When Lucille told me I fell into a strange euphoric panic. Everything seemed unreal to me . . . more so than usual. I spent nearly a week in a daze, unable to comprehend the shift in our paradigm. The idea that my sister and I had created a new life together seemed the most terrifying event yet to befall us.
I wanted it to die. I wanted it to live. I wanted desperately to leave England with Lucille and pass her off as my wife in some new place where we could have a chance at a normal life. To have a family in a place of light and peace and warmth. Within me I knew that nothing conceived on this crimson peak could escape the red taint of our lineage, but I prayed for it.
Lucille would have none of my suggestions. Her bond to Allerdale Hall was forged in dark iron, a twisted loyalty born of pride-filled pain. Here she lived in the victory of her survival every day. Each stroll through the rooms was a little parade of triumph in her mind, triumph over our parents and anyone else who stood in her way. She swore she would die if she left Allerdale for good, and made me promise not to sell it under any circumstance.
Not that there would be buyers. If there were any out there, they certainly wouldn't want the house. It stood in the way, on top of the original mines like a rotting black crown. I could never fathom the reasons why my ancestors chose to burrow under the very home they lived in, but I suppose that too, was part of the madness. Like Rodrick and Madeline, we were trapped in our own instabilities both of the house and the heart.
With funds low again, and foreseeable expenses now on the horizon, Lucille once again suggested I ensnare yet another spinster. I balked, pointing out that a trip now would be risky, but my sister suggested a warmer clime, choosing Milan as a likely destination. That, at least appealed to me, and I eventually agreed, hoping to see some of the glories of the Roman engineering as well as her treasures.
We set out, under the fabrication of a dutiful brother taking his newly widowed sister on a trip to ease her mourning. Lucille refused to see a physician and dosed herself with medications to cope with her nearly daily nausea while I did my best to be supportive of her. By the time we arrived in Milan her stomach had settled, but she maintained a pallor that worried me.
Still, Lucille did her part, and managed to gain the compassion of several ladies at the hotel where we'd chosen to stay. Widowhood allowed her sympathy and confidences; through those we discovered Miss Sciotti, who took a protective interest in both of us. Enola, as she urged us to call her, was less naïve than either Margaret or Pamela, but still susceptible to flattery. She praised me as an excellent brother, and our mutual concern for my sister allowed me the opportunity to convince her of my growing affection over the course of several weeks.
Enola and I wed in Italy, and I resorted to getting her dead drunk for our wedding night, with Lucille disrobing her to leave my wife with the impression we'd consummated our marriage. The only light moment was in the number of bottles of Pinot Bianca required to do so: four and a half. Lucille and I had the other half of the last bottle, my sister laughing and toasting our success.
Apparently the aftereffects of the wine were enough to keep Enola from pressing her affections, and I made it up in many other ways, particularly since her finances paid for the first working model of my machine. I even bought her a puppy—a Papillion.
At this point it was becoming difficult to hide Lucille's condition despite her urgings for me to keep lacing her tightly. In a farce worthy of the stage, my sister 'confessed' to Enola that she thought her late husband might have left her a last memory. Enola in turn came to me and told me that we must help Lucille through the delivery of her final 'gift.'
Of course I assured both of them, and after Enola packed her trunk, back to England we went.
As Lucille's lying-in came closer, I found myself seriously considering my new role. I was to be a father. A far better father than my own. A supportive and kind father. A patient father. All of these promises I made to myself seemed so grand and noble, and I wanted desperately for them to be true. I wrote to brick manufacturers and machinists, I tried to secure contracts for future extractions, making trips and sketching new designs.
And Enola drank tea with Lucille.
As for Lucille, she fretted. The loss of her shape irritated her and it was all I could do to convince her that I still loved her. We had to be cautious, and there were nights when it was difficult to do, but on the whole I worked to keep her sated. There was another lust rising that I couldn't fulfill though, and I saw it in Lucille's eyes every time she jarred and pinned another moth. The way she would watch each trapped insect squirm and die left me tense.
"They never see it happening," Lucille would say. "The glass tricks them, and they think they're free. It slowly dawns on them though, and they struggle. Not for very long though. I do wish it was longer."
I reminded her that perhaps toying with poison wasn't the safest thing with a baby on the way but she shrugged that away. "I'm strong. Our baby shall be too."
But he wasn't.
How it hurts to remember that.
Lucille raged all through the birthing, shrieking like an animal, her curses echoing throughout the house. I begged her to let me call a doctor but she refused, threatening to kill herself if I did so. Enola tried to help, but she was already terribly weak, and I could see the fear in her now, the distrust in her eyes. Nevertheless between the two of us helping Lucille, we managed to deliver the baby.
So small and so twisted; a feeble child even to my untrained gaze, but his very helplessness brought forth a tender urge within me to protect him. I swaddled and held him, aware that he had the same dark tresses and pale complexion that Lucille and I shared.
"Our son!" my sister called out, making Enola flinch. It was clear to me that those words confirmed my wife's suspicions. She avoided my gaze even as she took the child, cooing gently to him. I tried to make Lucille comfortable; she was weak and exhausted from her long ordeal.
"Is he not beautiful? Tell me he's perfect!" Lucille demanded, her eyes very liquid and bright. "Like you, Thomas. Exactly so!"
"He's wonderful," I assured her. "You must rest, Lucille, shhhhhhhhh . . ."
For the next six days the three of us were bound together by the baby. Lucille tried to nurse him; Enola worked to keep him clean and warm; I held him for hours and hummed the lullaby I knew so well. But nature was not kind, and he faded, his eyes dulling over and his movements becoming weaker and slower. I knew he would not live, and tried to prepare myself for his passing, but he had found his way into my heart and the pain had already begun.
On the seventh morning I found Lucille with the baby at her breast, streaks of milk rolling down his cheeks and chin, drops spilling on the coverlet. Lucille seemed oblivious to his passing, humming and cooing until I tried to take the body from her. She looked up, her smile angelic.
"He sleeps now. Forever. My little angel will forever be our angel."
I saw then the way his face stayed flushed, and knew that Lucille had squeezed him close to her.
Too close, too long for him to breathe.
I took him from her and entombed him in the family mausoleum, wrapping him in my best shirt and kissing him before sliding the stone lid closed and locking the door. I lost the ability to stand and slid down the door, weeping as I have never wept before, all of my hope draining away in that little innocent's death.
Hours later Enola fetched me; Lucille needed me and I rose and went.
My wife died two weeks later. She drank more and more tea, willingly, her spirits already dead. Lucille rallied however, and seemed to have gained a new serenity in the aftermath of this double tragedy. I found her roaming through Allerdale Hall like a pale goddess, smiling at nothing. She was gentle with me, and I, I who had no one else to turn to once again found comfort in the darkness of her arms.
What she did with Enola's body I did not ask, although I suspected every time I moved through the basement level.
Had it not been for a first few successes with the extractor I would have sunk into sadness, but I deliberately kept busy, mostly to avoid thinking . . . and feeling. It was a way of numbing myself, of keeping emotions at bay and managing them I suppose. For a long time it seemed the best remedy, although in the back of mind I began to consider . . . other plans.
Foolish plans that would never come to fruition of course. I was as bound to my sister as she was to Allerdale Hall, so the chain stayed unbroken even as once again the money dwindled away.
When Lucille once again proposed we look for someone, I agreed. We went to London and found the prospects slim there, although there were several Americans on tour, and among them was a widow of a certain age with her daughter. Lucille considered the McMichaels—both of them- likely candidates, although she wasn't sure who I should pursue. "The old bitch is all but ready to throw herself at you, but won't do it until the ugly bitch is married," she snidely informed me. "Although if you go for the ugly one, then you'll certainly be inheriting alongside the brother."
I would have been happy to pass on the pair, but the fortune in question was considerable. Lucille decided we would accept their invitation to meet with them in America and single out the daughter then. I dimly agreed, more interested in the businessmen I might meet on the trip, and wondering if I could convince anyone in Buffalo to invest in my clay extractor. On a chance, I packed the model along with my plans, hoping for the best.