I stepped into the hall to listen for the baby, wishing desperately that I could lie down on the bed and rest. “And his recent attack of the nerves?”

Theo straightened. “They’ve done what they could for him.” Sadness weighed down his voice. “I don’t believe he will improve further at the asylum. You’ve read his last letter. I no longer see any courage or hope—”

A cough raked Theo’s chest and cut off the rest of his words.

That dratted cold. I quickly handed him another cup of hot tea. “This should help.”

“Thank you. Auvers-sur-Oise will be a better place for Vincent. He will be only an hour from us by train. We will have regular visits. And Dr. Gachet there is an artist himself. Cézanne and Pissarro recommended him most heartily.” Theo drained the cup. “I want to be at the station when the train pulls in.” He drew me into an embrace and brushed his lips over mine. “I love you, my little wife.”

I rested against him for a moment. “I love you too, dearest.”

We were natural with each other from the first, comfortable, as if we had always lived together. And over the past year, our love only deepened. The thought of spending every day of my life with Theo lit me up with unbridled joy. I wanted nothing more than to grow old with him. How lucky, how incredibly lucky, to have all my dreams fulfilled, to be so blessed.

Yet I couldn’t stop fretting. “And if I ruin lunch?”

“He will be too hungry to notice. Don’t worry, they don’t hand you over to Madame Guillotine for a burned sausage, not even in France.”

He walked down the stairs, coughing some more. The four long flights of steps were a trial, more so on the way up, for me too when I had the baby and the carriage. A larger, ground-floor apartment was available, but we couldn’t afford it along with Vincent’s added expenses.

I closed the door and moved to the window, pressing a hand against the stubborn pains in my abdomen. Soon, this too shall pass.

Then Theo stepped out into the May sunshine and looked up with a smile and a wave, and I forgot about the pain.

I waved too. “Hurry back, dearest.”

He cut a solitary figure as he strode confidently down the street, to Rue Jean-Baptiste to hail a carriage to Gare de Lyon. He was always so sure of himself, while I was raked with a multitude of worries and fears.

Oh, why did Vincent have to insist on making the journey to Paris alone? What if he had another mental breakdown on the train, among strangers? And what if he arrived safely, but took a dislike to me?

My son cried out in his cradle, saving me from my worst imaginings. “I’m coming, darling.”