His Crimson Rose

Disclaimer: I do not own Crimson Peak.

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Synopsis: Though lovely, every rose has its thorns. Alan and Edith return to America in hopes of a fresh start, while Allerdale Hall sits (mostly) vacant for the first time in decades with only the wind rushing through its ramshackle walls. Yet, even for ghosts, there is life-both bitter and sweet-after Crimson Peak.

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Alan breathed a deep pull of the late March air as they rounded the street corner of their Uptown neighborhood. The Cushing family brownstone sat in a regal line of similarly architectured homes, each with their front walks lined with meticulously cultivated, European-style gardens.

He had encouraged Edith to go out for a walk, as it was the first day that week that second trimester fatigue had seemed to let up a bit for her when she rose in the morning. Given the harsh start to her pregnancy, Doctor Mattheson had concluded that with the unusual strain on Edith's body, as it had fought to recover from her "ordeal" in the UK paired with growing an all new life, taking it slow would be imperative. Alan of course regretted that her health was anything less than it should be, so that enjoying the course of pregnancy like other women could not provide Edith more of a pleasant distraction from how much of a challenge this first year back in Buffalo had already been.

Still this sunny Saturday had given Alan hope, as Edith had even been well enough to breakfast in the sun room with him. They took the morning at an easy pace. The couple ate their meal in their house clothes, Alan in his velvet robes and Edith in her white laced and embroidered flannel nightgown and matching white woven shawl. They rested at the table for a while even after their light breakfast had been cleared away and sipped cups of hot chocolate from the Cushing family fine china.

Despite the physical wear on Edith's body, Alan had been glad to see her relaxing better in the past months since they had wed. That morning she had rested against a pillow that Hattie had sewn and stuffed to place behind Edith's back when she ate the table the days she was feeling better. His heart had swelled with happiness, as they watched out the sun room windows at birds that picked at feeders hung from the crabapple trees in the back garden. As the birds flitted to and fro, they had shared light conversation. Alan and Edith's relationship had always been like that, as friends throughout the years – they did not need to say much between them to enjoy each other's company. Alan was relieved the relationship between them had been able to settle back into what it had been, just as much as was possible anyway. Going into the marriage, Alan had not expected much physical intimacy between them, as he could only imagine what Edith may have been through with Sharpe... It was not something she had talked about with him yet, though he felt sure she would come to him whenever she felt ready to discuss it. Therefore, he found his joy in the small things. That morning, it was catching her fingers rubbing unconsciously, gently back and forth over her now visibly rounded stomach, as she sipped her hot cocoa. He had learned not to say anything, as he noticed it though. It would only cause her to remember that she was indeed pregnant, and he knew well from tears she shed at night that she would still have it almost any other way and not be, if she could.

So as they made their way back from a brief stroll in the park, Alan smiled as he gazed down at his wife's lightly-pink cheeks, half-shaded under the straw-woven brimmed hat perched upon her golden curls. He thought she was beautiful before, but as her body softened with her pregnancy, he found the change in her not only cute but actually alluring as well. As he quietly admired her, suddenly, her lips broke out in a smile that Alan had not seen in sometime. He thanked his fortune for being able to use his height to spy on her, just as the rare expression graced her features.

"Alan, look - the flowers are coming out in the gardens. Those roses, the pink color is so vibrant, isn't it?" she commented with an unguarded wonder that he could only love. He watched her studying the flowers on the other side of their neighbor's low, wrought-iron fence.

"Yes, it's been warm even for late March, and the flowers are coming out early this year," he replied with a smile of his own, releasing her arm so that she could approach the dark, wrought-iron to have a better look at the blooms. The roses stood out nicely, surrounded by light purple blossoms of "spring beauty" and sweetly drooping bells of "cut-leaved toothwort". The Bakers, who lived in this home were fond of botany and kept a well-planned mixture of seasonable plants cultivated in their yard year-round, Alan had noticed. He wondered if Mr. Baker would be willing to spare a pink rose for a small bud vase for Edith, if he asked the next day, on Sunday.

"I told you, you would not regret coming out for a walk," he finished, standing close beside her with his hands clasped politely behind his back but unable to keep a roguish smirk of I told you so off his face.

Edith tilted her head to give a sideways glance up at him past the narrow brim of her hat. Her brown eyes danced in the afternoon light. Gold flecks accentuated by the straw hew of her chapeau glowed warmly, as she looked at him, her eyes even crinkling slightly at the corners.

Gazing back at her, he felt the love that he was now more certain was kindling in her heart for him. "Yes, you are right as ever, my dear," she replied with a smile of her soft pink lips, and Alan's heart melted for his wife at the endearment that she had recently started to use with him.

After so much struggle, the lightness of the moment seemed perfect to Alan. Slowly, they turned and headed toward their front door, on their way inside to enjoy the coziness of their home against the chill that still hung around these Buffalo, early-spring nights. Finally, a special, maybe even romantic afternoon – if Alan allowed himself to think it – between just the two of them.

Or so he thought.

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Thomas drifted along marveling at the neighborhood street, lined with brownstones and neatly manicured gardens behind carefully-maintained, black-painted wrought-iron fences. The place, Edith's neighborhood, looked so different than in his memories. No matter how he tried to recall it any other way, the memory of himself going to Edith's home in the dark after her father had left in his carriage for the McMichaels' – just like Lucille had instructed him – was the only recollection of the place in his mind.

A fateful night it had been – one he almost wished not to recall, as it reminded him of how he had closed in on the pretty young woman like a predator seeking prey. Still, he took the dark memory for what it was: apparently a miracle in and of itself, given the clouds that had hung over his mind in the past weeks on the ship crossing the Atlantic, when he had almost forgotten why his ghost had left Crimson Peak to start...

Today, this tidy little street belonging to the elite of Buffalo practically sparkled in the late afternoon light. Bright splashes of springtime color blazing up from the brownstone garden beds practically blinded the late baronet's undead, ghostly eyes. Thomas felt himself struck by a certain irony. Taking in and lingering in the presence of such vital, natural beauty seemed almost wrong for a being barely clinging to the last nasty, dredges of his life, as he was. He didn't dare picture what his ghost would look like, marring the blissful spring scenery around him, that is if any poor brute could see him.

At the moment, there was no one to test it on though, as he had been drifting along for almost two blocks. Despite having not seen a soul, he stuck to the walkway across the street from the house fronts, somehow uncomfortable with the thought of getting too close to the houses where people were more likely to be.

He watched as the house fronts went by, and a feeling in Thomas' gut told him he was getting close to the block where the Cushings had resided.

Steadily, he drifted forward. A new block of houses was ahead on the other side of the street. Thomas was so focused on the fronts of the first of the houses in the row, that he nearly missed the sound of voices approaching from directly across the street. A couple walked arm-in-arm on the sidewalk coming from the T-intersection across from where the ghost of Thomas Sharpe lingered.

The man and woman both wore hats and had their heads lowered in conversation, as they watched their steps coming around the street corner until the woman said something, and they stopped in front of the garden fence of one of the brownstones. They appeared to be regarding a bush blossoming with bright, pink roses.

Abruptly, the woman gestured to the plant. Her raised voice – excited, as she spoke enthusiastically - drifted across the street to Thomas. Startled, by what he didn't know at first, Thomas' ghostly hands pulled in toward his chest, as the oddest feeling took up residence in approximately the area where he surmised his sternum had once been.

Edith. Could it be? He asked himself, as his phantom seemed to react to the very core of his ectoplasm to the rise and fall of her voice. Strained by the intensity of the feeling after so many days marked by absolute nothingness, a curse passed his lips. Although her male companion had unhanded her, he remained close by the woman's side where they looked over the fence, blocking Thomas' view of her from where he floated. A surprising, heavy sensation in his form shocked the ghost, as he willed himself into the street in the direction of the couple. He would have pondered the oddness of the feeling more, if the need to see her better for himself had not already filled every ounce of his ghoulishly, transparent head.

So it was that Thomas Sharpe's ghost froze right there in the quiet neighborhood street, less than three strides away from Edith and Dr. Alan McMichael, as they turned together toward the direction of Edith's home, a few doors down.

Thomas' jaw dropped, as there was no doubt in his mind now. Cheeks flushed, golden curls barely contained under her hat, Edith's smiling face glowed, as she practically faced Thomas full on. A moment later, Alan stepped around her to walk protectively on the outside of the sidewalk, the side next to the street in which Thomas wafted.

His hands clenched tightly together in front of his chest, Thomas' heart soared within him, if such a thing was possible for a ghost. Thank the heavens, Edith, you look so well! he wanted to cry, but knowing for sure now that they definitely could not see him, he didn't dare ruin the moment by possibly making a sound.

Instead, commanding himself into silence, he covered his mouth with one of his hands just in case, as she and Alan passed. Of course, while he would have given anything to take the man's place, abstractly, Thomas was relieved to see the doctor had survived the carefully placed wound he had given him, and he was not surprised to find him with Edith. Yet, Thomas' attention was otherwise entirely focused on Edith, soaking in every moment of her he could before he knew he had to go.

Fortunately, she and Alan were walking slowly, as Thomas kept pace with them. Alan was talking, but he did not even hear him. Rather, he saw only the shine of Edith's tresses in the afternoon sun. Again, he appreciated the delicacy of her fair, sloping eyebrows, poised above intelligent, light brown eyes, as she listened actively to her companion. She had once been this way with Thomas in the early days, as she was still enthralled with him as her new husband...

His heart clenched, as next, Thomas hungrily cemented the pretty pinkness of her now lightly smiling lips and the appealing form of her picture-perfect cheekbones and jawline into his otherworldly mind. Torture him, these memories very well might, the late baronet knew, but he already didn't care. Studying her baby pink dress, the long sleeves and bustle crafted with fashionable poofs, ruffles, and matching pink silk-ribbon bows, he could see that she was being well-cared for, and he could want nothing more.

Drifting along beside her and Alan, Thomas imagined for another moment that he was walking alongside them, another person there on the sidewalk. Like he could have been, if things had turned out differently... somehow, some way he wasn't sure, but if only, if only. He lamented, seeing that they were almost at the gate of the Cushing home. Thomas was realizing he recognized the housefront, as if he had been there only yesterday, when Edith released a surprised little gasp.

Alan stopped them mid-stride. Thomas suddenly looked more closely at Alan than he had in all the minutes that had passed since he came upon them. Barely disguised worry fluttered over the doctor's features, and seeing it, Thomas imagined his own expression could have mirrored Alan's at that moment.

What's wrong? Why is he looking at her like that? Thomas wondered, as his gaze darted quickly back to his beautiful widow. Her hands, wrapped in delicate, pure-white lace netted gloves, had come to rest at her middle.

Now more focused on her core than before, Thomas noticed that a loose fitting panel of silk and soft pink lace decorated with more pink silk rosette buttons ran down the front of her dress. When he thought about it, missing a corset, the style of this dress was rather uncommon.

Then, listening, the ghost of Sir Thomas Sharpe realized why. Edith breathed deeply, the expression on her face unreadable, when with five little words, Thomas would swear she once again stopped his entire world:

"It's the baby - it moved."

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Note: There you go, dear readers! It was exciting to have some time to play with this story again and add a new chapter. Sorry for the little cliffies I keep leaving but hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it ;-)

Origamikungfu.