Chapter Text
They sat up together in Jack's suite, which was the largest, drinking whisky.
Primrose was chatting happily about life back in Sherbrooke. "Jane's pregnant again," she said. "And I can't wait for you to meet your nephews and nieces. They called the second boy Jack, you know – that was when we thought you were dead. He's nothing like you though. He's kind to his sisters."
Jack laughed. He was going home. And with the money Mr Bushy had promised him, he knew he had no need to fear being a burden. He'd set himself up in a trade, though he hadn't decided which one.
Primrose turned to Emma. "So are you and Jack getting married then? If so, can I be your bridesmaid? I do wear dresses sometimes, I promise."
Emma turned to Jack and was relieved to see her own horror shadowed in his face. Both of them burst out laughing.
Emma was the first to calm down enough to speak. "I've already tried marriage," she said. "And it didn't agree with me one bit. But I have to say, I think marriage to Jack would surpass even my marriage to Mr Jones in terms of awfulness."
"I agree," said Jack. "We'd probably kill one another."
"Thank God," said Emma. "I thought that when she said that, maybe I'd misunderstood, maybe–"
"Me too," said Jack. "But let's not even think about it, right?"
"I ... I haven't really thought about where I'll go," said Emma. "As I said, I want to open a shop, but–"
"The town gets bigger every week," continued Primrose, "but we don't have a shop yet. Everyone is crying out for one."
"We could open one up together," said Jack, then blushed. "If you want to, I mean. Perhaps you want to make a new start, well away from me."
"I thought perhaps that's what you wanted," said Emma.
"Aren't you sick of me?" said Jack
"Of course I'm sick of you," said Emma. "But I'd miss you like hell if you weren't here."
"Ah," said Primrose. "I understand. That's why you don't want to get married. You're just like a brother and sister."
"Good," said Emma. "Now that's sorted, shall we go to bed?"
"One thing first," said Primrose, raising her glass. "A toast. To Bushy, Bagot and Green. And to Rockwell and Mrs Rockwell, and to us."
Emma and Jack raised their glasses. "To all of us."
"And one more," said Jack. "To Honeyman, and to Chatham, and to Sluddard. And maybe to Rockwell and E.M. Jones too, and certainly to Barrett. God damn them all."