avoided answering any questions on where I was from, siblings, husband, or the war.

Every night I locked the door, shut off the lights, and spent hours trying to make myself sleep. Every day, when I walked the neighborhood sidewalks I scanned faces, fearing I would see his or my father's come to take me back. But the faces were all strangers, and most seemed kind.

It was easier once school started, and I could think and talk about teaching. My students were not as desperate or appreciative as they'd been in the Hospitality House, but they were still sweet and curious. Most had been touched by the war in some form or another. They were respectful and I taught every subject in my third-grade classroom, but often incorporated art into the lessons on topics like math or science, to help make it relatable.

And over time I became less fearful, and I began to make…if not friends, exactly, amiable acquaintances. By the end of October I was clearly showing, and the girls in the boarding house surprised me again with a second-hand cradle, which they had cleaned and repainted beautifully. When they left, I put Rachel's blanket in it, wishing again that I could write to her and tell her how I was faring. I tried to sketch her from memory, so I could have a picture of her on the table by my bed, but it didn't quite look like her. Without her there, I couldn't capture the warmth in her eyes or the humor in the curve of her lips.

I missed her terribly.

"Good morning, Esme," called my neighbor on a brisk November morning. "I've made something for that wee babe of yours."

"Mrs. O'Daire. Good morning. How's your hip?"

"Fine, fine, m'dear," she said as she reached into her purse, and we both continued walking down the hall to the stairs. "It's going to be cold when your wee one is born, so I knitted a hat." She placed the soft white cap in my hand, and I was struck once again by the fact that my child was really coming. And soon. Preparations needed to be made. The little cap was precious, with small pink flowers embroidered around the rim.

"Pink?" I asked, eying her affectionately as we walked.

"Well," she began, with the authority of an Old Wife, "just look how high you're carrying, dear. I'd bet a week's wages that she's a girl."

I looked down, smoothing my hand over my blouse so the bump was more defined, trying to see what she saw.

"You can't tell from that angle, dear," she said laughing. "Do you have names picked out?"

"If it really is a girl, then yes. There's only one name. If it's a boy… I have no idea."

She looked up at me, confused, as we made it to the front door and out into the cool weather. "You wouldn't be naming him for his lost daddy, then?"

Oh, that had been a mistake. Mrs. O'Daire was an astute woman. "Ah, no," I said, recovering. "They didn't believe in taking family names in my late husband's family."

"Ah," she said knowingly. "That's a good policy, actually. My own family is overrun with Johnnys and Billys. Best for him to have his own name."

I nodded and wished her a good day as we parted, she walking toward the telephone company and I walking toward the school.

As time went on my hope swelled, even as my belly did. If Charles or my parents were looking for me, I was hoping by now they'd given up; any trails they could have chased would have long since gone cold. I was more and more confident that everything would be fine: worrying less about the past, preparing for the future. My earnings as a teacher were allowing me to afford the rooms easily, and I began to knit for my child at night, so that she would be warm after her winter birth. Christmas came and my students gave me little hand-made gifts to decorate the baby's corner of my room with: pictures depicting nursery rhymes and fairy tales. The boarding house cleared out — many of the girls went home to their families for the holiday — but the rest of us made communal meals together, and were thankful for our mutual support and companionship.

January was bitter, and I walked to the hospital through the snow.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Carmichael?" the doctor asked after taking my blood pressure and temperature.

"I'm having some pains… I think it's too early to be labor, but I thought I'd better see a doctor to make sure."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "First time mothers often worry over nothing, but I suppose it's better to be safe than sorry. Trust me, when you are in labor, you won't mistake it for anything else."

He placed his hands on my belly, and I flinched. The condescension was gone from his face in a flash. "Did that hurt?" he asked.

"No. No, it's fine. Sorry." I nodded, encouraging him to try again.

He was much slower and gentler this time, pressing firmly in a few places, and then listening with a stethoscope.

"False labor," he declared softly. "I don't think there is anything to be concerned about, but come back if you have pain that feels worse than this. You don't have much longer to go, but we don't want your child coming early in this cold. Try to stay off your feet if you can."

I gave a small laugh. I wasn't teaching at the school this term, but I was still tutoring. Staying off my feet seemed impossible. "I'll try," I promised, knowing that it was a fairly empty one.

Mrs. O'Daire was sitting with me a week later when my water broke. She got me a cab, telling me not to worry; she would have my room mopped and ready before I brought my wee one home.

And I was back in the hospital, praying that this was real labor, because if it got worse than this, I didn't know how I'd survive. Nurses were wiping my brow and bringing snow in from outside for me to suck on as white-hot lightning shot down my spine, and my body tried to tear itself apart. It was the worst pain I'd ever felt, which was ironic, considering this was an act of love, while all the other pain had been anything but. And so I concentrated on the love. My child might not have been conceived in love, but she would be born into love. Born into a home of love and joy, even if it were only two rooms. She would be cherished and strong. I would teach her everything I knew about love, and hope, and how the kindness and faith of a single person can make all the difference in the world. How it can change a life. How it can make you strong, even when you're alone, to know you are loved like that. I hoped she'd have warm brown eyes. I hoped she'd have an easy laugh and a straight back and kindness that seemed to glow from her very skin. I hoped I could love her enough that she never doubted it, or her worth.

It was the love I focused on though the searing pain and the pants and grunts, though the endless reminders to push and breathe, through the noise and too-bright light until finally, empty and exhausted, I heard a faint cry.

I closed my eyes and heard the nurses moving around with my baby, washing and measuring and wrapping her in soft cloth as the doctor told me to start pushing again. My ears were buzzing with the effort of passing the afterbirth, and finally, finally, shaky and washed and empty, I was settled back against clean pillows and given my child by the nurse, who helped get the little mouth attached to my breast.

We were silent as we watched that little mouth move tentatively. I heard the nurse's voice: "Do you have a name?"

"Rachel," I said.

She let out a small laugh. "Mrs. Carmichael, your baby is a boy. You have a son."

"A boy?" I asked, incredulous. I'd had a boy inside me all that time? I laughed at the thought. I'd been so focused on all the women in my life; I'd never seriously considered the idea that I might have a boy.

"Do you have a name chosen for a boy?" She was smiling kindly, clearly amused by my confusion and exhaustion.

I shook my head, stroking his little cheek and rubbing my fingers over his fine hair. He opened his eyes, not quite focusing, but looking toward my face. His eyes were midnight blue, like so many newborns, and he scrunched his forehead up to look at me, so trusting and helpless.

What name could I give a boy? I couldn't name him for my father, or his father. What name would act as a talisman, to make him strong and kind and not selfish or uncaring? There was only one man who had ever inspired any faith or trust in me, and I didn't even know his Christian name, which was surely not Doctor, after all. I nearly giggled at the thought, and the nurse looked on curiously. The surname was not quite right, either, but…

"Colin," I said finally. "I'll call him Colin. Colin Richard," I added, thinking the middle name sounded at least a bit like Rachel.

"Colin Richard Carmichael," the nurse repeated, smiling. "It has a nice ring to it." And it did to me, too. My son would be named after the two people who had given me hope and reason to believe in myself. The two people who had really seemed to see me, despite the distractions of the world.

"Welcome, Colin. I've been waiting for you for a very long time."

Hope turned to fear eight hours later when I awoke to find Colin wheezing. The nurses came in and applied a foul smelling ointment that irritated the skin on his chest and made him cry. I rocked and nursed him, sang and soothed. But he was hot… so hot. How could something so small generate so much heat? It seemed impossible.

The doctor came and made a paste of aspirin, sugar, and water. He showed me how to dab my finger in it and me put it in Colin's mouth so he would suck the medicine from my finger as if he were sucking at the breast. Colin didn't like the taste, but I tried for hours to get him to swallow some, wondering if willow bark tea wouldn't be more palatable to him. The nurses showed me how to rub his skin with alcohol to cool him, but he was still red and hot and his soft skin became dry.

We fed him bottles of water, trying to rehydrate him, trying to get even very dilute aspirin into his system. He was inconsolable. I finally settled for nursing him and wiping his little brow with a wet washcloth. Dread was chilling my heart, but I would not stop, even as the nurses and doctor stood in the corner whispering and frowning, even when his little fists grew too weak to rail against my efforts.

I told him I loved him; I told him his Aunt Rachel loved him. I told him the story of the mysterious doctor who had set my leg and told me I could be an artist and to not sell myself short for all my humble beginnings. I told him we could do anything, be anything, if we only believed in ourselves and our love. I told him he was cherished, and that I would love him forever if he would just fight. Just fight this infection. Just have faith that we could be happy and healthy and love each other.

Don't give up, Colin. You are loved…you are loved.

His breaths grew slower and more shallow.

Fight. Fight for love and life. Please, Colin. You are strong. We'll be strong. Fight, please.

And I rocked him endlessly, for hours, for days, soothing and praying and trying not to lose hope myself. His little body was no longer hot and no longer red, but it was listless.

He stopped feeding in the middle of the second day of his life, and my breasts felt like they would burst. Just like my heart…

The doctors and nurses stopped trying. I could tell when the doctor's face turned grim. Colin was already dead, as far as he was concerned. He was just waiting for the time to put on the death certificate.

I hated him.

I pleaded with a deity I'd long since abandoned. Bargained and promised and prayed. And as I rocked Colin… my beautiful, irreplaceable boy… he grew grey. His lips, perfect little cupid's bows, turned blue. He stopped opening his eyes.

And then I stopped rocking and stopped pleading. I sat perfectly still, holding my beautiful boy and apologizing.

I'm sorry I didn't make you strong enough. I'm sorry I didn't love you enough. I'm sorry I brought you to this cold place to be born in the dead of winter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

And then I stopped doing anything but count his breaths, each more shallow than the last. Four hundred and sixty four. And then no more, and my wail rose to the ceiling, and the nurses tried to take him from me, but finally left me clutching a small blue bundle, sobbing. There was not enough air in the world.

Eventually, I let them take him. Eventually they told me I had to leave, and I dressed and returned to my rooms, where cheerful drawings by children depicting Humpty Dumpty mocked me, and soft yellow blankets promised comfort I knew to be impossible.

And those items that should have welcomed my child home were the only things I saw in color. The rest of the world was grey. Or black, like the color of my clothing and that of my friends as we stood in the grey snow and watched a ridiculously small coffin descend into the earth. I didn't even know whose arms were trying to comfort me. No touch reached me. The fog of grief was so thick I could make out nothing but the sharp edge of my pain, like a razor, slicing through me over and over.

People brought over potpies and casseroles, knowing I wouldn't eat if they didn't watch me do it. They helped me pack away the pictures and the blankets, removed the cradle, and took the little knitted clothing that he'd never worn. My rooms looked like they belonged to a stranger.

My dreams were grey tinged with blue, and I could only hear shallow rasping breaths growing slower and slower…

The wind sounded like those breaths as I stood at the top of the cliff, looking over the grey rocks to the grey clouds on the horizon, and the grey mist that clung to the trees below and was melting the snow as I watched. I didn't even remember the walk that brought me here, though I could remember seeing this bluff from town. I heard a train whistle far below. I looked down and noticed red lines on my arms. Bloody scratches where limbs and brambles had tried to keep me from my destination — the first color I'd truly seen in the heavy weeks that had followed Colin's death. But now I was not heavy. Now the wind clutched and grabbed at me, just as it had when I sat in a tree all those years ago, watching purple clouds approach that seemed to promise something splendid. I closed my eyes against the quickly approaching rocks, imagining purple clouds and hoping that now, finally, something splendid might be waiting.

And the world exploded in red and gold. And then black.

— fin —

AN: It is difficult to write a chapter when everyone knows how it will end, and it's bad, bad, bad. I'm sorry. Remember, though, that Esme's story continues in Chapter 17 of Prelude in C, which is much less awful than this was. Thank you for reading. Oh, and don't forget to log in before reviewing. If you leave a Guest review, I can't thank you for it.