There are nights she still cries for Thomas. Alan holds her and waits, often stroking her hair and murmuring "shhh... it's alright...". He can't allow himself to wonder why she cries. Sometimes, he feels as though Edith is not even in the same room. Her eyes are distant and fixed, and her hand extends towards what he can only assume is the ghostly figure of Thomas Sharpe before her. The nights she cries for her now long-gone husband are her better nights. They are the easy nights.
Most nights, Edith wakes drenched in sweat, her hands clammy and gripping the sheets. Her whole body trembles and Alan would give anything to know what causes her such terror and to be able to assuage those fears. Instead, he can only wait for it to pass. When these nightmares comes, she cannot be held, cannot be soothed by his voice. He can only wait for it to pass. They have been married a year and still she cannot share a bed with him. His bed is beside hers, close enough that he can be with her in an instant. He cannot remember the last time he slept through the night. Every night, while he tries and tries to fall asleep, he is waiting. Waiting to see what sort of night she'll have. Waiting to see if he can help her or only sit idly by, powerless. As a doctor, Alan is accustomed to diagnosing a problem and fixing it. He is a healer, but Edith cannot be healed. It pains him. Since they were children, Alan had fancied her. He had always tended to all her aches and pains. He bitterly regretted ever leaving her side. London had been an adventure. It had taught him so much about the world and about himself. He had received an excellent education that had propelled his career in America. But had also forced him to sacrifice Edith. He'd made no promises when he'd left and not asked any of her. He had thought it didn't need to be said. He'd been certain the feelings were mutual. Coming back from London to a distance between them felt like a swift punch to the gut that rushed all the air from his chest. She'd changed. She'd grown up. He hadn't. And, if anything, he loved her even more. Alan felt guilty for leaving her behind to pursue his studies. In an effort to allow her some happiness of her own, he had watched her fall for the Baronet.
There was something wrong with the Sharpes. Alan had known immediately, as had Mr. Cushing, but he had convinced himself it was merely jealousy painting the Sharpes in such a light. Edith was enamoured and he'd always trusted her before. He cursed himself for not trying harder. He had attended the wedding. As was the custom, the priest had asked if anyone objected. Alan still felt he should have spoken up and stopped the wedding. He never should have let her go to England. The events that transpired were his fault and his alone.
His guilt keeps him up at night even while she sleeps, digging and clawing, eating him up. Edith had suffered because of horrors described in her novel still sent a chill through his entire body. He desperately hoped she had taken some artistic liberties when describing what had taken place at Allerdale Hall. But he'd done enough research into the Sharpe family history to know it was likely all true. Lucille would have killed them both if not for Thomas. He still wasn't quite sure what to think about the Baronet. In the end, Alan supposed, Thomas really did love Edith, but by then it was too late. Lucille had ruined any chance the two might have had at a happy marriage. Alan and Edith were married. He liked to think happily so. Perhaps they would be if he could have given her children, but Alan was quite certain he was impotent. It had pained him to give her the news. Edith had to content herself with Alan's companionship and no one else. He encouraged her to visit with friends but she preferred to be alone, writing. She was writing a new novel and refused to allow him to read it, no matter how he asked.
"It's too soon, I'm only on the first draft." she'd shyly protest. Alan knew better. Too many times, he'd glanced over her shoulder to catch the name "Thomas" on the page. He wondered what the subject of the piece was, that she should feel the need to hide it from him. She'd already written of their marriage. Perhaps it was a piece of fiction. Was she writing of the life she wished they'd led? He forced himself to think of other things. He hated to dwell on the matter of Edith's heart and to whom it truly belonged.