The next two weeks passed with mixed feelings for Mrs. Lovett. She hovered around her pie shop in a strange haze, a tattered scarf wrapped around her neck to hide the ugly markings Mr. T had left her with. She'd thought their business venture would stop functioning after he was finished with the judge. But the bodies kept falling through the trap door and Mrs. Lovett was filled with a suffocating feeling of helpless confinement. Perhaps they would never escape this fate.
There was some small comfort in knowing that she herself was not about to end up in a pie—not as of yet at least. She could not remember the barber leaving her room—or anything up to the next morning in point of fact. She often wondered if he had let her live on purpose or if he'd left only when he thought he'd killed her. Either way it had been a relief to find herself able to wake up, to move and to get to work in the morning.
She asked herself, however, what it was all for. There was a cold silence in the kitchen when she entered and she felt an empty hollow in her chest when a young lad didn't rush to her side to help her with the plates and the trays and the pies and the ale. She hadn't found the body in the bakehouse, and since she was aware that Mr. T was capable of every possible crime, she shuddered to think one of the pies she served to her ever-hungry customers might contain her little boy.
She had always thought that if someone hurt her physically, she could never feel anything but hatred for them. That was the way it had been with her late husband and that was the way it had been with the beadle. There was every reason for her to hate Sweeney Todd; she knew it and for many nights she repeated that to herself instead of saying her prayers. And yet it was no use; it frustrated her to no end that, rather than despising the man who had nearly killed her, she despised herself. Somehow it had to be her fault that he had turned on her like that; she had provoked him, she had deceived him. He could have committed a million crimes and Mrs. Lovett would never have blamed him. Such was the depth of her adoration for him.
The silence was unbearable. Throughout the whole fortnight she didn't see Mr. T once. The only sign of his presence in the house was the occasional pounding of his foot on the floor of his barbershop; he didn't bother to wait for the three confirming knocks from the baker before dropping their latest victim into the bakehouse. Mrs. Lovett couldn't bear the separation, but going upstairs to confront him was out of the question. As pitiful as it was, she valued her life far too much to face such certain suicide.
There were moments during the day when she could barely keep herself from climbing the stairs to plead for forgiveness, and then there were times when she was inclined to lock the front door of the pie shop to ensure that she'd live to see the next day. To top it all, she was convinced she'd caught the flu.
It was the third Tuesday after the horrible fight and Mrs. Lovett made her way down to the bakehouse for a large batch of pies for the lunch rush. She went through the usual proceedings—chopping up the meat from the bodies that Mr. T had, as per their mutual agreement, unclothed, washed and hacked into pieces that Mrs. Lovett would be able to handle; running the meat through the meat grinder; rolling out the dough; and finally baking the pies. She crossed the murky room and opened the large iron door of the oven.
She had thought she'd heard a small noise from the doorway earlier and as she leaned forward to put the griddle with the fresh pies into the oven, she felt a terrible presence behind her. Two cold hands landed on her hips and a dreadful icy shudder shot through her heart. Her breath caught in her throat and she got the appalling feeling that she was gradually, almost unnoticeably being pushed forward. She closed her eyes to escape the dreadful feeling of betrayal.
This time she couldn't bring herself to fight back. It was all too late for that. Everything had gone so awfully wrong. She had never been lucky when it came to finding and clinging on to happiness. If it was her fate to be killed by her lover, to burn in the flames that knew all their countless sins, so be it. She was done fighting for life and for love.
The heat of the oven burned her face and the pies smelled of death. Great was her surprise when one of the hands left her waist to close the massive metal door, sealing the roaring flames from her view. A shaky sigh of relief left her, and she was pulled backwards against a strong male body. Four soft words were whispered into her ear, "I can't do it." A moment later the speaker's cool lips landed on the burning skin of her neck and Mrs. Lovett leaned into the demon barber's deadly embrace.
Mrs. Lovett busied herself in the kitchen to take her mind off the sick feeling in her stomach. It had been there for many weeks now and she was feeling neither better nor worse. It was easier in the evenings, thankfully. But she tried to think of it as little as possible; there were far more important things to think about.
"Mr, T," she spoke gently as she made her way back to the table she'd been cleaning. "'Ave you thought abou' what I said?"
The barber caught her hand mid-air, preventing her from picking up his empty plate. He brought her coarse hand up to his lips. "I have," he admitted before pressing his lips against Mrs. Lovett's skin. Mrs. Lovett could see plainly that he was enjoying the physical contact he was once again allowed with her. It never did anyone good to be isolated from another person's affectionate touch for too long. "I'm going to see Mr. Merivale at the bank today. We've made quite a fair profit with our little business arrangement, you know. I have to make sure we'll be able to lead a comfortable life once we leave London."
Mrs. Lovett smiled down at the sitting man fondly. The dear man clearly had no idea how much it warmed her heart to hear the words "we" and "leave London" in the same sentence from his mouth.
"I was hoping we could take a day off next week and take a trip to the seaside," Mr. T suggested; the hard lines of his face had softened and he was looking at the baker with gentle affection that Mrs. Lovett could recall from the night before. "We could look at a few potential new houses."
Mrs. Lovett heaved a blissful sigh. "I would enjoy nothin' more," she replied. Of course, she would enjoy it much more if she weren't ill, but if providence was kind, she would be better by then.
Mr. Todd released her hand to allow her to get on with tidying up the remaining evidence of their breakfast. Mrs. Lovett picked up the teapot and the plates and cups and saucers, and balancing all of them in her hands, she made her way swiftly to the kitchen counter. A sudden surge of dizziness overtook her, and discarding the plates on the counter, she leaned heavily against it. Digging her nails into the hard wood, she squeezed her eyes shut. This morning, instead of nauseous, she'd been feeling exceptionally light-headed. Mrs. Lovett took a deep breath to clear her head.
"Nellie?" Mr. T's voice was soft. Mrs. Lovett had learned to detect the feelings in his flat tone, and although no one else in the world would have been able to notice it, Mrs. Lovett knew he was worried.
She shook her head—unfortunately, only making herself feel worse. "Oh, don't mind me, Mr. T," she made an attempt at sounding unconcerned. "I'm all right."
Mr. T appeared next to her, and Mrs. Lovett raised her eyes to his face. "You haven't been," he pointed out, giving her a stern and meaningful look.
Considering how little contact they'd had during the past two weeks, Mrs. Lovett was surprised to find out he was aware of her having been under the weather. "It's naught, I'm sure," she said, forcing a presumably rather unconvincing smile onto her lips. "As my rich aunt Nettie used to say, if it comes on its own, it goes on its own."
"Or it gets worse and kills you," Sweeney cut in sharply. His face held a resolute expression; however, it was not unfeeling. Mrs. Lovett turned her head away. She knew he didn't mean to sound unkind but she couldn't help feeling just the slightest bit offended by his unintentional harshness. It was not as if he made it easy for her to understand him—one day he was willing to take her life and the next he expressed interest in her well-being. "You ought to see a doctor," he added in a tone that Mrs. Lovett was sure was meant to sound gentler.
"Oh, no-no," she answered quickly, waving her hand dismissively. She swallowed the sudden unpleasant urge to vomit and straightened up. "I need nothin' to do with one o' them lot."
The first thing Sweeney noticed when he stepped into the parlour was an abandoned shoe in the middle of the room, the next a weary Mrs. Lovett slouching on the sofa. One hand clutched at her head, the other one was draped over her stomach. Her eyes were closed and her expression betrayed a feeling of discomfort.
Hoping not to disturb the woman, he spoke in a low tone, "There's quite a queue out there."
Mrs. Lovett didn't move. Her breathing became heavier and eventually her lips parted slightly. "Would you tell them to go away, dear?" Her voice was weak and hoarse, her tone dull. "I'm done for the day."
Sweeney waited a long moment before turning on his heel and heading out of the parlour. Mrs. Lovett was always full of surprises. Nearly two months ago she had shocked him by being vulnerable, a short while later by being an ardent lover. And now the ever-vivacious baker was all worn out!
It didn't take long for him to dismiss all the hungry customers at the front door with a simple fib or two. He returned to the parlour in the same quiet manner he'd left it. It was impossible to know if Mrs. Lovett had noticed him entering, for she didn't move the slightest bit. Sweeney walked silently behind the sofa, wary of startling the tired woman. She looked so utterly miserable and worn out that the barber almost felt a twinge of pity for the poor woman—she had gone through a lot lately, and he hadn't exactly been going very easy on her. He couldn't help his outbursts sometimes. It astonished him how well she took his brashness and his unpredictable temper. Lucy hadn't been so acquiescent and forgiving, despite the fact that he'd been much gentler a man back in the day.
Watching the motionless woman on the sofa for a little while longer, Sweeney nearly unconsciously raised his hands to the pale skin of Mrs. Lovett's shoulders left uncovered by the wide décolletage of her dress. He felt her shifting slightly under his touch; however, since no outright objection came to his move, he started massaging her shoulders with his thoroughly skilled fingers. A deep sigh left Mrs. Lovett's lips. Sweeney proceeded by adding a little more pressure to the smooth movements, eventually digging his thumbs into the soft flesh on either side of Mrs. Lovett's spine. He felt an ecstatic shudder in the woman's body as he deftly squeezed the tension out of her body.
After a few shallow, laboured intakes of breath, Mrs. Lovett murmured, "M-Mr. T… I'm goin' to see a doctor 'Aistwell tomorrow."
Sweeney let his hands work their magic on Mrs. Lovett's sore muscles as he mused on the baker's words. Whatever was ailing Mrs. Lovett was bound to be a serious matter if he had managed to convince her to see a physician about it. "That's good," he remarked quietly.