Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Sweeney Todd.

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My husband would like one thing for Christmas. He would like to look respectable for Church. Every day he comes home from the flax mill, his brown hair looking black and an extra tear in the only shirt that he owns, but with ten shillings.

I would like only one thing for Christmas. I would like something warm and delicious to eat. Every day I come home from the textile mill, my rosy cheeks turned black and with blood running down my arms, but with five shillings.

It's only the beginning of March when Lawrence asks me, "Do you know what I'd like for Christmas, Charlotte?"

I had just returned home from the textile mill, with cut fingers and a new bruise from being whipped for not retuning from my short lunch break on time. "What would you like?" I ask.

"To look respectable for once. Like Mr. Fitchley."

I've never seen Mr. Fitchley, but Lawrence has described him to me. He owns the flax mill. His top hat is tall, his coat only slightly worn, and always makes sure his pants look crisp.

I give a frown. "We never could afford that. Do you expect me to take on a longer shift? Perhaps you wish me to work eighteen hours a day, because fourteen isn't enough for a woman?" I reply with a hint of sarcasm.

"No, no, not at all, I simply meant that for once I could visit the barber, have a shave and a trim.

"Perhaps we could afford that. After all, we have a couple of months to save up." I give him a kiss and we fall asleep, savoring the few hours in which we can rest.

It's mid-June and both Lawrence and I head off to work. By the time I've walked to work sweat is already running down my head. I know the heat of the factory will only worsen my condition. Once I step inside the dimly lit room, I head straight to the power loom. I am about to sit down and adjust myself to this overheated device, when the overseer comes over to me and says, "We've just implemented the Jacquard Loom into the factory. You will now work on that."

I had heard about the Jacquard Loom from friends in other factories. It's a recent invention made by Joseph Marie Jacquard which allows a person to weave more complex designs. After a quick demonstration, I set to work on it. Soon the overseer comes by once again. He's dressed, looking very fine and jaunty, when—wham! He hits me with the cane. "Faster; you're not being paid for nothing."

That's right, I'm being paid nothing, I think to myself.

Finally, yet another monotonous day is over. It's becoming dimmer out, because although this is summer, my working hours keep me out late at night. It's not like I'd be able to see the London sky in any case; the steam and smoke coming out of chimneys blacken the air. I cough. I pass one more crowded block until I reach my tenement. When I walk inside, Lawrence is already there. There's mud on the floor from the neighbors passing through; but that's nothing new. Lawrence asks me how I am and I tell him the same thing I told him yesterday and the day before that, "Just slowly dying. And you, my love?"

I expect him to answer his usual as well: "Never better" and go into a coughing fit. I watch as the slow grin creeps up on his face. "I've been given a raise!" he practically shouts. "Ten shillings brought up to thirteen."

"That's wonderful, darling! Whatever for?" I say.

"They've got a new machine and they're making double as much money. Actually, when you think about it, they should have increased my salary much more. But we'll live with what we can get."

In fact, as happy as I am for him and us both, I can't help but wonder why it is that today when I was switched to a new job I was only rebuked, not rewarded.

"We will," I affirm.

And so we did. With this new bonus, we could save a little money—something we had never done before. All I could wish was to be able to afford a trip to the barber's before Christmas for Lawrence.

It is in late September when I became seriously worried that this will never happen. Many of the women in the factory where I work in were fired today. They brought in dozens of children. They are small, cheap, and useful for fine work. I now do my best more than ever at work so that I won't be the next to go. As much concern as I have for myself, my heart can't help but go out to these children. No schooling, many had lost a parent, and they were beaten so vigorously for their size. I just tell myself to keep looking ahead and to pray. Sometimes it's the only thing that gets me through those fourteen hours, and the only thing that sends me off to work the next morning is my husband's smiling face. How he keeps his hopes up, I may never know.

It's December. I think we'll make it. Just barely. Perhaps I may have to put off buying a few things, but I love to see Lawrence smile. And all he wants is that shave. A few weeks pass like no time because I can't wait for Christmas. Every day Lawrence says to me, "Why, Charlotte, wouldn't you love to kiss my smooth skin on Christmas, maybe with a sprinkling, perhaps, of French cologne?" And I know it may not be a huge deal, but it seems like with our time away each day in the factories, all we have is each other, and the idea that he wants to make himself even lovelier than he already is, and for me, too, just keeps me going.

And so, before midnight mass, he takes our few savings, and heads to Fleet Street, where there is a popular barber. The barber's name is Mr. Sweeney Todd, and he's known for giving the smoothest shave in London.

I wait.

And wait.

My anticipation eats at me. This is what he wanted since March. Yes, a silly little thing, but sometimes it's the small things that make a huge difference. He's taking a while, this barber must be very careful. It's getting close the time to go to church.

And he's not back.

Where is Lawrence, where is my husband?

I go to mass alone this year. This city has never been safe. I'm sure he's not returning.

In March, I thought I only wanted something warm to eat for Christmas. But now I only want Lawrence back.

Instead, I don't care about anything anymore. I may have no money, but I spend the small amount that I have left on a pie.

I find solace in on of Mrs. Lovett's meat pies.

And the taste reminds me of him.

Fin.

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A/N: I wrote this story for my history class for an assignment on the Industrial Revolution. I added the ending for fan fiction's sake.

Review please!