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BOOK TWO
WRITTEN IN STRENGTH
Lucille came back less of a maelstrom and more of a cough, one symptom of the many illnesses that plagued the Sharpe's ancestral home. The chair rattled violently, the joints of its wood groaning and crackling. It rocked and swayed and plunged. Thomas rushed upstairs at the sound of a heavy thud and Edith's cry.
He noticed the fallen bronze candelabra first and snuffed out its flame. Then he was before his wife, whose hand trembled from a fresh wound. In the corner, Lucille craned her neck, her mouth opened into a smile of red-stained teeth.
With the spit and blood came a spew of curses. A few specks landed on Edith's cheek. Shaking, Thomas wrapped his coat around her and rushed her out, shutting the condemning screams of his sister behind them.
Unwilling to expose Edith to any more harm, Thomas made himself his sister's sole caretaker from then on. To change her clothes and wash her feet. He, not Edith, was responsible for his sister's fallen state. He deserved to bear the brunt of her abuses, to take her venom.
Her venom, bubbling inside her veins, pouring from all her wounds.
Does the sight of my degradation please you as much as it did Papa? Had this been your plan all along, when you urged us to sail for America? To find some younger, prettier thing to trade me in for?
Lovely Edith, with her unmarred skin. Did you enjoy burying your nose up her underskirt? Was the fuck worth it?
Damn you, damn you to hell, Thomas Sharpe. If you love her, then go love her! Go love her until it burns you raw, love her until it consumes you whole. Love her right. Love her true. Just don't be surprised when she bores of you and trades you in for a more handsome plaything.
I won't protect you then.
I won't be there to clean up your mess.
You want to take all the love for yourself? Then take all the agony too.
Take it, swallow it, and bear it alone.
From this day forth, you have no sister. No, NO, you have no sister, you have nothing, you hear?
From this day forth, you are alone.
The twist of a knife, where she knew it would hurt, where she could bring him down to his knees. Revenge for her pain.
Thomas told himself that was all her words were, a cry of pain. He refused to let them cut him too deeply, refused to let her current state taint the sister of his memories. No matter how many times she disavowed him, he kept his patience and compassion, even as the visits began to take their toll.
And so this went on, the scratches and howls that permeated the house from above. Every time before his ascent, Edith would caution him not to drop his guard, not to fall prey to Lucille's words or leave anything within her reach, no matter how innocuous. Lucille might be strapped down, but she was dangerous. Intelligent. She would not hesitate to use his weakness for her against him. She would not pass up an opportunity if she saw one.
Thomas appreciated her warnings and gave her reassurances in return. He was fine. He would be fine. His words kept her from marching up the stairs with him, but did not shake away the worries in her stomach, the fear of horrible things happening beyond her sight.
His returns never restored her confidence either, as she helped him pick the food from his hair and wipe the saliva from his cheek. Her touches pulled him out of the reverie of his thoughts, out of Lucille's influence.
Once, in the course of her ministrations, her handkerchief picked out a clump of porridge. He found himself chuckling at her grimace, at the hopeless ridiculousness of it all. A madwoman in the attic. Their lives, plagiarized off a Brontë novel.
"You give yourself too little credit," Edith said teasingly. "We stole from at least three."
There was a playful curve to her lips that Thomas found enchanting. Before he could speak again, the house gave a violent, vibrating slam.
The sound came from upstairs, but not from the attic as expected. Frowning, Thomas clutched his side and leveled himself up. Pardoning himself, he left to search for the source of the noise.
It did not take him long to find it. In one of the hallways, a curtain was billowing madly in the wind. The fabric contorted into shapes, some distinguishable, some not. Something akin to a woman's form fitted to the fold, something solid.
The image had Thomas frozen, his breath stopped. At first he believed Lucille had managed to escape.
It was not Lucille.
The curtains abruptly pulled, any substance behind it sucked into the outside night, the windows closing with another frightening slam. Slowly, Thomas forced his legs to move and peered out.
A high moon shone over the moors. Nothing was supposed to be outside, much less seen, but see he did, for one brief flicker of the light.
The same woman's form, alone and unmoving.
Thomas fell back, paralyzed, praying that he had not been seen, that he had not been caught seeing. Deep inside, he knew those prayers were empty. That whatever stood outside was watching him through the walls.
The window creaked, slowly widening itself again as invitation. The size was just big enough to fit a man through, the height just high enough for the fall to be fatal.
Closing his eyes, Thomas grabbed the edges and pushed his full weight forward. The window sealed shut.
Edith.
He rose to his feet, not looking back. He would repair the lock tomorrow.
I want to be with Edith.
.
Bright sunbeams kissed Edith's cheek, marking the end of a morning spent in slumber. Hazily, she stretched onto Thomas's side of the bed, not surprised when it revealed itself to be empty. She claimed his pillow for herself, welcoming the rest.
The familiar cramp in her abdomen had finally subsided, but a new pang of hunger forced her to get up. She slipped into the trousers she had worn on the day of her return, her pistol tucked in its holster. Hanging heftily off her belt were the house keys. Thomas had made no protest when she assumed control over them, nor when she had overtaken duties in the kitchen.
Seizing her walking stick, she made her way downstairs to fix everyone's meals. The meats and cheese were long gone, as were the jams. She scavenged a quarter loaf of stale rye bread and two small molded potatoes. The bag for oats coughed up dust. Water, then. Their meals would be water.
Thomas was tinkering upstairs, working on the hinges of a window. He did not look up from his task.
"Good morning, Edith. Did you sleep well?"
"Surprisingly."
He had not, apparently. His complexion was pale, even by the standards of blue bloods. Edith leaned forward to study him.
"Thomas?"
He inhaled. "Lucille." He braced himself, as if the very name would put him under attack. "I think… I think she's calming down. She's no longer as… volatile."
Edith waited.
Thomas turned to her with beseeching eyes. "Can we move her from her place in the attic, Edith? Not to her old room, but elsewhere? I promise to keep her quiet. It's just… the attic isn't the best place for her."
Edith softened. "I'll look for a suitable room."
Thomas thought he had misheard. The look on Edith's face confirmed that he had not. His mouth opened, but no words came out, whether because he had too many or none at all he could not tell.
"Thank you," he finally said.
Edith leaned back, satisfied, until she remembered her reason for seeking him out.
"We are out of food."
From Thomas's expression, the news was as much of a surprise to him as it was to her. Neither had expected to reach this point, when something so trivially non-trivial would enter their domain of concern.
Laughing, Thomas rose. "I'll go to town."
He did not give her an opportunity to protest. With the horses gone, it would be half a day's walk to the nearest village. It would be unacceptable for Edith to make the trek, especially given the state of her leg.
Edith caught his wince as he steadied his balance. Her leg might be broken, but so were his ribs, though he was doing a fantastic job of pretending to be fine. Of pretending that his sister never struck him with a cleaver. Edith knew his body had suffered other abuses, too, ones he thought he successfully hid from her.
But it would do Thomas good to leave the house. She noted his worsening fatigue, and hated to consider the possibility of leaving him alone in this damned place with his sister again.
"Thomas."
Thomas was too busy fetching his coat.
"Thomas," Edith tried again.
He turned around, prepared to face her objection. There was none, only a raised eyebrow and set of bank notes in hand. Last Edith recalled, he had been lacking in that department.
A light pink dusted his cheeks. Well, good thing he was excellent acquaintances with humiliation at this point, and had become adept at picking up his fallen dignity.
"Get a ride for the way back," Edith said, folding the bills and tucking them into his breast pocket. She gave his collar a firm tug. "I better not see you walking home."
He gave her a sheepish grin.
After Thomas left, Edith decided it was time to revisit her sister-in-law, something she knew was overdue. The elevator miraculously still functioned, stopping at the top floor. As usual, the bottom of the cab did not align flush to the floor. Edith gripped onto the iron bars of the cage gate to support her descent.
The air in the attic was thick with dust, the particles visible in the hazy light. The walls were crooked, the moths melted into the molted wallpaper in brown stains. They did not scatter in her presence, so still that Edith could not tell whether they were languid or simply dead.
Lucille sat in the former study of the nursery. The chests and blackboards had been moved, the desks pushed out of sight. A skylight let in fragile beams that stopped short of a blanket on the floor, bundled at the feet of the wheelchair.
More blankets draped over Lucille's shoulders and down her body, presumably draped by Thomas to protect her from the night chill. Her hair was woven into a single loose braid, but it was jagged and uneven, with strands flying out wildly and the ends left incomplete.
"Lucille."
Edith stood at the entryway, unwilling to move closer. She propped herself against her walking stick, one hand still bandaged from where Lucille bit her. Edith had no doubt that the sight of it would bring the other woman triumph.
Except Lucille did not move.
Maybe the screams had exhausted her, Edith thought. The idea that Lucille had a limit seemed unfathomable. Evil was the one thing immortal, after all.
Seeing no point in waking her, Edith filed off. Thomas's workshop never touched the sun, but it felt warmer and showed renewed signs of habitation. On the workbench was a thinner, rattier blanket that he must have kept for himself throughout the long nights, when he wanted to keep proximity to his sister but remain out of her sight, for fear of unleashing her temper. It must have been where he had been sleeping, in place of Edith's bedside.
No wonder he looks so ghastly, she thought grimly. Her vexation at his nightly absences, a habit that she mistakenly assumed he would abandon after her departure and return, gave way to mostly resignation and pity. Instead, her negative thoughts redirected onto Lucille.
Maybe I was too eager in my mercy. She will drag him to the grave, and all our pains will be for naught.
One hand around her middle, she pushed her way back towards the elevator. A rolling sound stopped her.
Edith looked down.
Something golden came to a stop at her feet. She recognized it immediately and strained to pick it up. She looked around for its sender but none revealed itself.
Her pen. The weapon that had saved her life, that had embodied her father's divine retribution when she drove it into Lucille's chest. It had come back to her, weighted and stained.
The longer she stared at it, the darker her thoughts became. Back then, her fear had outweighed her desire for vengeance. Edith had considerably less fear now.
What did you come back for? What did you endure all this misery for?
Was it not to collect Thomas? You deem yourself capable of claiming him, yet all you have done is subject yourself to the same fate as all his other wives. Serving him while he serves his sister.
Poor thing, just like all the other wives. Your needs, neglected; hers, fulfilled.
Before the bitterness could swell inside her like an inflamed wound, Edith snapped shut her eyes. No. Thomas loved her too. She knew it in her soul.
What good is his love for you if he can never act on it? Love he may have, but none will you receive, except in his miserable apologies the day he carries you to the basement.
If you truly think you have the strength to take Thomas for yourself, then cut what holds him back. You feed his optimism, but you cannot possibly believe that there can be any salvation in this situation.
The pen waited, without shine.
It will devastate him, but he will forgive you. It will not weaken his love for you.
If you need evidence, look no further than behind you. Lucille—she has done it three times. Has he not forgiven her each time? Has he loved her any less?
If he truly loves you to the extent you believes he does, then he will be on his knees before you by nightfall. He will acknowledge you as his new mistress, ready to serve and obey.
No…
That was not...
The dust motes became suffocating. Light-headed, Edith fell back against the wall, unsure if she had accidentally crushed a few moths in the process, if their frail bodies were staining her shirt.
No? A pity.
Maybe this is too much for you. Some women tragically never do amount to much. When promised to be made a lady yet found themselves a side whore, they without self-respect see it easier to defend their deceptor than their own dignity, having deluded themselves of their contentment…
No, Edith had heard enough. She made a violent turn for the elevator.
Go on then, and delude yourself of your contentment…
She yanked the lever.
...as you feed your father's wealth to his murderer.
.
Shaking, Edith ran the water until it turned clear. She held her pen under the faucet, watching the stains wash away and its metallic shine return.
After, she locked herself in her study. She sat for a considerable number of hours, just to calm herself and collect her thoughts. Whatever demon that had seized her upstairs had thankfully receded.
When she felt in control again, she found appreciation for the rare moment of afternoon peace. The recovery of her pen encouraged her to start her letters.
She had many, the most important to Alan. She needed to tell him she was safe, for now, and that she intended to proceed with their plan. Thomas was still a cooperative ally, and Lucille, while alive, was neutralized.
Speaking to her friend, even through pen, brought Edith back to solid ground. She blew the ink dry, then tucked the letter in its envelope, the address left empty. She would fill that in when she was at the post office to personally send it off.
Done, she steeled herself to face Lucille again. She brought upstairs a cup of water and the last bit of rye. Expecting some type of ambush, she rebalanced on her good leg and reinforced her grip on the platter before entering.
Once again, Lucille did not stir.
Edith was becoming frustrated. If this was some scheme to get her to come closer, it was working.
"Lucille."
Nothing.
Upon careful study, Edith realized Lucille had not moved an inch since her morning visit, the braid in the same position against the blanket pattern.
Slowly, Edith's expression changed. She lowered her tray onto the floor, and called out Lucille's name again, softer.
Before she reached out, she stopped herself, her countenance hardening as she recalled her own warnings to Thomas. Lucille's hands and feet. Edith wanted to see them first, to check that they had not been freed, that Thomas had not given into her persuasion and showed mercy.
With her walking stick, she peeled the blankets away, layer by layer. As they fell, she looked for any type of movement beneath, bracing herself for an attack. For Lucille to animate to life, lunging for her neck and strangling her on the floor. For a knife to pierce through the weave and into her stomach.
Thomas was absent. He would not be able to come between them as he had in the past, save her from his sister or his sister from her. If they fought now, there would be either one survivor or none. If they fought now, Edith owed Lucille nothing but a silver bullet through her skull.
And would that not be a welcoming relief.
A justified murder in the name of self-defense. A guiltless one.
The last of the wool dropped onto the floor pile.
Both of Lucille's wrists were firmly belted, as were her feet. The edge of the armrest had peeled away, her fingernails split and encrusted, evidence of her earlier rage and attempts at escape. Those fingers had gone listless, like every other part of her. In her current state, Lucille almost looked to be at peace.
Or dead.
Edith's heart skipped a beat.
No.
Not dead. Edith noticed the alarming gleam of sweat down Lucille's neck, her nightgown clinging tightly onto her form. Carefully, she extended her hand. The skin under her palm burned hot.
Shaken, Edith stepped back. She was sure the Lord was testing her now.
The taker of her father's life, the cause of her husband's infidelity, the root of her all her torment and pain was fated to perish, unless she, Edith, chose to intervene. A woman who wronged her unlike any other, yet was demanding not only her forbearance but also her charity.
For once, Edith was unsure her love for Thomas extended so far.
The heart is full of self-indulgent fantasies, absurd sentimentalities to stroke its own pride and elicit delightful pleasures. Such love is only nurtured as long as it incurs little cost upon oneself.
But to remain inside Allerdale Hall requires a different type of love, a deeper love, a tyrannical love. One that is ugly, and mad, full of sweat and regret. One that has no regard for sanity or the self.
So which are you?
A narcissist pretending to be kind?
Or a lunatic pretending to be wise?
Either way, your true nature will soon reveal itself.