Author's Note:
Okay, I'm not a hundred percent sure as to what I think of this chapter. Tell me if it's too abrupt, or something. It will go somewhere, I swear. Girl Scout honor.
Chapter Seven: Better You Should Think She Was Dead
Mr. Todd dashed down the shadowy labyrinth of London, searching desperately. He knew that the beggar woman often lurked around Bell Yard; perhaps he would check there…
He rounded a corner, and (to his relief) heard a faint voice echo:
"Hey, hoy, sailor boy…"
Mr. Todd had to shake off the revulsion; his wife was a prostitute. That did not matter now, though—nothing mattered. He just had to look into her eyes and find the woman he loved.
"'Don't I know you,' she said." His voice was so cold; Mrs. Lovett could have sworn ice frosted on the windowpanes. "You knew she was alive."
"I was only thinking of you," she whispered.
"You lied to me," he said. He stood up straight now, his gaze bitter. "I don't have time for this, woman—I'll deal with you later."
He pushed past her, out the door and into the cold night. He could not bring himself to look back at her, to touch her (even if just to shake her, to kill her). He had one goal right now: find Lucy.
"Lucy," he whispered, with a tap on her shoulder. She turned her frightened, mad gaze upon her husband.
"What's the barber doin' in this stench?" she cackled. Her hands found their way to his shirt, twisting down to his trousers.
"It's me," he whispered. His eyes, filled with tenderness, pleaded for some form of recognition. He bared his soul to her—not entirely, he amended, as he pulled her prying hands away from him. "It's Benjamin, your Benjamin."
The beggar shrank away from the touch on her shoulders, the firm yet gentle hands. So alien, this touch. And yet, so familiar.
"Benjamin?" she murmured. "I don't know a Benjamin…"
"Your husband," he insisted. "Johanna's father. Benjamin Barker."
"Benjamin Barker," she repeated, with a strange tremble. "Sentenced to a lifetime of servitude in Australia…"
Mr. Todd nodded furiously. "Oh, my Lucy," he whispered. These hands, so beaten by the years and hardships, writhed in his strong ones. He placed a shy kiss on her fingers.
"Come home, my love, come with me."
"Home?" she hissed, pulling her fingers away. "Not home, 'tis haunted."
He shook his head. What should he do? What could he do? He knew he had to bring Lucy home, whether by coaxing her or tossing her over his shoulder, kicking and screaming. He was about to do one or the other when his wife (his beautiful, sick wife) interrupted his train of thought.
"I'm so thirsty, Benjamin," she mumbled. She wrenched himself from his grasp and tottered down the street. Mr. Todd followed her, nonplussed.
The beggar woman stopped at a pump on the corner of the street. She cupped her hands, and looked beseechingly at Mr. Todd. "Help me," she moaned.
He stepped to the pump and grabbed the lever. The water came out slowly, since the cold air had frozen some pipes. He had to strain to get just a bit of dirty water out of the nozzle. Never mind the quality of the water—she drank it greedily.
"More," she croaked. Mr. Todd tried again; more and more water poured forth, but none seemed to slake her thirst. Finally, his arm gave out, and he decided to try a different tactic.
"Come here, my love," he said. "I know a place with more water."
She nodded, and sleepily rubbed her eyes. For the first time, Mr. Todd saw the wrinkles on her face. Life had been hard on her, aging her early, but these last six months must have nearly killed her, with less money for the kind stranger to spare and less welfare for the poor.
All because of him…
Gently, he picked up his wife, just as he had on their wedding night. She was so light—like a child, or a wizened old woman. He held her close, and hurried towards the barbershop.
Toby had woken to the sound of quiet sobs. Not for the first time, he thought sadly. On shaky, tired legs, Toby rose and approached the sound of tears.
As he had suspected, Mrs. Lovett sat in the parlor. She was not one to cry (or so she said) but she could not hold back tears this time. It was all too much—when Mr. Todd returned, he might kill her. He certainly would never speak to her again. All for her foolish love and her foolish greed, she had ruined any chance of ever getting what she wanted.
"Ma'am?" said Toby. He felt silly, as if he always was walking in on her at times like this, trying to offer his own meager comfort. This comfort would not do, he knew. What Mrs. Lovett needed was a man, a real man, not a boy or a demon.
"M'sorry you have to see me like this, love," she snuffled. Her gloved hand pawed at her tear-stained cheek.
"It's all right," the boy said. He felt rather unsure about what he should do next.
She opened her arms, and Toby gratefully fell into her embrace. The hot tears in his hair barely bothered him. Eventually, they stopped altogether.
"Toby, darlin'," she murmured at last. "Y'know, we can't stay 'ere forever. Mr. Todd'll kill me, and ye once I'm gone."
"Will we go to the sea, ma'am?" he asked, trying to bring her happy fantasy back to her.
Another tear dripped down her cheek. "Yes," she finally said. "I s'pose we will, love."
Distantly, another lifetime away, the sounds of footsteps heavy on the stairs interrupted their peace. Mrs. Lovett clutched Toby tightly to her, and whispered, "We'll lock the doors. If he gets too angry, then he can't hurt us anyway." She rose, and quickly latched the rickety doors to the pie shop.
"There, now," she said, returning to the parlor. "Nothin's gonna harm us, darlin'."
Her reassurances fell upon sleeping ears, however. With a sad smile, Mrs. Lovett kissed the boy's forehead and blew out the lamp. Finally, she thought, heading up to her sparse bedroom, she could sleep.
Mr. Todd tenderly tucked his wife into bed. She looked, even in her madness, so peaceful. Such quiescence will do her good, he thought.
He sat on the floor, holding her hand, throughout the night.
At some point, he must have fallen asleep, his forehead touching the mattress. He woefully opened his eyes and stared at the beggar woman with some confusion, before the memories of last night came crashing down upon him.
So serene, he thought contentedly. And that is when he caught whiff of the smell.
Of course, Mr. Todd was used to unpleasant stenches. He did, after all, live above Mrs. Lovett's Pie Shop. But this was truly unhealthy, the smell coming off his poor Lucy. Cautiously, Mr. Todd lifted his wife to reposition her, when he froze. The source of the scent became quite clear.
He cleaned her up as well as he could, but knew that it would hardly suffice. She cannot be sick, he thought, not when I've just found her.
Mrs. Lovett woke that morning to the sound of frantic knocking on her shop door. Still shaking off the last dregs of sleep, she wrapped in her housecoat and plodded, yawning, to the front door.
As she suspected, Mr. Todd glared from the other side of the window.
His appearance, however, surprised Mrs. Lovett. He looked even more tired than usual, and actually—worried? Concerned? Sad? She couldn't quite put her finger on it.
Reluctantly, Mrs. Lovett cracked the door open. Mr. Todd (she had never seen him in such a state!) said, "Please, Mr. Lovett, it's Lucy."
"An' wha's Lucy?" she asked, baffled.
"She's not well," he said simply.
Begrudgingly, Mrs. Lovett followed the barber up the stairs to his apartment. Indeed, when she opened the door, the smell overtook her. The poor old beggar woman lying on the bed looked pitiful, surely enough.
Mrs. Lovett cautiously examined the torpid woman. Her frame had shrunk down, as if she had lost fluid. The baker clucked, and said at last, "Oh, Mr. Todd, I dunno 'ow I can tell ye this."
"What?" he growled.
Mrs. Lovett looked up, fear in her eyes.
Oh, no, more suspense! I don't think I can take it!
