Numerous doctors traipsed in and out of the household in the upcoming weeks. Each one had less faith in Lucille's recovery than the last. Some believed she would perish within the week. Others, within a day. Her condition was damning, and they could not conceive how she had survived through the winter with such a wound, much less one untreated.
But survive she did, and survive she would. That much Edith knew.
Unlike her husband, Edith cared less about these doctor's sentiments and more about their advice, dismissing them as soon she believed their duties had been fulfilled. She paid them for their time and their prescribed medicines, never once commenting on the bill. Even when there were cheaper substitutes, she chose only the authentic powders. Whatever the instructions, Edith followed, down to the fine print.
With proper treatment, Lucille's infection started to subside. It took longer to clear her fever, and longer still to regain her coherency. For weeks, Thomas remained her primary attendant, but Edith assisted where she could.
Finlay began to reside with them again, as Edith reemployed him for his services. Thomas had been right in that Lucille needed a proper room, so she worked alongside Finlay to make the existing one suitable.
Their safety was paramount. They removed anything that could be made a weapon. The hot poker from the fireplace. Any hard edges. The mantlepiece. The dresser and vanity both went, as did the chaise. Edith even pried off the light fixtures from the walls, leaving the only source of light the natural one from the oriel windows. The windows were full-body and faced east; it was a welcome change, encouraging the curtains to remain open and the day to flow in.
When all furniture was cleared except the bed, they did a thorough airing of the space. A place of living had no room for the dead. Hidden in the corners and crevices were old rodent carcasses. Grimacing, Edith cleared those first, then went on to do something about the blankets of dust.
Edith had never swept before, so it took her an embarrassingly long time to not simply drag trails of dust behind her. One time, Finlay caught her using the broom to, quite unsuccessfully, poke at cobwebs on the ceiling. Only after she was shown which key unlocked the maid's closet, which she learned was located under the backstairs, did she find the duster.
Then there were the counters to wipe, the linens to wash, the rugs to clean. Neglected dishes had piled up in her absence. Wax dripped short. The chores seemingly went on to eternity, and Edith could foresee her hair greying before she finished it all. Her heart ached for her former maid, Annie, whom she wished she had given more appreciation in their time together.
Back in New York, Edith and her father had half a dozen servants to care for duties like these. Allerdale Hall could devour Cushing Manor ten times over, yet the people in its attendance barely amounted to three. The weight that had been on Lucille had transferred over to Edith, who was struggling to not collapse herself.
Sweat dripped down Edith's brow. Screaming, she struck the beater down on the rug again, with as much force as she could gather. Her legs staggered, her breathing deep.
No, Allerdale Hall would not sink under her watch, under their watch. Thomas was going to fix it, and she was going to clean it. Together, they would lift it up, even if it had to be by the sheer force of will alone.
Her bad leg lost balance. Edith fell onto her knees, a new wave of tears joining her laughter.
It was fine, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Thomas's reassured her. Everything was going to be fine. It was approaching dinnertime anyway.
The beater fell from her grip. She looked softly at the silhouette of the home she had inherited.
Allerdale Hall would host the living, not the dead.
After preparing everyone's meals, Edith decided to rest her muscles for the day. Earlier she had noticed a mysterious new tin on the counter that had escaped her in the past. Alarmed, she opened it, expecting tea, or worse, poison. To her surprise, the powder was dark and aromatic, and the sudden existence of that little slender pot on the shelves finally clicked in her mind.
With her cup of hot chocolate in one hand and her letters in the other, Edith retreated to the library. Her leg propped on a cushion, she leisurely read through her mail. One was from Alan, which she had been expecting. Another was from her lawyer, Ferguson, confirming that all of her fortune had been transferred to England under her name. The last was from the bank.
As she read over the legal documents, she could not help but think what would have happened had she met Thomas one generation earlier. Her signature was but a formality, yet it had been the one thing stopping her wealth from being transferred to her husband. The one thing that had been keeping her alive. Had Thomas and Lucille lived in their parents' time, they would have needed no such signature.
Edith stared at the portrait in the distant music room. Staring back was the looming figure of Lady Beatrice Sharpe, with her calculating eyes and grim frown. From what Thomas had told her, it had been her wealth that sustained the family, and it had been her wealth that Sir Michael Sharpe drank into oblivion. Had Thomas's parents met one generation later, could their story have been any different?
When Edith entered her bedchambers, she was pleasantly surprised to see Thomas by the fireplace. He tended to it every night, making sure the room was warm by the time Edith retreated for bed, though he himself was rarely present by then.
Edith closed the door gently, through the noise was still enough to startle Thomas out of his dreamlike state. He whipped around, then relaxed upon seeing who it was.
"And I had been so sure this fireplace magically lit itself," she said.
Her smile brought a glowing one to his. It took away some of the fatigue from his face, though not all, and could not prevent the sadness from returning to his eyes, or the haunted look that shadowed him with every flare of the fire.
"I dozed off," he confessed, his tone slightly apologetic. "The warmth was comforting." Her room was comforting. It was much more quiet, much more serene. If he could, he would never leave her bedside, but bask in the vestige of her presence.
But Thomas could not voice any of that nor could he leave, already caught where he did not belong. So he diverted her attention with a change in topic.
"How is your leg?"
"Stronger with every passing day." Edith refrained from mentioning her earlier twist and fall.
Sensing her omission, Thomas got up and swept her off her feet, carrying her bridal-style to the armchair. "Let us inspect it, then," he said cheerfully.
"Thomas! I—" Blushing, Edith angrily looked away as he knelt down and lifted her leg onto his lap. He had caught her bluff.
Her embarrassment soon grew into something else. She forced herself still as he slowly undid the lacing to her boots, then slid her foot free. Her garter became unfastened next, with her stocking gently rolled down.
The heat in her cheeks intensified, as she felt his hand against her skin, the small pressure by his fingers in their glide up. His touch sent her whole body pulsing, building her up until she could no longer look away.
To her relief and slight disappointment, whatever reactions Thomas was eliciting from her, he had not done intentionally. Nor was he aware of the effect of his actions, his eyes focused solely on her injury. Carefully, he covered the discoloring with his palm, as if doing so would transfer over his prayers and heal her.
But nothing changed. The damage had been done. He had had no power to prevent it back then, and he had no power to heal it now. All he had was regret and unspoken apologies.
Neither of which Edith cared for. If she were to receive something from his lips right then, she rathered it be a kiss.
"Thomas?"
When Thomas looked up, he did not expect the look of mischief on her face, nor the burn in her eyes.
"Now that you've inspected me, it's fair that I inspect you back?"
In one step, two, they were both on the bed. His heart raced as she pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. Her arms wrapped around him from behind. One by one, his buttons slowly became undone.
He let her slip his shirt down, his eyes darting, wanting to turn around and see her, yet not gathering enough courage to do so. His hair, which had been left uncut for too long, fell just short of his bare shoulder. His body, though not as unsightly as before, still held a thinness to it.
In the end, he kept his gaze downcast, letting her study him. He tried to keep his breathing steady under her touch, praying she would not be able to feel the thundering in his ribcage.
Edith's smile fell. Her fingers traced lower, and she did not miss the tension in his muscles when she grazed past a tender spot. In their interactions together, Thomas had been moving with notably more elegance and fluidity. She had taken it as a sign of his steady recovery.
Never would she have thought he had not recovered at all. The injury was no better than in the first week she treated it. He had only gotten better at pretending.
Her first impulse was to scold him. She bit her tongue before she could. Had she not been as guilty as he for hiding her own weakness? Had he any less right to protect his pride than she? No, she should not be cross with him.
Instead, her mind worked to find a solution. Food had been abundant since her return, so it was not his eating. It must be his rest, which looked to have evaded him night after night.
"What are you thinking, Edith?"
Thomas gathered the nerve to face her, but instead of finding her playful, found her pensive.
"Would you be opposed," Edith began, mindlessly folding up his shirt, "to my looking over Lucille in your place?"
"Absolutely."
The firmness of his voice surprised her.
His brow creased. "The burden is not yours. You have done more than enough." It was a subject he had wanted to bring up, and so he took the opportunity. "Finlay told me you have been working. I— You are the Lady of this house, Edith, not a maid. The springtime is much lovelier here. You should go enjoy a stroll. Or read in the library. Any book you want, I can find for you. Whatever needs attendance, I swear will be taken care of."
Edith leaned back, her arms crossed. "Magically, like my fireplace."
It was such a petty victory that she immediately regretted going for it, especially when all it meant was sharing his loss.
"I am doing no more and no less than what Lucille did as Lady Sharpe," she reminded him. Before he could interject, she added, "Which, I confess, has given me more respect for my sister-in-law. I admit I am not managing nearly as gracefully as she did. That is why I have already asked Finlay for character references from nearby areas. It will take time before I find us a crew capable of dealing with…" She gestured to the space around them. "But until then, please accept me as the poor substitute that I am."
Smiling, she leaned in again to take his hand. "Now, because it is spring, I was hoping you could make more progress on your machine. I believe it could really work."
Thomas had all but forgotten his clay machine then, and to hear it mentioned brought a flicker of light into his eyes.
"It did work," he blurted out.
At Edith's confused look, he gave a sad smile. "Right before the snowstorm… it had been working."
He recalled his one moment of triumph. After all those years of defeat, a single success, enough to bring him to tears. He had ran to tell Edith, to share his joy, but…
He never did reach her, caught in his sister's embrace first.
Edith never did get to see it.
"Well then, now is your opportunity to show me."
It was settled. Edith would look after Lucille, and Thomas would return to his machine. Hopefully such a switch would put him in better spirits and restore some of the life that had faded from him.
Edith took his folded shirt on her rise up. "How much would it take to persuade my husband to stay with me tonight?"
"Not much at all," was the honest reply.
Pleased, Edith disappeared to the bathroom, leaving Thomas waiting on the bed. He stared at the door long after it closed, then rested his head on his knees. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still feel the trails of her fingers along his back. If she wanted him still, with even a fragment of their past passion, he could not be more overjoyed.
His eyelids fell half-mast.
When Edith returned, she found Thomas with his head on her pillow, fast asleep.
Huffing, she gave a small smile before joining him. She pulled them covers over them, nesting herself against his chest and letting the fire warm them both.