Proof of Heaven
Standing inside the foyer of the Foster's mansion feels like freedom - like the first breath of a newborn child or the stretching of a baby bird's wings as it prepares to fly from its nest for the very first time. It is all at once exhilarating and terrifying, standing upon the precipice of something entirely new, something unknown and full of promise.
The house smells of cinnamon, and for a moment, if she closes her eyes, she might be able to imagine herself in the kitchen of the pie shop and that any second, Auntie Nell is going to come bustling in, teasing her for daydreaming. But this isn't Auntie Nell's kitchen, and for the first time in her life, Johanna Barker is on her own. Her aunt is not here to help her and her mother is not here to scold her for doing anything improper. The thought is both frightening and thrilling.
The butler, a man named Clarence, has gone to fetch a maid by the name of Flora, who is going to show her around the house and help her settle in before tea time. Waiting has never been Johanna's forte, and she finds herself clutching her carpet bag tightly in gloved hands, glancing anxiously about.
The lavish opulence with which the house is decorated is like nothing Johanna has ever seen before. From her spot in the middle of the foyer, she can see into the parlor, where silver candlesticks are sitting on windowsills, exquisite paintings of barren landscapes and the flourishing countryside ornament the walls and velvet upholstered furniture looks so lovely and dainty that she's afraid of tainting it just by staring at it too long. It seems more like a museum than a home, with statuettes and baubles everywhere one turns. At her home, nothing had seemed more natural than collapsing onto the worn settee after a long day of serving pies, or curling up on a rainy day with a book on the armchair with ripped, floral upholstery. Here, Johanna would be too terrified to so much as brush past the cream-colored draperies or lay a hand on the maroon settee for fear of dirtying them.
Footsteps, calm and self-assured, alert Johanna to the presence of another, and she looks up from staring at polished marble just in time to see a woman walk into the room - tall and slender, with pale blonde hair, and dressed in a uniform consisting of a plain black dress and a white apron.
"Let's get you settled in." Flora smiles and Johanna returns the expression nervously. She leads the way through the parlor and down a corridor, into the kitchen. They begin to climb a set of stairs in the back of the room, which Johanna presumes to be for the use of servants only.
Two floors later, on the attic stairs, Flora explains, "It's very dark through here once the sun sets. You'll need to carry a candle or you're liable to trip on your skirts and tumble back down."
The stairs are rather narrow, and Johanna makes a mental note to carry a candle and matches in her apron pocket at all times. Reaching the top of the staircase, they stand on a small, cramped landing in front of a closed wooden door. Flora turns the knob and pushes it open, revealing five narrow beds, a set of dressers with a wash basin, and one lone chair next to a tiny window. The furnishings are sparse and battered-looking, but Johanna feels more at home than she had downstairs.
"You'll sleep up here with Ivy, Ruth, Mrs. Bedwin and myself," Flora says, stepping aside to let Johanna walk in ahead of her. She points to a crisply-made bed in the corner. "That's yours. And there's an empty drawer in the dresser for your things."
Standing in the middle of the room and peering around curiously, Johanna frowns. "But where do the men sleep? The butler, Clarence - "
"Oh, Mr. Foster is very fond of Clarence," Flora says with a little smile. "He has his own room on the second floor. The other men sleep on the first floor, in the kitchen. Sometimes in the cupboard under the stairs."
It doesn't seem fair to Johanna that none of the men have beds and dressers, except Clarence, but deciding it isn't any of her business, she nods once and continues to glance around. The room is chilly and feels damp. Dimly lit, and with no pictures or decorations, no colors but white and gray, the attic is impersonal and lifeless. Auntie Nell would insist in putting a vase of daises on the dresser just to liven things up a bit.
"You'll meet them all tonight, I imagine," Flora continues, oblivious to the pang Johanna feels at the thought of her family. "We all gather in the Servants' Hall after our chores are finished." She pauses thoughtfully. "Are you any good at cards?"
For a moment, Johanna is too taken aback to answer but when Flora continues to stare at her expectantly, she nods and stutters out, "Y-yes, I play."
Flora smiles, pleased. "Then you'll be fine." She begins to edge toward the door. "Why don't you settle in and change into your uniform. I'll come fetch you in ten minutes, shall I?"
"Thank you," Johanna says, watching Flora turn and sweep out of the room, closing the door behind her. Turning to face the room again, she scowls at herself, wondering what had happened to her power of speech on the carriage ride to the Foster's. Since childhood, Johanna can remember her mother rubbing at her temples and pleading with her to be quiet for just a little while, but now, in her new surroundings, she feels as though she has lost all ability to speak - much like Friday in her favorite Daniel Defoe book. She only hopes she regains her love of chattering once she gets to know everyone. She has her doubts when she thinks of all the names she has to learn, and the duties she has to perform. It makes unease flutter wildly in her stomach. She wonders idly if Friday had felt so faint at the thought of learning English.
It seems daunting now, but she will not be deterred. This job is not for her; this job is for her family, for Auntie Nell. They need the extra income, and Johanna will do anything within her power to get it. If she thought staying at the pie shop would be of help, she would be there now, flipping the sign to open and preparing to serve the morning customers, or singing a silly nursery rhyme with Auntie Nell and giggling at her father's stoic expression.
In the silence of the attic room, still clutching her carpet bag, Johanna feels an aching loneliness come over her so suddenly it takes her breath away. The house is too quiet, too unfamiliar, too big, too expensive, too not like her own. Johanna flushes deep scarlet, ashamed of herself and feeling like a simple country child. It hasn't even been two hours, and she misses her family.
How on earth will she survive this?
The goodbyes had been painful. Still wounded from their argument, her mother had been distant, stiffly hugging her goodbye and telling her to remember her manners before turning away, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Father hadn't said much either, but he'd look oddly choked, as though he wanted to say something meaningful and important but hadn't quite known how to open his mouth and say it. Instead, he'd settled for wrapping his arms around her when she flung herself at him, and pressing his lips to the top of her head.
Auntie Nell. Saying goodbye to her had been the hardest - while Johanna had hated to leave her mother because Lucy was so against her going, and she was only just beginning to get to know her father, Auntie Nell has been her friend, her mother, her everything for as long as Johanna can remember. Standing outside the pie shop, Johanna had regarded her aunt silently, feeling very much like crying and running into her arms, promising to never leave for as long as she lived. As if she understood perfectly, Auntie Nell had smiled bravely through moist eyes, drawing her close and stroking her yellow hair. With all the seriousness of a priest delivering a benediction, she'd whispered into Johanna's ear, "Get your cheeky lit'le arse into that carriage and make me proud, my love."
Johanna smiles indulgently to the empty room, knowing only Auntie Nell could make her burst out laughing when she wanted to cry. Blinking away tears, she sets to work folding her linens neatly into the drawer set aside for her. It's silly, how nostalgic she has suddenly become. On the carriage ride and standing in the foyer, she had been so excited about the prospect of something new that she had barely been able to contain herself and she will not lose that feeling now. This is an experience, something she might read in a book and certainly something to tell Auntie Nell about when she sees her.
Lifting a photograph from her bag and tucking it safely under the clothes in her drawer, Johanna squares her shoulders. The sooner she can focus her mind on her work, rather than her family, the better.
--
Silence.
Never, not once in all her life, has Eleanor Lovett had to face the sound of deafening silence at ten in the morning. Growing up with brothers who rose with the sun to play, wrestle and dirty their clothes hadn't left much time for solitude. When she left home, she moved to Fleet Street with Albert and opened her pie shop, where costumers were coming in as early as eight to get a pie and a cup of tea. It wasn't long until the Barkers moved in, and their darling child made sure no one slept past sunrise and as Johanna grew, she required help dressing, stories, and companionship. Nellie's life has been one long, endless array of noise - chaotic, jubilant, wonderful noise.
Now, sitting in the empty pie shop, staring morosely out the window at the busy street, silence reigns supreme. Johanna is gone. She had expected it, mentally steeled herself, but now that the day has arrived, she realizes all her preparation had been for naught. She still feels like falling to pieces.
Johanna hadn't wanted to go, when the time came. She could see the fear in the girl's eyes as they stood outside by the carriage - her bag already stowed away and the driver waiting with the most polite impatience Nellie has ever seen. For a fleeting moment, Eleanor had wanted to say that she could stay home, that she didn't have to live somewhere else and work for strangers. She had been tempted to take Johanna by the shoulders and plead with her to stay, to come inside, have a cup of tea and forget this silly business. Only for a moment, and then she had realized that Johanna needed her to be strong, to give her the push she needed - like a mother prodding her baby bird from the nest so it can learn to fly. Johanna needed her to let go the way Lucy has never been able to. So she had.
Shifting her gaze from the street to the bottle of gin in front of her, Eleanor sighs and taps the table with her fingers. Usually, by this time, she would be cleaning the house with Johanna, both of them carrying around dusty rags and buckets, getting more soapy water on themselves than anything else. After they were finished, they would head to the market in hopes of finding decent fruit or low-priced material for Johanna and Lucy to use for their sewing.
Nellie has never had the patience for sewing or knitting, unable to focus on the task long enough to excel at it and usually becoming so frustrated she pawns off the remainder of her work to Johanna, who would always finish it for her - with much more patience and skill than Nellie could ever hope to attain. She wonders briefly who will complete her half-finished gloves and scarves now. Lucy might have, once, before all this nonsense began between them. She would have given Eleanor a look and chided her about finishing the things she begins, but she would have done it. Now, with their arguments accumulating and Eleanor's increasing frustration with Lucy's inability to move past what once was, she doubts things will ever be the same between them.
Eleanor sighs again, louder this time, and she hears movement in the parlor. Mr. Todd has been in there - washing down his loneliness with gin - since Johanna climbed into her carriage and stuck her hand out the window to wave goodbye. Lucy had left for work soon after Johanna had gone, and she still hasn't said a word to Nellie. Whether or not she is speaking to her husband, Nellie cannot tell. She feels even sorrier for Mr. Todd than she does for herself. He had just begun getting to know his daughter and now she is gone. The only person left in the house who will look at him without flinching is his landlady.
Feeling a flash of annoyance with herself, Eleanor huffs to the empty shop. It's pathetic, the way she's sitting here, moping about just because Johanna is no longer around to keep her company every moment of the day. She's a grown woman, for heaven's sake, and she will find some other way to occupy her time. Johanna had wanted this and Eleanor wants nothing more than for her to be happy. Johanna has a few hours to come home on Sundays, and that will just have to do. To sit here and reminisce is to become Lucy, and that is something Eleanor simply will not stand for.
Jaw set, Eleanor stands, smoothing her skirts and picking up her glass of gin. Footsteps light, she makes her way into the parlor, where Mr. Todd sits motionlessly on the settee, gazing into the fire. It makes her anxious, to be alone with him and she can't quite explain why. She has spent two nights sitting up with him until sunrise and yet being in the parlor with him makes her feel like jumping out of her skin. Something about the light of day bares before him, leaves her more vulnerable without the darkness to hide the adoration in her eyes.
Swallowing, she sinks down onto the armchair across from him, gin cupped in her hands on her lap. Mr. Todd doesn't look up or otherwise acknowledge her presence, but she knows better than to expect anything of the sort by now. Instead of waiting for him to say something, she sighs. Mr. Todd doesn't notice.
She frowns, wondering not for the first time about what goes on in his mind that holds him so far from the grasp of reality. He clenches his glass of gin in one hand, and loosely holds his razor in the other. Eyes narrowed, Mr. Todd looks the very picture of concentration and Eleanor feels her throat constrict as she continues to watch him.
She sighs once more, so loud it's nearly a huff of annoyance, and Mr. Todd flinches, glancing up at her. Offering him a patient smile, Eleanor says, "Look at the two of us, feelin' sorry for ourselves just cause Johanna found 'erself a proper job. Quite a sorry sight, eh?"
Mr. Todd stares, obviously waiting for her to make her point.
Keeping her voice light, Eleanor continues, "What say we pop out for a tick and walk to the market, Mr. T? Johanna usually comes with me, but I don't think that'll be 'appenin' much anymore."
Going to the market will not only give Mr. Todd something to do, it will keep her thoughts from dwelling on the child she just lost. The last bit of dependence Johanna had on her is gone; she doesn't need her aunt anymore. It's a depressing thought - not being needed. Eleanor watches Mr. Todd blink at her, quite aware that her expression borders on begging and unable to bring herself to care much if it will get him to accompany her. She doesn't think she can handle being alone today.
Mr. Todd averts his eyes, as though he might break under the pressure of her gaze and shakes his head. "I don't like the market, Mrs. Lovett." Attention back on his razor, Mr. Todd proceeds to ignore her. He nearly always has that razor in his hand - she has rarely seen him without it since she gave it to him that night. It looks natural in his palm, as though it should always be there, as though it belongs.
Eyeing the way it shines in the light of the fire, Eleanor considers whether or not he might like to use it for something, rather than merely stare at it all day. Perhaps opening his shop again might do him some good, give him a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning and get some sleep at night. With a bit of clever advertising, he could have just as many customers as he used to and his shop is just sitting up there, vacant and waiting for him.
"Mr. T, I've been thinkin'..." She trails off, wondering if he's even listening until his eyes dart up to hers briefly. "Maybe you should open up your shop again - change of pace might do you good, love. And the market would be the perfect place to advertise your business , what with that bloody Eye-talian always lurkin' about."
He grunts noncommitally but makes no further effort to respond.
Resisting the pressing urge to sigh again, Eleanor narrows her eyes. "Did you know," she says cheerily, as if continuing the conversation, "that I could 'ide the gin someplace obscure and it'd take you days to find it?" She flashes him a sweet smile. "But you like tea, don't you, Mr. Todd?"
For a moment, as he stares incredulously at her, she thinks he might use her for target practice for daring to threaten him. But then he surprises her - the corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest of smiles, a minute expression of amusement so brief she almost misses it. Eyeing her seriously for a second longer, Mr. Todd nods once and inquires in a resigned tone, "An Italian?"
She smiles.
--
Sweeney Todd loathes the market - it is loud, smelly and peopled with crooks. If he had any choice in the matter at all, he would still be in Mrs. Lovett's parlor, sitting quietly with his gin. However, if he had stayed, he's fairly certain that Mrs. Lovett would have made good on her threat to hide away every bit of alcohol she possessed. He has no doubt that she would have hidden it so well it would have taken him weeks to locate it. His landlady had given him no real choice in the matter.
Occasionally, as they walk side-by-side through the market stalls, Mrs. Lovett will be pressed into his side by the jostling crowd, the hat on top of her head bumping his chin, and Sweeney has a nagging feeling that he is lying to himself. While he hates to step out into the city, he could have easily gone out to obtain his own alcohol. Lucy keeps a purse of money lying out on the coffee table in the living room. Truthfully, he isn't sure why he had agreed to accompany Mrs. Lovett to the market - maybe because she had peered at him through those strangely soulful brown eyes with such intensity, looking for all the world like she had just lost her very best friend. In a way, he supposes she had.
A colorful display of scarves attracts Mrs. Lovett's attention and breaking off mid-sentence, she veers off to the right, without waiting for him to follow. Frowning after her, Sweeney keeps his eyes on her hat - which he suspects is somehow keeping all of her curls from falling around her face - so as not to lose her in the crowd, and makes his way to her. She stands before the booth, ignoring the man reciting prices to her, fiddling with a velvet scarf of bright red.
Without turning around to even check if he is behind her, Mrs. Lovett addresses him, "What do you think of this, Mr. T?" She puts it up to her hair, as though comparing the different shades of scarlet. "Too red?"
He isn't quite sure what she means by 'too red' so he remains silent and she continues to chatter happily without his input. Sweeney has learned very quickly that Mrs. Lovett doesn't need anyone to carry on a conversation - she just likes having someone near so it doesn't look like she's talking to herself. While Mrs. Lovett struggles with her decision concerning the scarf, Sweeney scans the crowd around them with disinterest, willing to look anywhere else if it will prevent her from asking him more questions about color and her hair.
"Don't know what I'd do with it anyway," she finally says, arranging the scarf neatly back where she found it, but Sweeney is no longer paying her any mind because right at that moment, he spots a lone man making his way through with crowd with a simpering smile and a walking stick.
Beadle Bamford.
That filthy, greasy, foul rat that always follows behind Turpin like an eager puppy.
Sweeney can perfectly recall that moment in the flower market, watching with dawning horror as he was dragged away - Turpin touching Lucy with his disgusting hands, the beadle lingering behind with his slimy grin. Without thinking, his hand instantly flies to the razor concealed in his coat pocket. He feels a low growl rumbling in his chest, and how Mrs. Lovett hears it over the din of the market is a mystery to him but she turns sharply to look at him, startled.
Eyes quickly scanning the crowd to follow his line of vision, her brown eyes widen at the sight of Bamford. With remarkable calm, her eyes alight on the hand he has slipped into his pocket and she rests a gentle hand on his arm. "Easy, love," she murmurs, firmly pulling his hand from his pocket.
Sweeney lets her, suddenly numb. What had just happened? Had he really been about to take a razor to Beadle Bamford in the middle of a crowded market? The only thing he can recall is the irresistible image of the beadle bleeding out like a stuck pig all over the mucky ground. Sweeney feels his breath leave him and struggles against the urge to turn and run. He thought he hadn't forgotten what it was like to be among civilized people but maybe his memory really is failing him. He shudders to think of what he might have done if not for Mrs. Lovett's prescience.
Tugging on his arm, Mrs. Lovett sighs patiently as though chiding a little boy for misbehaving. "Can't take my eyes off you for one minute, you great brute," she grumbles. "We should really be gettin' you out of the house more often - just so you know what is and what ain't acceptable in the middle of the bloody market! Come on now, I'll take you to see the Eye-talian. Bloody 'orrible man but I can't say the same for 'is business."
Abandoning the scarves, much to the chagrin of the man selling them, Mrs. Lovett leads Sweeney to a battered-looking wagon where a large group of people are gathering. On the makeshift stage, a boy with long blonde hair carts around a drum, loudly proclaiming the wonders of Pirelli's Miracle Elixir. It's a showy display, but Mrs. Lovett looks around at their surroundings dully, as though she has witnessed the scene more times than she cares to remember and can't possibly bring herself to watch once more.
For the first time, Sweeney begins to feel anxious. Shaving is nearly an art form. It takes a skillful, steady hand and deep concentration; he cannot be certain he is very adept at either anymore. Shaving himself is another matter entirely, and he can't help but imagine cutting his first customer to ribbons beneath his blade.
The imagery brings to mind what had nearly happened with the beadle and Sweeney tunes out the child on stage as he remembers the way he had instinctively closed his fingers around his razor. He had been about to draw it out, as if slicing another man's neck in the middle of St. Dunstan's market was the most commonplace thing in the world. Perhaps Mrs. Lovett had been right after all - he does spend an awful lot of time cooped up in the pie shop. Maybe it's finally starting to affect him. Something to occupy his mind during the day while Lucy is at work might be just the thing he needs. It doesn't matter if he remembers how to shave another man; he will relearn, if it will please Lucy.
So, when the boy begins to pass around bottles of the strange yellow liquid - the elixir of Sweeney's competition - he clears his throat and murmurs loud enough for others to hear, "Pardon me, ma'am, what's that awful stench?"
Mrs. Lovett's grin is brief but so delighted that Sweeney can't find it within himself to care that nearly every person in the rather substantial crowd has their attention focused on him. The feeling in his chest is strange, almost light-hearted, and he can't remember the last time he experienced such a sensation.
"Bloody brilliant, Mr. T," she whispers and then continues in a louder voice, "Must be standing near an open trench." She waves her hand in front of her face and wrinkles her nose in disdain. Taking the bottle from the man next to her and sniffing carefully, she cringes, nearly gagging. "What is this?"
Sweeney leans closer to catch the scent just as Mrs. Lovett turns to look at him and their noses nearly collide. Too stunned to move, Sweeney can only stare at her, watching her expression morph into one of quiet shock. However, she doesn't seem to mind their closeness, peering up at him through twinkling brown eyes. Standing so near, Sweeney realizes how small she truly is. Overwhelmed, he quickly jerks away, but Mrs. Lovett doesn't so much as blush, holding up the bottle for him to smell. Still mortified, he sniffs half-heartedly, and grimaces at the stench. "Smells like piss."
Pleased with his response, Mrs. Lovett looks as if she might burst out laughing at any moment and turns to the gentleman next to them. "Wouldn't touch it if I was you, dear."
The curtains concealing the entrance to the wagon rustle briefly before a tall man dressed in a bright blue suit, a cape and a top hat steps out with a flourish. He reminds Sweeney of the men at the carnival Lucy had dragged them all to - outlandish, boisterous and bizarre . At the same time, something about this man stirs his memory, like a long-forgotten face of the past he cannot quite grasp.
When Sweeney wagers his razor against five pounds that Pirelli - barber of kings - is no match for his own talents, Signor Pirelli leans close to examine his razor and Sweeney gets the chance to briefly study the man's face up close. His features are alarmingly familiar, but he still cannot place where he has seen the man before. Shaking off the odd feeling, Sweeney asks Beadle Bamford to judge and tries not to let his disgust show when the man steps forth with a leer, as if he had suspected all along that he would be needed.
As the contest begins, all thoughts of Pirelli's unsettling familiarity is forgotten - everything is forgotten. Sweeney is wholly unaware of the enraptured audience or the Italian's ramblings, or even the grimace of the little orphan boy as Pirelli's razor slices his fingers. Later, he may recall the face of the man he shaved, or Mrs. Lovett's smirking face in the crowd, but in the moment, he is only aware of the razor in his hand. It is the first time he has shaved another human being in fifteen years, and it feels no different than it had then. His hand does not even tremble. The process is almost soothing - the quick strokes of the blade, the way it sings as it slices through stubble and shaving cream, how perfectly his fingers fits around the engraved handle.
Shaving was something Benjamin had always been able to do exceptionally well and Sweeney realizes with startling clarity that it is the one thing he never lost. He had forgotten how to hold a normal conversation, how to make his own tea, that attacking men in a public place is socially unacceptable, but he has never forgotten what to do with the elegant blade in his hand.
It takes only seconds to finish the shave and over the sound of applause, Sweeney's eyes find Mrs. Lovett, where she stands holding his coat over her arm and grinning. Head tilted to the side, red curls falling from her hat and pins, she looks as triumphant as he feels - almost as if she had secretly known all along that he hadn't lost his gift. Knowing Mrs. Lovett, she probably had. Sweeney sole wish is Lucy could have been here to watch; it might give her hope to know that not every part of Benjamin has been destroyed - mutilated and twisted into something darker, something ugly.
As Mrs. Lovett drapes his coat over his shoulders and says, "Bloody good job, Mr. T," he doesn't feel like Benjamin Barker was such a tragic loss, or his own existence such a misfortune. The feeling only comes over him in his landlady's presence and Sweeney cannot help but wonder why Lucy never makes him feel quite so wanted.
--
In her life, Johanna has worn her fair share of hideous things for the sake of fashion - more often than not at her mother's insistence. She will never forget that horrid, frilly concoction she had been forced to wear for her fourteenth birthday, nor will she ever rid herself of the memory of Auntie Nell's muffled giggles at the sight of the monstrosity. But never, in all her young years, has Johanna been forced to wear something she loathed quite so much as her new uniform.
It's a black frock with a high neck collar, an itching thing that Johanna cannot stop tugging at irritably. Over her dress is a white apron that she just knows she will have trouble keeping clean and an odd little matching white hat sits jauntily atop her head, which is forever falling down her forehead and forcing her to shove it back into its rightful place. However, the uniform does help her to blend in and she feels less like an outsider now that she looks like she belongs with the rest of the household staff.
Johanna has yet to meet everyone on the Foster's payroll; once she had changed into her uniform, Flora had given a very brief tour in which Johanna encountered no one but another maid - a quiet girl named Ivy - and the cook - a rotund, boisterous man called Harry. When Flora took her into the kitchen to begin preparations for tea time, Johanna had also met Ruth, a girl roughly Flora's age and just a few years older than Johanna.
While Flora and Ruth prepare the tea, Johanna nervously fiddles with her hat and waits for them to hand her the silver tray. This will be her first official duty as maid - to serve tea to Mr. Foster and his guest in the parlor.
"Just remember," Flora says quietly, "speak only when you are spoken to and for heaven's sake, stop shaking so! You're going to rattle the teacups!"
Placing the delicate china on the intricate platter, Ruth smothers a laugh and tucks a wayward piece of mousy brown hair back into her own cap. "You drop this tray you can wave goodbye to your wages, dear." She places the tray in Johanna's arms. "Go on now, Mr. Foster'll be waiting."
Johanna stares at them, wide-eyed and clutching the tray.
Suddenly, she doesn't feel quite adequate to serve tea. When she had been given the job, she thought herself the luckiest girl in the world. After all, what simpleton couldn't serve tea or polish candlesticks? But now, with a wealthy lawyer and his equally well-disposed companion chatting just down the hall, chatting in their crisp, well-bred accents and waiting for her to pour their tea without trembling or saying a word, things seem far more complicated.
When has she ever been able to stop speaking? How can she possibly go out there shaking like a leaf and hundreds of words in her head just waiting to be spoken to anyone who might listen? She had been off her rocker to accept such a disciplined job. Why hadn't she agreed to stay home and wait a few years to begin working in the dress shop with her mother?
Because you can barely stand to be around your mother the few hours of the day she is home - how could you possibly manage working with her all day, watching your every move and never letting you make a mistake?
Still, she cannot stop trembling. The teacup is clattering noisily with the saucer and Mr. Foster is waiting. Exchanging understanding, exasperated glances, Flora and Ruth look at her pityingly. Flora steps forward and steadies the tray with slender hands, looking directly into Johanna's eyes. "Keep the tray upright, pour the tea without spilling it all over Mr. Foster's lap, do not speak and come directly back here when you are finished, understand?"
Johanna nods frantically. "Yes, but - "
"No speaking," Flora interrupts sternly. "Hold you tongue."
"I can't - " Johanna begins but Flora narrows her pale blue eyes, silencing her.
Flora smiles. "Much better. Now go before Mr. Foster has to come looking for you."
Breathing in deeply and squaring her shoulders, Johanna tightens her grip on the tray and hopes her sweaty palms do not ruin this for her. As she steps into the hallway, Mr. Foster's voice can be clearly heard from the parlor just down the hall and Johanna struggles to keep her footsteps light so as not to interrupt them. There is so much to remember about proper etiquette that she doubts she could possibly remember it all if she had not spend much of her life memorizing facts and passages in books.
In the parlor, Mr. Foster sits in a maroon armchair dressed in a smoking jacket, a pipe protruding from his mouth as he stares rather amusedly at his companion. Mr. Foster is younger than most lawyers Johanna has encounter or read about, with his brown hair falling to his ears and neatly arranged, his sarcastic smile and his ironic tone of voice. He is effortlessly charming and Johanna had understood immediately why he had become so successful in his profession.
Approaching the small table before the two men, Johanna is able to forget about her nerves momentarily and get a good look at Mr. Foster's guest. Dressed expensively in a long coat and tailored trousers, the man is older than her employer, with grey hair and stubbly cheeks. Though he has a rather long nose, Johanna realizes as he speaks, that his voice must be his most noticeable quality. It's a deep voice, almost nasally, and effortlessly arrogant.
For reasons she doesn't understand herself, Johanna feels a shiver of revulsion make its way up her spine. Swallowing, she ignores the strange feeling and places the tea tray quietly on the table to set about pouring a cup for each gentlemen. As she picks up the steaming teapot, the man stops speaking to Mr. Foster and glances at her.
"Ah," he says quietly and Johanna fights another wave of unexplainable disgust. "I thought I had met all the maids in your household, Charles, and yet I've never seen this lovely young lady before."
Mr. Foster raises an eyebrow, pulling his pipe from his mouth only long enough to say, "I am glad of it, Edmund. I would be worried if you had seen her here before today - she is a new addition."
Feeling her hand becoming unsteady under the scrutinizing gaze of Mr. Foster's guest, Johanna grits her teeth and forces herself to ignore the heat of his gaze on her face. Carefully placing Mr. Foster's tea and saucer on the table in front of him, Johanna purses her lips to contain all the words just waiting to spill out. She has not been raised to allow a man to look upon her as though she were an idle amusement or a fine thing to be admired like a painted doll. However, Johanna can only ignore him, keeping her eyes downcast and swallowing the slowly simmering indignation.
She pours the man his cup of tea and he watches intently as she places it on the table in front of him, his eyes slowly tracing her face. "Tell me, child," he says, looking perplexed. "You are strangely familiar to me. What is your name?"
Biting back a sharp retort, Johanna straightens, smoothing her apron and stepping back from the table. "Johanna Barker," she says steadily, desperately wanting to raise her eyes and glare at him. Decorum forbids it, so instead, Johanna glances swiftly at him out of the corner of her eye just in time to see the man light up with something akin to recognition.
Mr. Foster blows a puff of smoke into the air and taps his pipe, ash falling onto his smoking jacket. "That will be all, Johanna," he says with a soft sigh. "You are excused."
Nodding and giving a brief curtsey, Johanna scurries from the room, walking down the hall as quickly as would be considered proper. For some reason, the way this man had ogled her unnerves her, as though he had been looking at her and seeing someone else entirely. Halfway down the corridor, Johanna hears Mr. Foster's amused laugh. "Just wait until I tell all the men at the billiard room that the great, honorable Judge Turpin goes around scaring young maids half out of their wits just because he thinks he might recognize them. Honestly, Edmund..."
Whatever else Mr. Foster had been about to say is cut off as Johanna enters the kitchen and shuts the door silently behind her. Still shaking, she leans against the door and puts a hand lightly to her chest, struggling to catch her breath.
Standing at the table, waiting for her, Flora and Ruth watch her carefully. "Did you drop anything?" Ruth asks suspiciously. "Break a dish? Spill something?"
Johanna shakes her head wordlessly.
"You did it properly, then?"
She nods.
Flora regards her fondly. "You see? That wasn't so terrible."
Grumbling to herself when Johanna continues to stare at them with frightened eyes, Ruth says, "Quit gaping, dear! Come on now, I'll show you how to make up the beds."
Johanna follows Ruth up the servant's staircase, heart still pounding wildly.
--
When he returned from the market with Mrs. Lovett, who insisted on bringing him up to his old shop to set about arranging things for its reopening, Sweeney had expected to find a decrepit, aged room covered in fifteen years worth of dust. Although the wallpaper is faded and the cradle that once sat in the corner so he could watch Johanna as he worked is gone, everything else is just the same - a shrine to a dead man.
He hasn't quite managed to bring himself to move past the doorway, but Mrs. Lovett stands in the middle of the room, hands on her hips as she surveys the damage time has done. Eyeing the faded walls critically, she murmurs almost to herself, "Bit gloomy in 'ere but nothin' a bit of cheery wallpaper and a few daisies won't fix, I s'pose."
She continues to mutter to herself and Sweeney does nothing to stop her, staring curiously into the room but not troubling himself to actually step inside. He can almost imagine the room still looks the way it did years ago - rays of sunshine streaming into the room and bathing it in light, the striped wallpaper Lucy had spent all day putting up, the chair by the magnificent window where she would sometimes sit and watch him work. He remembers how nervous it used to make him when Lucy would watch him shave his customers, the way he always blushed and had a difficult time keeping his hand steady. The room reminds him too much of himself now, a corpse with nothing but happy memories.
"Mr. T?"
Sweeney blinks, shifting his gaze from the scratched wooden floors to where Mrs. Lovett stands, watching him expectantly.
"Aren't you goin' to come in, silly thing?"
He hesitates, shifting closer but pausing to glance around again.
Mrs. Lovett smirks. "Nothin' to be afraid of, love."
Unamused by her gentle tease, Sweeney scowls but steps through the doorway, unsettled by the hollow sound of his boots on the aged floorboards. He peers around silently, ignoring the way Mrs. Lovett beams at him as if he were a child who has just taken its very first step on its own. "It's...clean."
Rather obvious, but it is puzzling.
Mrs. Lovett glances away, turning to trail her fingers idly over the window pane, and Sweeney is almost certain he had seen a blush upon her cheeks before she turned her back to him. "Well," she says softly. "I gave the place a bit of a polish every so often through the years..."
He frowns. "How often?"
This time, Mrs. Lovett is the one to hesitate. "Nearly once every three months."
Not for the first time, Sweeney is astounded by the sheer magnitude of Mrs. Lovett's faith in his return. To slip away a razor just in case he might come back is one thing, but to continually enter this room every three months for fifteen years to wipe away dust, clean the windows and scrub the floors is utterly baffling - a level of belief so extreme it is usually associated with religion. If only Lucy's faith in him had been so strong.
The quiet between them is beginning to stretch, and unused to lengthy silences, Mrs. Lovett clears her throat delicately and continues, "Johanna 'elped me, once she was old enough. I used to scrub the floors while she polished your dresser and cleaned the windows."
Speaking of Johanna brings an odd tone to Mrs. Lovett's voice and Sweeney watches intently as the baker stares out the broad window and presses her hand to the glass. Thinking over her words, his brow furrows. Mrs. Lovett and Johanna had come up here, but where had Lucy been while they kept his shop in order? "Lucy didn't - "
"She didn't like bein' in 'ere, love," Mrs. Lovett interrupts quietly. "Didn't much like Johanna comin' up 'ere either, but I was stubborn." Abruptly whirling away from the window, Mrs. Lovett sighs. "Well, not much to do up 'ere, is there? Just add a bit of color. Course, you'll need a chair. My Albert's old chair might do nicely until we can afford a new one." She looks at him, obviously waiting for his approval.
Sweeney nods mutely, still stunned by his discoveries.
Mrs. Lovett smiles. "Smashing."
A sharp rap of knuckles against glass startles them both and Mrs. Lovett turns to glare at the door with a hand over her heart. Through the glass, they can make out the eye-catching blue of Pirelli's suit. "The Eye-talian...What's 'e doin' 'ere?"
For some inexplicable reason, Sweeney feels a strange sinking in his stomach, a dread for something to come. He doesn't know what it is, but he knows it has something to do with the familiarity of the other barber, the face he cannot put a name to. When Sweeney doesn't move to answer the door, Mrs. Lovett huffs and strides forward, wrenching it open with an uncivil sniff.
"Well, come in then," she says, and Pirelli steps into the room, his fur cape billowing behind him. Mrs. Lovett rolls her eyes, shutting the door behind him. "What can we do for you, sir?"
Pirelli ignores her, taking off his top hat, eyes on Sweeney. "Meester Sweeney Todd."
The dread has only intensified, but Sweeney manages to reply with contempt, "Signor Pirelli."
Nodding in acknowledgment, Pirelli begins to glance around with a scrutinizing eye. "Yes, this'll do nicely," he murmurs his approval, taking a full turn about the room with his gloved hands behind his back. "Very nicely."
Mrs. Lovett's eyebrows raise a fraction and Sweeney realizes that Pirelli has dropped his Italian accent, sounding decidedly more English. It only fuels the anxiety pooling in the pit of Sweeney's stomach.
Still gazing at him in disbelief, Mrs. Lovett asks, "You come 'ere for somethin' particular, Signor Pirelli?"
Finally looking at her, Pirelli begins to tug at his white gloves. "I'd like my five quid back, if you don't mind."
Staring at him as if he has lost his marbles, Mrs. Lovett nearly scoffs. "What the bloody 'ell for?"
"Because Mr. Todd entered into our little wager under false pretenses," Pirelli explains slowly, watching Mrs. Lovett with a hint of condescension. "He might remember to be more forthright in the future." Turning swiftly from Mrs. Lovett, as though finished speaking to her and therefore rendering her invisible, Pirelli focuses his calculating gaze on Sweeney. "I'll be taking half your profits from herewith. Share and share alike...Mr. Benjamin Barker."
For a moment, no one moves. Mrs. Lovett's eyes, wild and frantic beneath her calm exterior, find Sweeney's. In that singular instant, that millisecond in which Mrs. Lovett's eyes are the only thing he focuses on, Sweeney doesn't feel the overwhelming panic that he knows he should be feeling. He only feels a sense of composure, a feeling that nothing else could possibly matter any more than how deeply warm her gaze is. He has always found her eyes compelling, but now, with sudden clarity, he partly understands why. Mrs. Lovett has eyes the color of chestnut, of chocolate and heartache. He never noticed before.
"You might say you was an inspiration to me."
Blinking, Sweeney focuses once more on the sound of Pirelli's voice, wrenching his gaze from Mrs. Lovett but his mind still reeling.
Pirelli sits at the oversized trunk beneath the window, his knees drawn up awkwardly and suddenly Sweeney remembers. Davey Connor - the young boy he had hired for a couple of weeks in the summer to sweep up hair. A bright, obedient lad that Benjamin had enjoyed having around. Always so eager to help, "Can I do anything else for you today, Mr. Barker?" He used to sit right where he is now, under the window, his gaze enraptured as he watched Benjamin work.
Swallowing, Sweeney wonders how he could possibly forget the way Davey used to hungrily stare at his razors, shining in their box. Davey always loved tracing the handles. And then Sweeney remembers the way Pirelli had leaned so close to stare at the razor he'd held up before the crowd. Pirelli had remembered the razors.
"So have we got a deal?" Pirelli stands, leisurely making his way to where Sweeney stands, frozen, in the middle of the room. "Or should I run down the street to my old pal, Beadle Bamford?"
How could he have been so careless? His razors - gleaming, resplendent and intricately carved - are not easily forgotten. They are not cheap imitations, but one of a kind creations that Davey Connor has remembered all his life. He'll go to the law. They'll drag him back - back to Botany Bay. Away from his family - away from Lucy, Johanna, Mrs. Lovett...
The searing sun, the scorching dirt under his bare feet, the back-breaking weight, the whip, the screams in the night...The razor is in his pocket and before he knows what he's doing, Sweeney has drawn it out and flipped it open, the cool silver warming in the strength of his grip. He won't go. He'll hang himself before he ever steps foot on that godforsaken hell ever again -
Davey Connor falls limply to the floor like a child's unwanted rag doll and for a moment, Sweeney can only manage to blink at his unconscious form. Slowly, his eyes move up to the booted feet, traveling up black skirts to stare the tea kettle hanging loosely from Mrs. Lovett's hand. Chest heaving, eyes wide, Mrs. Lovett stares at him crossly.
Sweeney opens his mouth wordlessly, not quite sure what to say but suddenly faced with the very real, very twisted desire to laugh.
Letting the tea kettle slip from her slack fingers, Mrs. Lovett doesn't even flinch as it clatters to the floorboards right next to Pirelli's head. "What the bloody 'ell do you think you're doin', Mr. T?"
Realizing she is staring rather fixedly at his hand, Sweeney glances down and realizes he still holds the razor, poised to lash out. He slowly lowers his hand, scowling. The same instinct had come over him in the market at the sight of Beadle Bamford. It had been rage that drove him then, but this had been nothing short of sheer panic. "I have to," he says quietly, alternating his gaze from Mrs. Lovett to Pirelli and back again.
"Have to what?" She hisses incredulously, as though someone might hear. "Attack the man with a bleedin' razor?"
Instead of biting back his sharp retort, Sweeney snaps, "What do you suggest we do, Mrs. Lovett? Let him escort me back to Botany Bay himself?"
Mrs. Lovett huffs - a sound somewhere between exasperation and hysteria. "Ruddy bloomin' 'ell," she swears, turning away and running a hand through her tousled curls. "Davey Connor. Never thought I'd see 'im again..."
Puzzled, Sweeney eyes the back of her head with a frown. "You remember him?"
"Course I do." She scoffs, gesturing to the space beneath the window. "Used to sit over there for hours, watchin' you work like you was the blood saint of barberin'." Slowly, Mrs. Lovett pivots on her heel to stare down at the motionless form of the former Davey Connor. After a moment in which she seems to be contemplating something very seriously, she sets her jaw and nods. "Ain't no other way, I s'pose. You'll 'ave to...polish 'im off, Mr. T."
It won't be the first time - Botany Bay had provided numerous opportunities to either murder, or be skinned alive yourself. Benjamin had learned very quickly what he would need to do to survive in a place like the penal colony and until now, Sweeney had begun to think civilization to be far more advanced. However, he is slowly coming to realize that the distinctions between polite society and desperate savages is not so significant after all.
All are desperate to survive, willing to do anything to protect themselves and their things. Only the things themselves differ - in exile, the most vital things to protect are food, shelter, water, a sharp weapon. In civilization, the most important things to maintain survival are fine clothes, jewelry, money. Emerged in London society once more, Sweeney Todd has come to realize that he has escaped one hell only to find another.
Sliding the blade open once more, slowly and deliberately, Sweeney turns dark eyes on Mrs. Lovett and orders softly, "Turn around." He expects her to refuse, to reply in some tart fashion, but Mrs. Lovett only purses her lips and turns to face the opposite wall. Sweeney crouches beside Signor Pirelli, no longer seeing the Italian barber, but the innocent face of a child.
"Can I do anything else for you today, Mr. Barker?"
It's over in an instant, with only a splash of red and a faint gurgling as Davey Connor's blood spills over the wooden floorboards. As if sensing the deed is done, Mrs. Lovett glances over her shoulder, only turning completely around when Sweeney nods. She grimaces as she studies the scene before her.
"All that blood," she says, looking morbidly transfixed. "Poor bugger." She fixes her attention on Sweeney, sitting back on his haunches beside the corpse. "You alright, Mr. T?"
He nods, methodically wiping the blade clean on his bloody shirt.
Mrs. Lovett sighs. "Well then, 'elp me put the bloke in the trunk till nightfall."
"Nightfall?" Sweeney frowns, glancing up from the razor.
Mrs. Lovett's smug grin seems entirely out of place. "Course, silly thing. Can't leave 'im in there to rot." She steps closer to the body, moving to take Pirelli's arms. "We'll toss 'im in the Thames once Lucy's asleep tonight, eh?"
Together, they drag Pirelli to the trunk under the window, leaving a bloody smear across the floor in the process. Mrs. Lovett manages to carry Pirelli and complain about all the blood at the same time. "Oh, and just look at your shirt. It'll be a bloody nightmare, washin' that stain out!" Then, when Sweeney has the lid to the trunk halfway shut, Mrs. Lovett stops him with a firm hand. "Wait!"
Sweeney watches with interest as she reaches inside, head down as she fiddles with Pirelli's outrageous waistcoat. Finally, she fishes out a red coin purse, smiling when she shakes it and hears coins jingle. Shrugging as she tucks it into her corset, she murmurs, "Waste not, want not."
Mrs. Lovett, Sweeney remembers, has always been eminently practical.
--
She couldn't lose him. Not again, not ever.
It had nearly killed her when Benjamin was taken; Johanna had been the only reason Eleanor felt the need to get out of bed every morning. Losing him again, without the responsibility of caring for a child to keep her going, it's highly doubtful she would ever recover. The only person left to keep her company would be Lucy Barker, which isn't at all reassuring. How could she possibly lose him now, this man she finds so captivating that it's impossible to think of anything else when he's near? What would she be left with, if he were to disappear? So all in all, Eleanor doesn't feel quite as terrible as she should about Signor Pirelli's body stuffed into the trunk nearly six feet away from her.
In fact, she feels more emotional about the blood staining the hardwood floors of the barber shop. For the past hour, she has been on her hands and knees with Mr. Todd, scrubbing at the red-soaked floorboards. Her hair is falling into her eyes, her dress is sodden and wrinkled, and her fingers are pruning.
Exhaling loudly, she finally straightens, tossing her limp rag into the bucket of soapy water. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing lean, muscular forearms, Mr. Todd continues to scrub at a particularly stubborn stain, an intent expression on his face. Heart in her mouth, Nellie wonders how someone with wet pant legs, holding a blood-stained rag can possibly look so perfectly beautiful.
She doesn't realize she's staring until Mr. Todd glances up from the floor, tossing his rag aside. Nellie blinks, quickly averting her gaze to her nails, suddenly finding them endlessly fascinating. "I think we got it all, love." Mr. Todd wipes his hands on his pants, eyeing the room critically for anything they might have missed. "Now, you fetch Albert's chair from the parlor and I'll dump this water, eh?"
Mr. Todd frowns, opening his mouth to speak, but whatever he'd been about to say is lost because the sound of footsteps on the rickety stairs outside reach their ears. They turn simultaneously to stare at the door as a young voice calls out, " 'Ello? Signor Pirelli?"
Eleanor swears violently, hands clenching into fists. "The lad from the market."
Mr. Todd stares at her blankly.
"The street urchin," she rolls her eyes. " 'e'll be wonderin' where 'is master is, and what'll we say? Bloody soddin' - "
The door creaks open, jingling the bell overhead, and a young boy peers into the room. He's terribly malnourished, blonde hair falling into his sunken eyes and tattered clothes hanging off his skinny frame. Eleanor feels her heart swell at the sight of the poor thing. Every time she has ever seen the boy at the market, Pirelli had been abusing him in some way or another - kicking him around, slicing his fingers with a razor, pushing him off the wagon and sending the child sprawling into the dirt, wincing. The boy is undoubtedly better off now.
Blanching at the sight of two strangers sitting on the floor, the child stutters, "S-sorry but 'as Signor Pirelli left?"
Eleanor arranges her face into one of innocent ignorance. "Who'd you say, love?"
"Signor Pirelli, ma'am" the child clarifies, inching just inside the door. " 'e left me to clean up the wagon, said 'e was comin' 'ere. That was nearly two hours ago."
"I don't remember seein' 'im..." Turning to look at Mr. Todd, countenance utterly confused, Nellie asks, "Did Signor Pirelli drop by, Mr. T?"
Expression schooled into a concerned frown, Mr. Todd rumbles, "I'm sorry lad, I don't believe I've seen him. Are you sure he was coming here?"
The boy nods, perplexed. "Yes, sir. I dunno where 'e went off to, then."
"Well," Nellie smiles. "I'm sure 'e'll turn up sooner or later. What's your name, love?"
"Toby, ma'am."
Tilting her head slightly to the side and looking at the boy with a motherly affection Eleanor finds she doesn't have to fake, she says, "Toby. Why don't you 'op downstairs and fix yourself a nice pie and a tot of gin while you wait for your master, eh?"
Toby's eyes light up, his little face breaking into an enormous grin. "Really? Thank you, ma'am!"
He vanishes in an instant, thundering down the stairs and into the pie shop. Eleanor smiles when she hears the door slam below, glancing at Mr. Todd. "Looks like we got ourselves a guest, Mr. T." She gives a soft, wistful sigh. "With Johanna gone, I could certainly use 'is 'elp in the shop."
Mr. Todd grunts in response, rising swiftly to his feet. He turns to face the window, bracing his arm against the frame. She wonders if he feels the same pang of emptiness that comes over her at the mention of his darling girl.
"Do you think she's alright, Mr. T?" Eleanor asks softly, watching him. "Johanna, I mean. She's always been so bloody stubborn. Too stubborn to follow orders like a common maid."
After a moment in which Mr. Todd stares past the windowpane, his brow furrowed, he replies quietly, "I'm sure she's fine, Mrs. Lovett." He swallows, exhaling and fogging up the glass. "You raised her well."
Head spinning, Nellie merely stares at him, dumbfounded.
"Eleanor?"
Nellie bites back a groan. Lucy has returned from work.
"Eleanor?" Lucy peers around the doorway, a puzzled expression on her lovely face. "There's a young boy downstairs drinking your gin."
"Toby," Nellie corrects, pushing herself slowly to her feet and trying not to grimace at the pain in her back. "Looks like the lad's master abandoned 'im."
Before Eleanor can explain her idea of hiring him to help her around the shop, Lucy is already alternating a disapproving frown between the room and her husband. "Benjamin? What's all this?"
"Mr. T is startin' up 'is business again." Nellie smiles nervously, discreetly glancing around to make sure they have removed all traces of blood from the shop. Far from looking pleased at the idea, Lucy's frown only deepens. Nellie turns to Mr. Todd, seeing him rooted to the spot at his post by the window, staring fixedly at the vision of his wife standing in the doorway, strands of yellow hair framing her face sweetly. "That reminds me, love. Why don't you fetch Albert's chair from the parlor? It'll 'ave to do for now."
Lucy looks as if she is about to express her disapproval, and Eleanor doesn't want Mr. Todd around when it happens. The man doesn't need a reason not to open up his shop again - and if he knew Lucy didn't like the idea, he'd never go through with it. Besides, she can only bear that look of longing in his eyes when he looks at his wife for so long.
"Opening up his shop?" Lucy asks disbelievingly, once Mr. Todd has disappeared down the stairs.
Flexing and unflexing her fingers, Nellie says carefully, "It'll be good for 'im, Lucy."
Lucy shakes her head. "He's hardly fit to be around people."
"That's where you're wrong, love," Nellie snaps, quite unable to control herself. Lucy is only ever able to get under her skin this way when she speaks of adults as though they're children, unable to think for themselves. She watched her treat Johanna that way for years, she isn't about to let Lucy treat her husband the same way. "We made a trip to the market this afternoon, 'e was 'ardly uncontrollable. Stop talkin' 'bout your 'usband like 'e's a rabid dog."
Ignoring the remark, Lucy glances away, mouth twitching. "You got him to the market?" She laughs softly, humorlessly. "I can't get him to go anywhere with me."
Choosing not to reveal that she had only managed to get him to go by threatening to hide the gin, Eleanor hints, "Maybe you're not askin' the right way."
"No," Lucy shakes her head, leaning her head gently against the doorframe. "That isn't it. He wants nothing to do with me."
Lucy Barker is truly mad. Can't she see her husband worships her - would gladly do anything she requested in the blink of an eye? Eleanor would give her right arm for someone to look at her the way Mr. Todd looks at Lucy. Bloody hell, she'd give both her arms for Mr. Todd to look at her that way.
Eleanor only snorts indelicately. "Funny thing to say, considerin' you're the one who won't go near 'im."
Lucy makes a soft, disgruntled noise in the back of her throat and ventures further into the room. Trailing her fingers along the wall, she heads for the window and subsequently the trunk beneath it. Eleanor's heart begins to pound. "I've missed this room," Lucy breathes. "It was always my favorite."
When Lucy reaches the window and perches primly atop the trunk, Eleanor swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She can barely make out Lucy's words as the blood rushes in her ears. "No one made you leave it, dear."
Lucy taps her fingers against the side of the trunk and Eleanor pictures Pirelli folded up inside it, bleeding all over his hideous blue suit. "I couldn't stand to be in here anymore," Lucy protests mildly. "You know that."
Eleanor wonders if Lucy still finds it painful to be in this room, considering her reluctance to accept Sweeney Todd as the man she married. To Lucy, Benjamin is still gone. His shop is still unoccupied, his place in bed beside her is still bare. Eleanor can't help but wonder whether Lucy really sees Mr. Todd at all or if he's just a phantom on the outer edges of her memory, a living ghost of her dead husband.
Lucy stands from the trunk, turning to gaze out the window instead, but Nellie still feels her knees quivering. "I wish you would have consulted me about your plan for Benjamin, but it is rather ingenious." Glancing over her shoulder, Lucy beams. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. You're brilliant, Eleanor."
"I 'ave my moments," Eleanor says, frowning a little. "But why am I particularly intelligent today, dear? Enlighten me."
"He'll be shaving again, the way he used to. It's the perfect way to snap him out of this foul mood he's in. He's going to come back." Lucy smiles. "Benjamin is going to come back."
A/N - Hey there, all! Thanks so much for all your reviews, you're amazing and I love you. Haha Just to let you know, I'm going to be on vacation for about a week starting today, so I won't be able to reply to your reviews right away, but I'll still be able to check my email on my phone and feedback would make me ridiculously happy:D Anyway, shoutout to TrixieFirecracker for guessing about Turpin and Toby - she's in my head. I feel sorry for her; it's scary in there.
BIG thanks to Robynne for being so fantabulous and helpful. I don't know what I'd do without her help! ILY.
About Turpin, I chose the name Edmund for Judge Turpin's name because it's the name of the first man to play Turpin, Edmund Lyndeck. The chapter title is a line from I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. Also, some of the dialogue from this chapter was taken directly from the movie. I'm sure you all know which parts:D Oh, cookie for whoever spots the Oliver Twist reference! Did anybody happen to see the new Alice In Wonderland teaser trailer? It looks EPIC, non?
Mrs. Todd Barker - Haha, Your mom used to tell you that myth? What a weird coincidence. And thank you so much, I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much! Thanks for reviewing!
Mariana - Yes, Johanna is growing up a lot more like Nellie than Lucy, which is a bit of a blessing, really. I wanted Johanna to have more of Nellie's influence in her life in this story. I'm glad it's showing:D Thanks for the review!
Penelope - Haha, No big deal; I'm just glad you're here now! And I'm glad you're still liking the story. You don't need a bigger vocabulary to describe Lucy - I think silly fits her perfectly:d Thank you for reviewing!
Lilia-Rose - You just got back from Egypt?! I am SO ridiculously jealous of you right now. Haha That must have been incredible. I was obsessed with Egypt when I was a little girl. Thanks! I'm glad you like my version of Johanna, I'm pretty fond of her too;) Thanks for reviewing!