A/N: Crimson Peak (2015) is a rare film that combines my favorite director, actor, and genre, with the occasional nod to history, technology, and feminist politics. It theoretically should have been everything I wanted, and while parts of it came close, other parts did not. The screenplay and story in particular came short of my expectations. Nancy Holder's novelization, while enjoyable, did not ease my frustration at the film's unrealized potential. So here I am.
Books 1 and 2 of this project took one year, spanning Jan-2018 to Dec-2018. I've decided to release them before finishing Book 3.
Many thanks to amazing magesa for making this happen.
BOOK ONE
WRITTEN IN COURAGE
No one ever asked to see her manuscript. No woman, and certainly no man. Her father bought her fanciful paper and fancier pens to indulge her pursuits, but never once flipped past page three of what his gifts brought about. Her work was another stack on his desk, a coveted trophy that was never touched and never heard.
Then there was her childhood friend, Alan. How she practically pushed her writing on him, and he, being the kind-hearted soul, bore through every hour of her readings. She didn't fail to notice how scarce his comments were. How complimentary. How polite.
Not that Edith let such things discourage her.
She spoke to the echoes, letting her pen run across the paper, letting imagination ply her emotions like a violin. The world was a vast place. Surely someone out there could hear her, someone whose heart resonated with hers, capable of dancing to the same steps, the same beat.
The Atlantic Monthly was going to be her instrument to reach just that person. Her envoy.
Fate had other plans.
It was their third meeting, and Sir Thomas Sharpe had just asked to see her manuscript.
It was their fourth meeting, and Sir Thomas had just approached inquiring about her progress on the manuscript.
It was their seventh meeting, and Sir Thomas had just plucked the new chapters of her manuscript from her fingers. The language between them was playful, their gazes fleeting. But the feelings were real. He was truly as excited to read her writing as she was to share it.
They sat under a noble oak tree, sheltered from the hot afternoon and nosy spectators. Edith watched his blue eyes devour her words, watched the lines of childish delight on his face, the way his expression changed in response to every flip of the page, his smile small then wide, open then closed.
Sir Thomas did not stop to ask questions. They were answered for him, as he flipped the pages faster and faster. Around them, autumn leaves whirled, the wind enlivening the ribbons of her hat. Her chest rose in anticipation.
But then, a darkness cast over them. Edith noticed something was wrong. He had fallen into an unreadable mood, strangely removed. Her hopes sank when he finished.
"You killed him." His lips pulled into a thin frown. "A bit cheap, don't you think?"
Her mouth opened. "I am sorry?" He had spoiled her with his praise; she was not used to hearing anything else.
He sighed. "Oh Edith, to come in so magnificently, so strong. You can do better than this. This..." He gestured at the chapters, his nose wrinkled.
Straightening, Edith gripped her pride and said tightly, "If it was a happy ending you came seeking, Sir Thomas, perhaps my work was the wrong choice." She seized back her manuscript, trying to hide the redness in her cheeks. "I am sure you will find some other sweet, charming thing to satisfy you."
"I am satisfied by a good story."
His tenacity left her stunned. She had expected him to pardon himself or divert the topic. Anything to placate her, as would be proper after offending a lady's sensibilities. But not only was he utterly unapologetic, he did not even attempt to reign in his tongue.
"I have no qualms with tragedy. But tell me, Edith, was death his only redemption? Or was it the contrived choice of an author who no longer knew what to do with him?"
Her face grew hot, and then hotter still under his searching gaze. She looked away. Perhaps she was the one in need of sweet nothings, if she ran away at the smallest attacks on her dignity.
Still, Edith would not concede, not yet. Any words of his, she would match. "I only write what the character wills," she said. "I cannot save characters just because of my own fondness. It has to be in their motivation to be saved."
Thomas studied her carefully. Nothing could have prepared her for what he said next.
"... a relentless dreamer. Yet, even in the face of defeat, his will did not wither…"
Edith lost her voice in a quiet choke. Oh Lord, he had memorized her writing. He was repeating her own words back to her with unforgiving finality. Did he even know how much he was killing her?
He must.
His expression had gone gentle, as he went on to recite a different passage. It was an embarrassing passage, one that should have never made it to such a late draft. Yet, she had left those words on the page, and he was speaking them to her, without a hint of shame. From his lips, they almost sounded poetic.
He slowly opened his eyes. Watching her again. Watching her as he had in this encounter and all those that came before.
"If he did not want to be saved, then why did he fall in love?"
Surrounded by ghosts, yet he fell in love. He fell in love with her. The lady in gold, the embodiment of life, of youth, of spirit. A woman of the new world, a woman of the future, smiling so brightly at him. If there were truly no salvation, then why present him with the promise of one? If there were truly no hope, why torment him with such possibilities?
The brush of his breath against her ear. So close. He was so close, the two of them never having left their waltz. But never closer, forever separated by a space that kept them strangers.
And so, like him, she would have to settle with looking. Looking at the man who had so cruelly taken her heart. The man whose heart she had mercilessly stolen in return.
He may have convinced her, just a little.
She would accept his challenge.
She would rewrite their ending.