Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.
Merchant Queen
Standing in the dressmaker's shop that day, Eleanor Lovett felt like a respectable member of society. She had money in her purse, a good dress on, a pretty hat, and her good gloves. A few vanities here and there, she supposed, were hardly improper, and women should have lovely things.
The meat pies had afforded her with a heretofore unexpected opportunity; she now had enough money in her pocket to buy a new dress, something really smashing. Hopefully Mr. Todd would find it pretty and alluring enough to notice.
"Good afternoon, mum!" A young woman in a brown dress greeted Mrs. Lovett, breaking the baker's thoughts.
"Hello," she said, with a smile. "I'm looking to have a new dress made up."
And that was the beginning. She was shown bolts of fabric and patterns, each more appealing than the last. Blues, greens, purples, and greys passed under her inspection. Silks, satins, brocades and lawns tempted her eye. It was a feast of color after the long drought of poverty and Eleanor Lovett's eye was starved. She was also a woman like any other, and the idea of pretty things made her nearly breathless with anticipation.
She knew, however, that she was looking for something unusual, something that would catch her eye immediately, and what she had seen so far was not quite right.
That changed when the young woman brought out a deep red brocade shot through with copper thread. Mrs. Lovett caught her breath and reached out to touch the fine fabric. This was, without a doubt, the perfect color. Under the light she could see the delicate embroidery of blossoms and leaves, the copper thread glimmering like fairy lights. "This is the one," the young dressmaker said, seeing the enchantment in her customer's eyes. Mrs. Lovett looked up at the girl and smiled.
"It is," she agreed. She chose a pattern consisting of a tightly-laced bodice, sleeves that hugged her arms closely, and a full skirt with deep pleats. There would be a matching petticoat of contrasting copper silk. She fancied it made her look like a queen. And though red brocade was far too formal for every day, she thought she might wear it anyhow. Perhaps Mr. Todd would like it.
She waited a week in anticipation, smiling each time she remembered the pretty dress being stitched up. When the day finally, finally came, she felt like a little girl, giddy and excited.
She was rewarded amply, for the dress was breathtaking. When the dressmaker showed her the dummy on which the dress was displayed, Mrs. Lovett fought back tears of joy. It was gorgeous. She wanted to wear it every day. She took it home in a large fabric bag slung over her shoulder, and hung it reverently in her small closet. She waited for evening like a child waiting for Christmas.
When at last the afternoon wore late, and the sunlight changed from bright midday to that singular melted gold of early summer evenings, Mrs. Lovett wiped her brow, rinsed her hands clean of flour and meat, and set her last batch of fifty pies to bake. She hiked up the skirts of her brown day dress and went upstairs to splash her face with water and at last put on her new dress. Inspecting herself, she thought she looked like a glass of fine wine. Surely Mr. Todd would notice.
She was right, for Toby's reaction when she stepped out of her apartments and into the shop was most gratifying. "Oh, Mum," the boy said enchantedly. "I've never seen a lady look so beautiful." Mrs. Lovett blushed and kissed her boy on his forehead in thanks. She caught sight of herself in the reflection of the window and was gratified to see that she really was beautiful. The wild auburn curls and falling pins had been tamed into some semblance of order, and her color was high. She carried around her good purse (filched from the dead Italian, but who needed to know that?) and moved with a grace and ease that she had heretofore hidden under her ordinary work clothes. That night she moved among her customers, chatting easily and distributing her pies. It was singularly satisfying to wear one's profits, she decided.
She didn't glance up to the barber's landing to see if he was standing there. She wanted him to see her moving about like a queen among her people. With this dress she distinguished herself from the commoners of London. Now she had no reason to look like one of them; now she provided a necessity to them, and she was in power because of it. She might as well look like it.
The men who came to eat shot her admiring looks, under which she preened and strutted, aware that Mr. Todd would find her vanity irritating. She tucked her night's profits into her bodice, sending Toby from table to table with ale and more pies.
At eleven o' clock she shut her doors to the city for the night, turning over her "SOLD OUT" sign, and locked her door behind her. Taking up her broom to do some last-minute tidying up, she swept her main room and shut her curtains. In the lamplight she stopped to rest for a moment, leaning on her baking table.
"Mrs. Lovett."
He was standing in the interior staircase, almost as if he were afraid she would kick him out. In the amber lamplight she looked as though she were made from something not quite real. Her wild curls had sprung back and her eyes were rimmed with darkness. She looked tired.
"Mr. Todd." She said his name on a breath.
"You bought a new dress," Mr. Todd said, coming into the room. He observed her without shame, his eyes traveling from her head to her feet. He walked around her in a circle, taking her in from every angle. It was deliberately calculated to make her uncomfortable, and Mr. Todd knew that she shrank a little under his scrutiny. She hid it with casual fingers to her hair, trailing down her neck.
"I had enough in my purse for it," she said, willing her voice to be steady. She turned to face him. "D'you like it?" Her smile was sudden, cheeky.
Mr. Todd couldn't help the crook of his lips in response to her forthright flirting. "It's certainly very costly-looking," he commented. "And you look like you're made of copper." His hands were on her in a moment, as if he were feeling the fabric beneath his fingers. It was warm, like her skin, snug around her body like an embrace. "Quite unsuitable for a baker."
"Ah, love, that's its best quality," Mrs. Lovett said provocatively. She seemed to overcome her momentary shyness and glanced at him from under her lashes. In the candlelight her skin looked impossibly pale and her lips lush and inviting. Sweeney Todd had not looked at a woman with desire in more than a decade. It was a surprise how forcefully he was affected by the baker's shoulders. He had thought that impulse in him to be extinguished.
The pulse in her throat leapt as she swallowed. Mrs. Lovett moved her hands from her neck and tilted her head to regard the pale man. He looked at her as though he couldn't quite believe she was there, and reached out to confirm that she was solid flesh. The contact of his fingers loosened her tongue and she murmured, "That's all right, love." He was tracing her shoulder and his hands were not as soft as she'd imagined. He was tentative as he slid his hands down her sides, pulling her to him and dropping his head to press his lips to hers once, twice, with a force that pushed her head back. Mr. Todd had no trouble locating the knot that closed her bodice, untying it so quickly Mrs. Lovett was startled to feel her dress loosen itself around her. Mr. Todd's fingers caught in her bodice, pulling it down and away from her body. The heavy clink and thud of coins made him look down at the floor, where the night's profits were scattered at their feet.
Mrs. Lovett looked at him with undisguised desire. She allowed him to back her into the counter where she did her baking, the edge pressing into the small of her back.
"It's fop," he whispered into her lips. "Finest in the shop." An echo of her words to him on a grey, dizzy London afternoon not two days ago.
"I've no shepherd," Mrs. Lovett teased as he lifted her up onto the counter and she hiked her skirt up her legs. "Only a God-rotting stupid Eye-talian who dared cross a brave and bloody barber."
He found delicately embroidered white bloomers under her petticoat, ruffled with a bow at each knee. Her stockings were black, a striking contrast. Pushing up the heavy skirts, he undid the fall of his breeches and pressed his hips to hers. Then in a moment he was inside her, and Eleanor Lovett tilted her head back and thought of money well spent.