Title: Rumpled Bedding
By:Amanda
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Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing that sprang from the mind of Stephen Sondheim et all. And I make no profit.
Spoilers: Movie
Pairings: Lovett/Sweeney in nature
Summary: What stories they must tell about Mrs. Lovett's rumpled bedding.
Completed: January 19, 2008
Notes:I've been a Sweeney fan long before Johnny picked the razors, but it was Helena that inspired me to pick up my pen.
Wash day has never been my favourite of the domestic responsibilities. Even less so since Albert's passing.
Local women have little use for a widow. Other than their fodder. The whispers I've caught wind of would make a fop blush, it would. It seems everyone has their theory on how lonely Mrs. Lovett manages to keep her pie shop, not to mention the second, empty floor above.
Swapping gossip more than suds, they do.
I've seen women tighten their hold on their husbands when we pass in the street. Do they think I've gone into trade for a crust of bread or a few shillings? And from their husbands too? Ha! They can barely manage to keep their own families fed and housed; they couldn't afford to keep me as well.
A bored woman's fantasy. That's all it is.
None of them could imagine that Albert sold his soul for us. To a devil as human as they or I. Honourable and all that too. There's a tale to be spreading around Fleet Street. No one ever questions where the Judge got a pretty little baby.
No, they don't pay attention to that. The truth is too dark sometimes, when things get desperate. Much nicer to believe in fancy tales and scandalous stories. We all escape into fantasy, I suppose everyone's allowed that much. At least it's something.
I can only guess that they're saying now that I've got Mr. Todd living upstairs. Just the two of us. A vulnerable widow and, as far as they know, single man all alone under one roof. Well, with Toby now of course. A nice sweet boy. Real domestic like. A family.
I wonder what they all think. I wonder what they titter on about.
I don't bat an eye as I let one of Mr. T's shirts come tumbling out of my bed linens. Dingy grey, but once a pure, virgin white.
I catch Mrs. Mooney nudging Mrs. Bailey at the sight of it. They share one of their knowing looks. As if it explains all their suspicions about how a man's shirt got tangled up in my bedding. The stories they must be spinning. What exaggerated tales they must swap; full of lust and dirty secrets.
Ah, but truth be told, I boil most of Mr. Todd's shirt at home, late at night. Careful so they don't stain, careful so no one sees. There's only the odd scrap of clothing not spotted scarlet; those I just add in with mine. No reason for a second trip. Nothing sordid about that. Practical as always.
Not that I'd go telling them all that.
Who am I to deny such women their fantasies?
Makes the dark seem so much brighter they do. Daydreams and the places where the mind wanders too.
And one never does know. Maybe.
End Scene.