A townhouse in New York City, November 1910

Edith Cushing was in her sitting room sorting through a pile of that day's mail while having her nightly tea and biscuits, her small dog Daisy nestled comfortably on her lap. A roaring fire crackled in the fireplace, taking the chill off the late autumn night. There were the usual bills mixed in with a royalty check for one of her novels, and several invitations to parties for the upcoming holiday season. She smiled happily when she opened an invitation from a handsome and charming recent acquaintance requesting that she accompany him to dinner followed by the operetta "Naughty Marietta" that had just opened at the New York Theatre to great acclaim. At the bottom of the pile was a plain envelope that curiously had no return name and address on it. She opened it to find a check made out to her for a large sum of money from an international bank, along with a handwritten letter several pages long.

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in shock as she started to read the letter...

Dear Edith,

I read about the recent death of your father and would like to extend my deepest sympathies to you on his passing. Enclosed is a cheque that should have been made out to him. I regret that I hadn't the funds to send it until now that it is too late, but I would ask that you accept it in his stead with my sincere apologies. Allow me to explain.

I am the man who presented myself as Sir Thomas Sharpe nine years ago in Buffalo. Shamefully I must confess to you that everything about me then was a lie, except for the name Thomas. That is the name I was born with. Everything else I presented to you and your father was a carefully crafted fiction, including the woman I introduced as Lady Lucille Sharpe. In actuality, her name is not Lucille Sharpe and she is not my sister. She is my wife.

You deserve to know the whole truth, Edith, and I am now ready to confess it all. I beg you not to judge us too harshly, although you have every right to.

Lizzie and I met as children in an orphanage in the East End of London. She was abandoned there at the age of five by her mother, a penniless drunkard who had been neglecting and abusing Lizzie since her birth. She had been living in the orphanage for several years when I was placed there after my parents were killed in a carriage accident. Unlike Lizzie's mother, my parents had been devoted to me and I missed them terribly. I was six years old and hated the orphanage; I was withdrawn and appeared weak to the other children there, and they took advantage and belittled me constantly. Lizzie took pity on me, advising me on how to stand up to the other children and how to adjust to the loss of my parents. I do not think I would have survived without her; she was my salvation during those years, and we have meant everything to each other since then.

When Lizzie was 12 years old, the man who came to the orphanage to give the children piano lessons began paying unsavory attention to her. Lizzie was distraught because the piano was her favorite escape from the drudgery of our lives and she feared revealing his behavior might stop the lessons entirely. The man's attentions grew more brazen over time and finally he attempted to attack Lizzie in an empty classroom, threatening to choke her to death if she tried to expose him. She escaped and came to me crying afterwards, saying she was going to run away because she could stand no more. Of course I would not let her leave without me, and as soon as we were able to manage it, we ran away from the orphanage.

I won't burden you with the details of how we survived on the streets of London for the next few years, but we managed mainly by begging and stealing, constantly eluding any authority figures that might catch us and send us back to the orphanage or to a workhouse, or worst of all, separate us. Both of us were quick studies in the methods of relieving people of their money and possessions. Lizzie loved the theatre, and from sneaking into playhouses to watch the actors on stage we learned how to assume different accents. Lizzie was able to drop her natural Cockney accent at will to sound like a cultured, wealthy woman, and I too was able to refine my voice to appear more upper class. Thus we began inventing more elaborate fictions in order to target wealthier people, which led us to posing in Buffalo as Sir Thomas and Lady Lucille Sharpe.

Which led me to YOU, Edith.

I must further confess to you that initially Lizzie and I had targeted Eunice McMichael as our way into Buffalo society and the riches it contained, but when your father berated me in front of the group of businessmen, I was humiliated and in my anger I decided to use YOU instead. I would not only steal what I could of your father's wealth but I would steal your heart as well, a double revenge. At the time I thought it a cunning and foolproof plan, right up until I took you in my arms and danced the waltz with you at the McMichael's party. I love Lizzie and I always will, but from that moment on you have also held a place in my heart.

I was charmed not only by your ethereal beauty but by your utter purity and guilelessness. I had lived amongst deception and corruption for almost my entire life, so much so that your innocence struck me like a thunderbolt. I found myself wanting to bask in your light for as long as possible. My plan for revenge on your father started to lose focus as you and I became more well acquainted and I realized that I had fallen as deeply under your spell as you had mine.

I suppose it was a blessing in disguise that your father distrusted me from the very beginning, and had a detective investigate "Sir Thomas Sharpe" only to find that the real Sir Sharpe was an elderly man safely ensconced with his family in Allerdale Hall, his business thriving. Your father confronted me and Lizzie about it, and paid us a substantial sum to leave Buffalo immediately never to return else he would expose us as the imposters we were. Knowing how you felt about me he added a proviso that I break your heart before I left so that you would never want to see me again. This I did, only too well, for I knew if I disparaged your writing it would be the most grievous wound I could cause you.

The shattered look on your face when you slapped me that day has haunted me all these years, Edith. I must tell you now that I never meant a word of what I said to you when we parted. On the contrary, one of the only times in my life that I've told someone besides Lizzie the unvarnished truth was when I praised your writing. I have always been a voracious reader, stealing books when I didn't have the money, buying them when I could afford to. So it was a pleasurable surprise that two years after we left Buffalo I was in a bookshop and saw "Crimson Peak by Edith M. Cushing" for sale! I bought a copy immediately, delighted to see that your book had been published after all.

You can imagine my amusement when I discovered that your character "Cavendish" had undergone a transformation since the draft you allowed me to read, having taken on all my physical characteristics. And he now had a sister! Your tale was highly disturbing yet absorbing. What a compelling imagination you have, Edith! I credit your keen writer's eye for subconsciously seeing that Lizzie and I were much closer than a brother and sister have any right to be.

One last confession-when I reached the end of the book and read of the dastardly Cavendish redeeming himself, I was deeply moved. I hoped that it meant you held some fond memory of me even after the cruel and abrupt way I'd ended our time together, and that you had somehow forgiven me. It also made me ashamed of the criminal life Lizzie and I were still leading. It was right then that I convinced Lizzie that we had enough money saved and invested that we could stop our immoral scheming and settle down somewhere to live the lives of decent people. And so we have.

I also vowed to myself then to repay your father, with interest, as soon as we had enough money to spare that I could do so. That is the cheque that I have herewith enclosed.

I think of you often, Edith, with great affection as well as a guilt that I will always carry with me. I hope that you are happy. You deserve to be.

With my warmest regards,

Thomas

Halfway through reading Thomas' letter, Edith had rung for her housekeeper Mary and asked for a large glass of sherry. Now that she'd come to the end of the letter, Edith's mind was whirling with what she'd found out about the Sharpes. She allowed herself a good cry as memories of Thomas came flooding back to her, then she sat for a long while taking deep breaths to regain her composure. She petted the sleeping ball of fur curled on her lap and stared at the crackling logs in the fireplace, lost in thought. When she felt in control of herself again, she rang for Mary and asked her to make a pot of fresh coffee and bring it into the study.

"But Miss, it's almost midnight! You must be tired after such a busy day; wouldja not prefer a cuppa tea or some warmed milk?"

"Coffee please, Mary. I'll be fine. I'm not a BIT tired!" As soon as Mary bustled out of the room, Edith carefully picked up the snoozing dog from her lap and placed her gently on the soft carpet. Then she got up and walked down the hall into her study. She sat down at her desk, took the cover off the typewriter and rolled a fresh piece of paper into it, the ideas sparked by Thomas' remarkable story already crowding into her head for her next book.

End

I wrote a couple of optional endings to this story! ;)

If you think Edith and Thomas should stay their separate ways, choose option 1.

If you think Edith and Thomas should reconnect, choose option 2

Option 1: Thomas and Edith stay their separate ways

Thomas' letter to Edith has finally allowed her to let go of the residual feelings she had for him and move on. The man she sees "Naughty Marietta" with turns out to be the love of her life (and the show's hit song "Ah Sweet Mystery of Life" becomes their song.) They marry, have several children and grandchildren and Edith outlives her husband by a few years, leaving her the widow she told Mrs. McMichael she preferred to be rather than a spinster. She never stops writing, and publishes several novels that sell successfully.

As for Thomas and Lizzie they lead a respectable life in a quiet town for several decades. They never have children because Lizzie is too traumatized by her horrific childhood to want any of her own. She's terrified that something might happen to her and Thomas, leaving their children to end up in an orphanage, a thought she can't bear. It doesn't matter, because they remain each other's world until the very end. They die in their sleep when a gas heater in their bedroom malfunctions; they're found by neighbors some time later in their bed, wrapped in each other's arms.

Option 2: Thomas and Edith reconnect

Thomas' letter has rekindled feelings that Edith has tried for years to forget, and she finds herself aching to see him again. She has brief affairs with two gentlemen who are respectable, considerate and adore her, but she can never bring herself to fully commit to either. She travels the world, accruing more experiences for her future novels.

Three years after she receives Thomas' letter, he contacts her again with another heartfelt note. Lizzie had died the previous year from a bout of flu, leaving him devastated and lost. He desperately longed to see Edith again, as he has never gotten over his feelings for her. After a respectable period of mourning, he made the decision to reach out to her once again.

Dare I hope that you might agree to meet with me? his note asks.

Edith does, and the romantic sparks between them when they reunite in New York are immediate. They marry and remain happily so until Thomas' death, leaving Edith the widow that she told Mrs. McMichael she preferred to be rather than a spinster. She never stops writing, and publishes several novels that sell successfully.

Option 3: Is whatever YOU want it to be