Proof of Heaven
"Of all the bloody nights to repair a bloody torn skirt. As if it wasn't 'ard enough to drag this bleeder - " Nellie winces as Pirelli's heavy boots clunk loudly on the bakehouse steps. "Down the creaky stairs by your ruddy wife's bedroom!" She yanks again on Pirelli's arm and her elbow jabs Mr. Todd in the side. "Sorry, love."
He glares at her and she can't be sure if it's because of the offending elbow or the way she had scoffed at Lucy. It certainly isn't Eleanor's fault the silly nit had decided to sit up for hours to sew, while Pirelli rotted away in the trunk upstairs. She had been quite sure that the creaking interior stairs would give them away, positive that Lucy would appear, sleepy and angelic in her nightgown, golden hair falling down her back, to ask what on earth they were up to.
Only now, in the relative silence of the bakehouse, can Eleanor be sure Lucy won't disturb them. They drop Signor Pirelli's body next to the sewer grate, and Nellie winces when his head hits the stone floor with a sickening crack. She dusts off her hands as Mr. Todd lifts the grille and it scrapes against the floor as he shoves it away.
He doesn't look at her as he speaks, preferring to study the space next to her boots instead. "Once I'm through, lower him down." Without waiting for her to agree, Mr. Todd slips through the grate with a disturbing amount of agility and disappears. Eleanor hears his feet hit the concrete and peers into the darkness below. She wrinkles her nose. Even from up here, the stench is unbelievably offensive. She can only imagine how horrid it must be for Mr. Todd.
"Mr. T," she begins delicately, trying to make out his face in the inky blackness of the sewer. "Are you sure 'e'll fit? Ain't like 'e's a tiny fellow."
Just as Mr. Todd mumbles, "I'm sure," Eleanor's eyes finally adjust to the darkness and she spots him just beneath her. His head is tilted up to regard her through the opening in the floor and their eyes meet briefly. "Push him down."
Still skeptical, Nellie shrugs. "Well are you goin' to catch 'im, then? I don't much feel like cleanin' up splattered brains tonight."
Mr. Todd's answering sigh is drenched with exasperation. "Push him down."
Pirelli is a heavy bugger, but Nellie manages to drag him closer to the sewer by the wrists. "Catch, love."
Pirelli's legs slip through the floor and dangle for only a moment before Mr. Todd gets a firm grip on them. Slowly, she lowers the rest of the corpse through the opening until Mr. Todd takes Pirelli by the waist. Eleanor breathes a sigh of relief as Mr. Todd lets Pirelli's body rest on the ledge next to the sewage.
Turning to look up at her, Mr. Todd steps directly beneath the grate and holds out a hand. Heart in her mouth, Nellie stares at him. "W-what are you doin', love?"
Eyebrows raising a fraction, Mr. Todd watches her for a long moment. "Are you planning on joining me, Mrs. Lovett?"
Swallowing, hoping he doesn't see her hand tremble as she reaches out for his, Eleanor nods. His fingers close around hers and she fights to keep from shutting her eyes or gasping at how unexpectedly warm his skin is. With a gentle tug, she lands unsteadily on her feet, clutching at Mr. Todd's arm as she tries to maintain her balance.
Mr. Todd clears his throat quietly and Nellie jerks away from him, as if burned. "Well," she breathes, face hot. "Ready, Mr. T?"
Maneuvering carefully around her, mindful of accidentally brushing against her, Mr. Todd slips his hands underneath Pirelli's arms. Dragging half the body with him, he steps across the channel, eyeing her dubiously. "Take his feet."
Prepared to complain about being commanded in such a way, Eleanor sucks in a breath and nearly chokes on it. From above, the smell of the sewers had been overpowering, but in the midst of it, it's nearly suffocating. Gagging, she coughs into her palm, eyes stinging. Peering at Mr. Todd through watery eyes, she rasps, "Like sniffin' a bouquet of daisies, eh?"
Mr. Todd doesn't respond, continuing to watch her curiously, but Eleanor expects no less from him by now. Not bothering to wipe at her eyes, she bends down and grips Pirelli's ankles. With a grunt and a heave, they lift the body off the ground and begin inching along the edges of the sewer, balanced precariously.
It doesn't take long before her arms begin to ache under the weight of his frame, muscles burning and screaming to be relieved of their burden. Eleanor has done a lot of heavy lifting in her life - sacks of potatoes, packages from the market, Johanna when she was six and still wanting to be carried about - but she finds it a little too immoral to put Signor Pirelli's corpse into the same category as a sack of potatoes.
Mr. Todd doesn't seem troubled by their baggage, his brow creased in steady concentration as he adjusts the weight of Pirelli's upper body. Quite obviously, he isn't in the mood for conversation, though Nellie has to wonder if he ever is, and so they silently trudge their way through filth, slime and other unmentionables. With her hands otherwise occupied, she has no choice but to let the bottoms of her skirts scrape the grimy brick. She tries her best not to let herself dwell on what that sludge really contains.
It's morbidly amusing to think that above their heads, Lucy sleeps in blissful ignorance of the nefarious deeds her husband and landlady are committing; and in the parlor, passed out on the settee, is Toby. The poor thing had drunk himself into a stupor and Eleanor couldn't find it in her heart to toss him out onto the streets. In the morning, she'll ask him what he thinks about staying here and working for her, but right now, she tries to focus only on the task at hand.
Her corset doesn't allow proper breathing, and she draws in large gulps of air as they continue their steady pace. She still hasn't grown accustomed to the putrid smell of the sewer and she can very nearly taste the raw sewage on her tongue. It makes her want to retch but she struggles valiantly against the urge.
Trudging through the sewers with bile rising in her throat and Pirelli's boots digging into her side is not exactly how Nellie had hoped to spend her evening. The knowledge that she could be in her warm bed, unconscious to the world, or perhaps enjoying a bottle of gin in the pie shop with Mr. Todd, doesn't make the journey any easier to bear. The sewer not only smells fetid, but it's hotter than the deepest circle of hell. She can feel sweat beginning to form on her brow and beneath her corset.
Even so, despite the smell, the sweat and her heavy burden, Eleanor cannot find it within herself to truly complain. Transporting a dead body to the river isn't how she wishes to spend her time with Mr. Todd, but they're alone together. Lucy isn't here to steal away his attention. She isn't chiding Mr. Todd for carrying his razor everywhere or looking at Eleanor as if it's her fault he does so to begin with. Time alone with Mr. Todd is precious, and Nellie will take all she can get.
Grumbling to herself when the heel of Pirelli's boot jabs her side for what seems like the hundredth time, Eleanor huffs her irritation and says, "Y'know, Mr. T, I always believed you'd come back but I never quite expected to be doin' anythin' like this when you did."
Brow still furrowed, Mr. Todd glances up at her and even in the darkness of the sewer, his eyes glitter. She's never seen this expression on him, at least not directed at her. He isn't frowning or glowering, he doesn't even look annoyed. His eyes are totally devoid of the sorrow she is so used to seeing in them. He looks like a gentler version of himself. For just a moment, Eleanor stops breathing. As she balances on the edge of crumbling brick, just inches above the feculent matter flowing out to the Thames, Nellie is lost in the fathomless depths of Mr. Todd's gaze. So when something furry brushes against her ankle, she shrieks.
She manages to step on the bloody thing's tail by accident and its accompanying screech startles her into losing her grip on Pirelli. His legs crash into the sewage below, splattering goo all over her skirts. In the middle of gasping indignantly, Nellie looks up just in time to see Mr. Todd stagger forward with a grunt, struggling to keep the rest of Pirelli from tumbling into the sewage without her help.
"Bloody 'ell," she hisses, glaring after the rat. It scurries away from her with another little screech, not seeming to care in the least about her sodden skirts or that half a corpse is submerged in sewer water. Eleanor composes herself with a deep breath, wiping a droplet of some mysterious filth from her forehead. She braces a hand against the wall to steady herself for a moment but instantly draws it away again, wrinkling her nose at the dampness clinging to her palm. She wipes it on her skirts and glances sourly at her partner in crime. "Soon as we toss this one, I'm goin' to find that li'tle bleeder and feed 'im to one of Mrs. Mooney's cats."
Saying nothing, Mr. Todd merely scowls at her, panting as he tightens his hold on Pirelli's midsection. Inexplicably, Nellie can think of nothing but the way his eyes had looked only moments ago - soft and unguarded. It's a far cry from the glare he's giving her now, though he certainly seems more at ease. As if more comfortable with an emotion like an annoyance. As if feeling anything resembling camaraderie with someone other than his darling wife fills him with despair.
"Oh come on now, Mr. T," she says teasingly, forcing a smile. "No need to look so cross, love. Ain't like the blighter felt it."
She feels something like pride well in her chest when the corner of Mr. Todd's mouth twitches, his irritation momentarily forgotten. His eyes, she notices, are glittering again. Biting her lip to hide a lovesick grin, she moves to pick up Pirelli's legs, only to grimace when she realizes his pant legs are now saturated in sewage. Eleanor utters a cry of disgust and lifts his legs with a grunt of effort.
"Come on then," she sighs. "The sooner we toss this bloke to the fishies, the sooner I can go to bed."
They continue on their way and Nellie's corset is strangling her. She can't seem to catch her breath and every step is a chore. Her back is pushed to the point of breaking. Everything in her is screaming for relief - just a small break. However, she grits her teeth and pushes on. She has already slowed them down once with the bloody rat and she refuses to do so again. Nellie forces herself to concentrate only on keeping a firm hold on Pirelli, rather than the little voice inside shrieking to rest.
It only works for a few minutes and just when she is about to break down, to beg Mr. Todd to stop just for a moment, he halts unexpectedly, head cocked to one side, listening intently. Panting heavily, Nellie stares, swallowing as his calculating gaze meets her own. "What is it, Mr. T?"
He inclines his head further ahead of them. "We're getting close."
Wrenching her gaze away from him, Nellie closes her eyes and listens. Sure enough, the sound of rushing water meets her ears and she grins to herself. Almost there. The sound of the Thames has never been so melodious to her before and she struggles not to sprint the rest of the way. The rushing water continues to grow louder in volume until the roar of the river drowns out their echoing footsteps, the screeching of the rats, even the wild beating of her own heart.
They're blessedly close to open air. She can tell by the faint breeze as they come closer to the edge of the drain. The warm, stifling wind rustles Eleanor's filth-spattered skirts. The air is beginning to smell a little cleaner - if smog and the putrid stench of sweat and rotting fish can truly be called clean. Nevertheless, Eleanor breathes it in greedily, glancing at Mr. Todd as they come to the edge of the drain.
A rusted, brittle grille is the only thing between them and the river. Mr. Todd stares through it at the water, his eyes blank. Shifting her grip on Pirelli, struggling to catch her breath, she asks, "Shall we?"
Swallowing, Mr. Todd nods once, jaw set.
They carefully drop the body to the ground and turn to look at the grille. It doesn't take much effort to move it just enough to slip Pirelli's body underneath. Her arms are throbbing, verging on utterly useless, but Nellie manages to gather enough of her strength to help Mr. Todd slide Pirelli through the opening and into the river.
Nellie slips her fingers through the grille, curling her fingers around it as they watch the body begin to sink. Bubbles rise to the surface, and for one brief instant before he disappears completely, Eleanor sees Pirelli's face in the murky water. Pale, open-mouthed and bloodied, he doesn't look at all like the little boy he used to be, and she takes comfort in that as he sinks into the dark depths of the Thames.
Puffing a curl from her face and very aware of the sweat and grime clinging to her skin, Eleanor glances anxiously at Mr. Todd. Face flushes from the exertion, he is already looking at her, a strange glint of admiration shining in his dark eyes. He looks almost ethereal in the darkness, so painfully beautiful that Eleanor crosses her sore arms over her chest to keep herself from reaching out to touch him.
She glances away, determining that she has humiliated herself enough for one night. And then she notices. Mr. Todd's hands are clenched into tights fists at his sides, his back is ramrod straight. Almost as if he is restraining himself as well. Eleanor stifles an undignified snort, knowing he adores his wife. Lucy Barker - gentle, soft, beautiful. Eleanor is hardly any of those things. But then why...
Confused, she slides her eyes back up to Mr. Todd's and finds him staring intently at her. Wide-eyed and lips parted, he tilts his head slightly, looking for all the world as though he has just realized something terribly important. As though he doesn't want to so much as blink for fear he'll forget what it is. Unnerved in a way only Benjamin's lilting grin had ever been able to make her, Nellie feels her knees begin to tremble.
Helplessly weak and hating herself for it, she clears her throat and asks shakily, "Gin?"
Mr. Todd blinks, glancing away. "Fine."
Cold without the heat of his gaze on her, Eleanor slowly feels her senses return to her and she silently scolds herself for acting like such a foolish twit. As if Mr. Todd would ever spare a glance at her. He'd probably been remembering something about his wife - some charming thing she used to do so long ago, before his very presence made her skittish. Even so, as they begin making their way back to the bakehouse without Pirelli's corpse between them, Nellie doesn't mind the long walk so much.
--
Every mansion on the quaint little lane in Kensington has settled down for the night - its masters and mistresses have doused their lamps, pulled the blankets up to their chins and settled into gentle dreams. However, the people who make their meals, polish their silver and scrub their chamber pots are just beginning to enjoy themselves.
"If it isn't true, may God strike me dead!" Harry declares, holding up his glass of gin, totally ignorant of the alcohol sloshing down the sides and onto his shirt sleeve.
Johanna giggles at the Foster's cook, glancing down at her own drink. During the day, the house is almost entirely silent and it had nearly driven her mad. But now, in the Servants Hall with the other members of the Foster's staff, she feels more at home than she has all day.
"Forgive me, Harry," she says, stifling another fit of laughter. "But I don't believe that Mr. Foster would really ask for opium in his morning tea."
Flora rolls her eyes, swiping her white cap off her head and tossing it aside. "Ignore him, he always gets like this when he's drunk."
"When isn't he drunk?" Ruth scoffs, and Flora snorts in response.
Harry frowns at them but the effect is lost somewhat when his unfocused gaze lands on the wall behind them rather than at the women themselves. "You wound me, ladies," he says, bringing a hand to his heart. Forgetting he holds his drink in that hand, Harry spills gin down the front of his shirt, sending the girls into gales of laughter.
Red-faced, Harry grumbles to himself and proceeds to pout at his hand of cards. A roar of disbelief, followed by an unrefined snort directs Johanna's attention away from the table, and she watches as George, the Foster's driver, regales a circle of kitchen helpers, the gardener, the footman and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bedwin, with tales of his latest afternoon adventure - driving Mrs. Foster and her elderly grandmother to look at tapestries.
Weathered cap fisted in one hand, sitting in the light of the fire, George gestures animatedly with his hands, nearly smacking the footman in the ear. "The old bitty actually asked me to lay down my coat so she wouldn't have to step in the mud!" George sounds incredulous, paying no mind to the wounded look the footman is giving him while he rubs at his ear. "Mrs. Foster - the saint - suggested she walk around the puddle instead!"
The atmosphere in the Servants Hall is buoyant and light-hearted compared to the way the house is run during the day and Johanna feels sufficiently less home-sick surrounded by noise and laughter. It feels almost as if Auntie Nell's rambunctious spirit is in the room with her, even if she can't truly be with Johanna.
Spreading her handful of cards out on the battered wooden table, Johanna fixes them all with a triumphant grin. "Well, I hope you've all brought your coin purses."
"That's the third time tonight," Clarence groans, tossing his cards onto the table. "This lass must have been raised by thieves and crooks! I give up."
Johanna swipes up the coins he tosses onto the table with a sigh of delight, silently thanking late nights at the pie shop for teaching her something useful. Auntie Nell will certainly get a kick out Johanna swindling money from the Foster's butler.
"...that slimy bugger Turpin had the nerve to tell me that I didn't drive him here quickly enough! As if he's ever had to navigate these bloody streets - "
Eyes widening, Johanna whirls around in her seat to look at George. "You know Edmund Turpin? Who is he?"
"Judge." George eyes her beadily. "Why d'you ask?"
Johanna shrugs innocently. "I was only wondering."
Unconvinced, George squints at her from across the room. "Don't go getting yourself mixed up with the likes of him, poppet. Even Mr. Foster only tolerates him because he needs to, being a lawyer and all."
Johanna frowns thoughtfully, slipping all her coins into her apron pocket except for one. She fiddles idly with it. "Yes, he seemed rather - "
"Nasally?" Harry offers with a drunken smile.
"No," Johanna shakes her head, smiling wryly. "Well, yes but no."
"You mean, he seemed like an arse," Ivy puts in helpfully.
Flora laughs, running slender fingers through white-blonde hair. "Or a right proper git."
"An immoral bugger," Ruth offers with a grin.
"Yes to all of the above," Johanna laughs, relieved that she doesn't have to explain herself. She tosses her coin at Clarence's scandalized expression and he catches it deftly, pocketing it. "He kept staring at me today, as if he knew me somehow. It was rather unsettling."
Ruth snorts. "Having that blighter stare at you all afternoon is enough to unsettle anyone, dear. It's a disturbing habit of his, staring."
"Drooling, more like," Ivy blanches, wrinkling her nose. "Don't worry, Johanna. Just stay away from him and he'll leave you alone."
"Sometimes," Clarence says, pursing his lips. "Other times he pursues young women to the point of madness. Why, I still remember that poor young woman he set his sights on fifteen years ago - "
"Clarence," Flora chucks her cards at him with a reproving look. "Don't frighten the poor girl. She'll be fine - we're here, after all. What could possibly happen with us around?"
Clarence shrugs, eyeing Johanna. "Just be careful, miss."
--
"Have you heard anything from her? Surely she sent a note!"
Eleanor sighs heavily, chin in palm. "This is only 'er second day there, love. I don't think she's 'ad time to write me a bloody letter."
If someone had told her several weeks ago, when the sailor showed up at her door, that he would be here in her kitchen, pestering her, she would have been able to stop Johanna from inviting him to dinner. No matter how badly her floors needed scrubbing. Sitting across from her at the table, looking forlorn and lovesick all at once, Anthony stares into his untouched tumbler of gin while Nellie pours herself another glass.
"I don't understand why I couldn't just visit her for a moment and make sure everything is alright," Anthony complains, looking at her beseechingly. "What if I - "
"No."
"But Mrs. Lovett - "
"Love, I've already told you. Those sorts of families don't like their servants 'avin' family and fiancés 'angin' about like that. Don't make a nuisance of yourself - you'll only get Johanna in trouble."
"Yes, I know, but - "
"Bloomin' 'ell, Anthony," Nellie sighs loudly. "You're takin' all the fun out of companionable drinkin'!"
Abashed, Anthony glances away, cheeks red. "Sorry, ma'am. I'm just concerned for Johanna."
She's not about to tell the boy about her own fears or the fact that she had lain awake last night, staring at the ceiling, worrying if Johanna was homesick, or having trouble sleeping, if she was hungry or cold, if she'd packed enough stockings. It will hardly help Anthony, and it certainly won't make her feel any better to voice her concerns aloud.
"Johanna can take care of 'erself," she says instead. "Thought you'd know that by now."
"Of course I do," Anthony says defensively, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm just concerned for her. We don't know anything about this family."
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Eleanor stands, abandoning her drink to take up her rolling pin. Dinner is in an hour and it only makes sense to take out her frustration on something useful. "You may not, but I do." She tilts her head to the side, eyeing the dough and rattling off Foster family facts. "Mr. Foster is a lawyer an' 'is wife was born with a ruddy silver spoon in 'er mouth. Just moved 'ere from Shropshire."
"That's all very well, Mrs. Lovett," Anthony says, watching her with a frown. "But that doesn't tell us anything about their character. That's the most important thing, isn't it?"
"Of course it is," she sighs, whacking a lump of dough violently. "Johanna 'as always been a good judge of character. If she's willin' to work for 'em, then you can bet they're not 'orrible tyrants what make 'er sleep on the floor."
Anthony is still frowning, but he mutters, "Yes, I suppose so."
"I imagine you can see for yourself on Sunday." Eleanor pauses in rolling the dough to huff a red curl away from her eyes. "You can even interrogate 'er if you please. Ask 'er if they've been feedin' 'er and whether they tuck 'er in at night."
"You mock me," Anthony says with a pout. "And yet I know you must be worried too. Don't try to deny it."
Eleanor huffs, smacking her rolling pin against the counter. "Of course I'm bloody worried! You think I 'aven't been wonderin' if they're treatin' 'er right, if she's eatin', if the other servants are 'orrible to 'er?" She sighs tiredly, leaning against the counter. "I don't need you comin' round 'ere and remindin' me why I need to be worried."
Blushing, Anthony lowers his eyes to the table. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lovett. I didn't realize I was distressing you. I won't mention it again."
Nodding satisfactorily, Eleanor turns back to her dough. "You 'aven't seen the boy, 'ave you? I sent 'im out for more flour 'alf an hour ago!"
Anthony shakes his head, rising from his chair to stand with her at the counter. "Would you like me to help you? Or I can go look for him, if - " He stops suddenly, brow furrowing. "Mrs. Lovett, did you say Sunday? It's only Friday! Johanna won't be coming home until Sunday? Is that the only day she has off? That's preposterous - "
Nellie brandishes her rolling pin threateningly, eyebrows raised. "Love, either stop complain' or get out of my kitchen."
Anthony winces, scratching the back of his head. "Sorry. I forgot."
If she stays in the kitchen with Anthony, Nellie is sure he'll forget again and she will be forced to either toss him from her kitchen or use violence to keep him quiet. Neither option is particularly appealing, so she slaps the rolling pin into his hand and sighs. "Just roll this dough out for me, would you, lad?"
As if eager to be forgiven, Anthony nods. "Of course, Mrs. Lovett."
"Good." She winks. "And if you pop a few pies into the oven for me too, I just might let you stay for dinner."
Grinning, Anthony brushes sandy-hued locks from his eyes. "I'd be delighted, ma'am."
She strolls through the pie shop, dusting flour from her hands, sure she should feel remorse for making Anthony do more of her work but unable to summon up the willingness to do so. It's only fair, really, if he's going to continue lurking about, that silly lovelorn look on his face. Besides, it will make Johanna happy if Nellie would refrain from abusing the poor lad. The only way she can possibly manage that is to keep him busy.
On a whim, Nellie climbs the interior stairs to the upper apartment. Lucy isn't due home from the dress shop for another few minutes and Nellie hasn't seen Mr. Todd since they finished their gin and retired to their beds early this morning. She refuses think about how pathetic she is - that she can't seem to go a whole day without looking at him, without saying something to him, whether he's listening to her or not.
Sweeping into the upstairs parlor without bothering to knock, Eleanor finds Mr. Todd standing rigidly at the window, staring out at the butcher shop across the street. "Y'know," she sighs, making her way to his side, smirking when he turns to look at her, startled. "At first, I thought it might be nice to 'ave someone to miss Johanna with. But that boy far surpasses me in obsession." Mr. Todd stares at her blankly and she shakes her head. " 'ad to come up here just to get away from the lad."
"Anthony," he says, and she isn't sure if he's asking or merely saying his name with disdain. His curled lip says the latter, but she nods anyway.
"I love that li'tle imp of a girl more than anythin', but if I 'ad to listen to one more word about 'er, I was going to 'it Anthony over the head with my bloody rollin' pin."
"Don't," Sweeney mutters darkly. "I have no wish to venture into the sewers again, Mrs. Lovett."
Bewildered, Eleanor can only gape at him for several long moments. Mr. Todd doesn't even glance at her, continuing his scrutiny of the butcher shop but his mouth twitches just slightly, giving him away. He's teasing. Mr. Todd is teasing her. Torn between giggling hysterically and gawking at him in shock, she settles for a breathless grin and murmurs, "Why Mr. T. You been workin' on your sense of humor, 'aven't you, love?"
His eyes sliding briefly in her direction is the only answer she receives and Nellie leans against the window frame, pretending to gaze out at the city and surreptitiously studying Mr. Todd instead. She finds the view inside the apartment vastly more captivating than anything beyond the windowpane. Mr. Todd is too intent on staring outside - probably waiting for Lucy to come sauntering down the lane - to notice her scrutiny and Eleanor basks in the freedom of being able to look at him with the knowledge that he isn't attending to her.
She traces the now familiar features with her eyes - the firmly set mouth with thin lips, strong jaw, cheekbones carved from ivory, the straight nose and pained eyes. Nellie lets her gaze fall on his hair last, a wild mane of black and silver. As untamable as the man himself. She finds herself wondering how it would feel beneath her fingertips, imagines coiling a strand of black around her finger. Would it be soft to the touch, or as brittle as Sweeney Todd?
As if acting of its own volition, her trembling hand reaches out between them. Slowly, she touches the tips of her fingers to a dark lock of hair resting against his cheek. It's soft - almost like down feathers. Somehow, she had known it would be. She fights the urge to slide her hand back and bury it in the hair at the back of his neck, to lean close and discover if it smells as wonderful as it feels.
Mr. Todd doesn't leap away like a startled animal, the way she expects him to. He turns to look at her, eyes wide and bewildered, but he doesn't pull away. Everything in her is screaming to retract her hand before he loses his patience, before he steps away from her in disgust. Instead, with a pounding heart and shaking hand, Eleanor brushes the strand from his face, letting her knuckles lightly dust his cheek.
The touch sends heat flooding through her body and she only barely manages to contain a gasp. Mouth dry, she pulls her hand back, clutching it to her chest as if wounded. Still, Mr. Todd doesn't move. He only watches her with a curious expression on his face - as though he can't understand why he had let her do such a thing.
The moment is too much and Eleanor feels as though she might burst if she doesn't tear her gaze away from him. Whirling away abruptly, breathless, she curls her fingers tightly around the window ledge. After a tense moment of silence, she spots a blonde in a pink gown making her way down the street and whispers hoarsely, "Your wife is 'ere."
Mr. Todd sounds just as rattled when he replies, "Of course."
--
Guilt is a many faceted thing.
It can make a man drop to his knees and confess. It can cause a man to harden his heart until not even the warmest of affections can break through the walls that barricade his emotions. Guilt can be so powerful that sometimes, a man needn't be responsible for anything morally reprehensible at all to feel its wrath.
Not so, in Sweeney Todd's case. He has every reason to suffer under the weight of this affliction. He isn't a stranger to guilt. He has vague recollections of his cousin falling from a tree in his backyard and breaking his arm. Benjamin had been just a child, but he'd felt guilty that it hadn't been him instead. He has fuzzy memories of being a young boy, away from home the day his childhood friend, a beloved dog, died. He'd felt as though he should have been there, to be with his companion as he left the world and he'd carried the guilt for a long time. While he views most of his time with Lucy through half-remembered glimpses and hazy memories, he distinctly remembers feeling the weight of his guilt every time he had a small spat with his wife. He might have even felt a shadow of it as he slit Pirelli's throat and watched him gasp his last breath.
But never, not once in his whole existence has Sweeney ever felt guilt of this magnitude. It weighs him down, a heavy pressure everywhere at once. It reminds him of being in the ocean, when the waves pulled him under. The water all around, coming at him from all sides - pounding the air from his lungs, stinging his eyes, filling his ears until all he could think of is breaking the surface and gasping for breath.
Lucy sits across from him in Mrs. Lovett's small parlor, focusing all of her attention on her embroidery - some sort of tea cloth she has been working on for weeks. She had returned from work half an hour ago and Sweeney had immediately fled their upstairs quarters to meet her in the pie shop - anything to tear himself away from Mrs. Lovett and his own foolishness. Lucy is wholly oblivious to his inner turmoil and for that, Sweeney is grateful. What would she think of him, if she knew?
He had killed Pirelli, but he knows Lucy would forgive him for that if she knew his reasons. If she knew Pirelli would have exposed him - sent him far away from her and Johanna. No, murder is the lesser of Sweeney's sins. It hasn't gone beyond his notice that he has grown close to Mrs. Lovett over the course of his return and at first, it had seemed logical. Mrs. Lovett was willing to talk to him when Johanna had still been afraid to approach him, when Lucy realized he still carried the burden of the years. Mrs. Lovett has given him his razors, shown him pictures of Johanna, and shared her gin.
It had only seemed natural that he gravitate toward her. He hadn't forgotten the friendship he shared with Mrs. Lovett all those years ago. Then, he had sought her company frequently - all too happy to chat with her for hours. Slowly, that has begun to change, morphing their friendship into something entirely unrecognizable.
When he had first returned home, he had barely given Mrs. Lovett more than a glance. Now, he finds that he can't seem to stop looking. He has grown quite used to seeing a glimpse of her red hair out of the corner of his eye - so accustomed to it than he feels almost hollow without scarlet curls somewhere nearby. She seems to have no problem raising her voice to be heard and Sweeney finds he prefers her laughter, her dry tone and her chatter, to the sound of Lucy's silence.
Mrs. Lovett's companionship is ceasing to be a comfort and becoming more of a craving. Though Lucy does not approve of the gin they share, he feels that such a betrayal is nothing compared to what else has transpired. Lingering looks that he cannot explain - that frighten him and leave him breathless all at once. On their clandestine journey to the Thames last night, he remembers feeling quite capable of losing himself in Mrs. Lovett's openly honest gaze and if she hadn't turned away when she had...He doesn't want to think about what he might have done.
And then, she had touched him. Upstairs, in the space he shares with his beloved wife, Mrs. Lovett had brushed the hair from his eyes, touched her knuckles lightly against the skin of his cheek. He had fought a shudder at even that slight touch; he had bristled against the fire in his veins. He'd wanted to move closer, to feel soft skin against his own once more.
In both instances, it had been all he could do to restrain himself. That scares him more than anything.
Mrs. Lovett had touched him so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She had reached for him seemingly without hesitation, whereas Lucy's touch is so unfamiliar to him now. She has avoided touching him since his return, when his kiss had left her bleeding. It had been a moment of thoughtlessness he is still paying for and he can't help but wonder how different things might be if he had been able to control himself.
White-knuckled, his hands clutching the arms of his chair in an iron-grip, Sweeney lifts his eyes to Lucy. His beloved. She still hasn't looked up from her embroidery, the brightest eyes he has ever seen focused so entirely on her task. She glows in the dim light, angelic and otherworldly in her innocence. He doesn't deserve her love and he wonders briefly if he still has it. He knows that if Johanna or even Mrs. Lovett had been sitting where he is now, Lucy would have looked up from her work, if only for a moment. She is pointedly avoiding his gaze and it's agonizing to realize.
He misses her.
He misses her gentle laugh, the brush of her yellow hair against his cheek. He wants her to look at him, to truly look. Not the timid glances she gives him now. The way she used to look at him so long ago - as though nothing else in the world could possibly be more important than what she found in his eyes. Sweeney has never felt so far away from his wife; not even in Botany Bay, halfway around the world.
Sweeney turns his gaze from Lucy to the fire crackling in the hearth. Perhaps that is why he has felt the need to be near Mrs. Lovett recently. Lucy only speaks to him if she must or if he has spoken to her first. Mrs. Lovett has been only too willing to share her stories and her store of alcohol.
Slowly, he begins to loosen his grip on the arms of his chair, flexing his fingers. He has been seeking comfort from Mrs. Lovett - the sort of comfort he should be receiving from his wife, but it must stop now. Seeking out Mrs. Lovett's company in the old days had been acceptable, but things are different now and the baker's constant presence is creating a rift between Sweeney and his wife. His actions can only be described as unforgivable.
He doesn't know Lucy anymore, couldn't even begin to understand how to approach her now. Sweeney is quite sure that if he were to sit on the settee next to Lucy at this very moment, if he were to rest his arm around her delicate shoulders and press his lips to her temple, she would jump away like a startled bird.
It never used to be so difficult. Showing affection for his darling Lucy used to be as simple as breathing. Lucy would always lean into him, giggle breathlessly and murmur in his ear. She is still the quiet, chaste creature she used to be. Only he has changed - he is the reason she no longer responds so ardently. And so it falls to Sweeney to capture his wife's attention. He just isn't quite sure how to do so. He only knows that he must stay away from their landlady and her gin. Both are far too distracting.
Shifting uncomfortably, Sweeney licks his lips. "Shop opens tomorrow," he ventures.
Without looking up, Lucy responds, "Yes, Eleanor mentioned it yesterday. Are you ready?"
He nods, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Yes."
"Good," Lucy murmurs.
She says no more on the matter and they lapse once more into silence. Watching the careful movements of Lucy's fingers with the needle, Sweeney suddenly remembers deep, wide brown eyes and the lightest brush of knuckles against his skin. He frowns. He had only wanted to feel close to another human being in that moment...what had been Mrs. Lovett's reason?
"Hello?"
Sweeney's head snaps up at the familiar voice, as sweet as her mother's but infinitely louder at the moment.
"I'm home! Who missed me the most?"
From the kitchen, Sweeney hears Anthony's sharp gasp, the clatter of Mrs. Lovett's mixing bowl as it hits the floor and her squeal of delight. "You wicked lit'le thing! What are you doin' 'ere? They tire of your mouth already?"
Smiling in a patient, motherly way, Lucy puts aside her embroidery work and rises, smoothing her skirts. She moves with the same grace and fluidity that Sweeney has always admired, almost as if she were a swan gliding across a lake. Crossing the parlor to the doorway, she glances back at him hesitantly and Sweeney takes it as his invitation.
Johanna stands in the middle of the pie shop with Anthony at her side, listening with an indulgent smile as he talks rapidly. "Did they give you a proper room? How often are you able to rest? Are they decent people? What about the servants? Are they - "
"Anthony," Mrs. Lovett snaps over the sound of Johanna's giggles. "Hush up, love or I'll send you to the bakehouse."
Sweeney steels himself against the sound of Mrs. Lovett's voice, refusing to let it have any effect on him. Her presence and her friendship is no longer the comfort it once was - not when he can't look at her without feeling her skin against his cheek. Averting his eyes, he swallows, mouth dry.
Looking abashed, Anthony promptly closes his mouth and settles for gazing at Johanna in a way that reminds Sweeney eerily of the way Benjamin used to stare at Lucy when they were courting. He tries not to glare and is only mildly successful.
Wiping her hands on her skirts, Mrs. Lovett nearly skips to Johanna's side, pulling the girl away from Anthony and into her arms. Quite without his consent, Sweeney finds his eyes drawn to fiery red hair and he fiercely wrenches his gaze away, jaw tight.
"You ruddy lit'le sneak! I thought you were only 'ome on Sundays!" Squeezing Johanna so hard the girl emits a squeak of protest, Mrs. Lovett steps back, cupping Johanna's face in her gloved hands. "Not that I ain't 'appy to see you - "
"Oh, well of course," Johanna rolls her eyes, smiling affectionately. "Mr. and Mrs. Foster retire to their country house on the weekends and told me this morning that they won't be needing me until they return. So from Friday to Sunday evenings, I'm all yours."
Mrs. Lovett glances over her shoulder and says wryly, "Does that answer any questions about their character, Anthony?"
Anthony tries to frown but fails miserably through his grin. "It's certainly very charitable."
Still standing in the doorway with Sweeney, Lucy clears her throat softly and everyone turns to look. "Johanna, dearest, come here for a moment and then you can continue with your celebrating."
Johanna smiles uncertainly. "Hello, Mother."
"Hello, my darling. I've missed you." Reaching out a hand when Johanna is close enough, Lucy cups their daughter's cheek, brushing away a spot of flour Mrs. Lovett's hand had left there. Then, she draws her into an uncertain embrace. Johanna hesitantly wraps her arms around her, her posture stiff. "You look well."
"Thank you," Johanna pulls away, ducking her head.
Lucy fiddles nervously with her sleeve. "Would you like me to help you unpack?"
Johanna shakes her head, gesturing to the small carpet bag in the doorway. "There's no need, I didn't bring much." Turning from her mother, Johanna beams at Sweeney, stepping close to wrap her arms around him. "Father, it's so good to see you."
Sweeney closes his arms tentatively around his daughter, still not quite used to having such genuine and unguarded affection directed at him. With Johanna folded securely in his embrace, her head fitting snugly beneath his chin, he lets out a little sigh and feels the waters of guilt and the regret recede with it.
"Mrs. Lovett, ma'am?"
Johanna pulls away at the small voice and whirls to face the doorway. Mrs. Lovett smiles and beckons Toby closer. "There you are! I was beginnin' to think you'd fallen into a 'ole somewhere!"
Toby blushes, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Sorry, ma'am."
She waves him away, taking the bag of flour from him when he reaches her. "Don't be silly, love. Just glad I won't 'ave to go pokin' around in 'oles, lookin' for you." Laying a hand on his shoulder, she turns to Johanna. "This is Toby, love. 'E's goin' to be 'elpin' around the shop."
Openly staring at the scruffy young boy, Johanna laughs. "What's this? I've been replaced already?"
Ruffling Toby's hair, Mrs. Lovett shrugs. "What can I say, love? I've never been able to resist a sweet face."
"What manners, Auntie Nell!" Johanna chides, reaching out a hand and shaking Toby's. "I'm Johanna."
"Oh, 'e knows all about you, love," Mrs. Lovett smirks. "I told 'im 'ow my last 'elper up and abandoned me."
Ignoring her, Johanna smiles widely at Toby and says, "I hope you're prepared to work with the likes of this one. She can be quite demanding. And grouchy, when we're out of gin."
"That's not true either," Mrs. Lovett sniffs. "We're never out of gin."
Johanna rolls her eyes and looks at Sweeney, grinning. She looks so much like the Lucy he remembers - carefree, childlike, merry - that he wants to pull her close and shield her from the cruel world lest it break that vibrant spirit so alive in her now. It has taken time, but Sweeney has learned that Johanna doesn't need to be shielded, nor does she want to be. Lucy has tried and failed - the reason Johanna's smiles are so guarded around her mother and why she isn't embraced so freely. Sweeney wants his daughter to always look at him with shining eyes, to always be so ready to throw her arms around his neck.
"Now, stop your dawdlin' and come 'elp me with dinner."
Johanna mock salutes.
--
Dinner has become quite the affair. For too long, it was only Lucy, Johanna and herself at the dinner table night after night. Not that Eleanor didn't love Johanna, and even Lucy, in her own way, but it had always felt as if something was missing. Now, with Mr. Todd, Anthony and Toby gathered around as well, it almost feels as though they've become a right proper family. It reminds Eleanor of meals she used to take with her family - all of her brothers fighting for the last scrap of food, talking over each other and laughing. Although present meals aren't nearly as boisterous, it's a nice change to have a full table nonetheless.
As usual, Johanna and Anthony dominate the table conversation and Nellie spends her time listening to them and studying everyone else. Toby has all of his attention focused on his plate of food, devouring it with an eagerness that nearly melts her heart. The lad looks half-starved.
Surprisingly attentive, Lucy brings her glass to her lips, watching Johanna gesture animatedly. She even smiles once, the closest to genuine happiness that Eleanor has seen on her face for quite some time. Mr. Todd's eyes are on his plate but Nellie can tell he is listening. He has been studiously avoiding her gaze since what happened upstairs. She winces at her plate, a hot blush coloring her cheeks as she remembers how he'd turned away so abruptly and fled the upstairs apartment when Lucy returned from work. The poor man - Eleanor had probably scared him to death, touching him so reverently and gaping like that.
As if she had any right to be so close to him or look at him with such longing.
"The other maids are quite charming; I've only been there for two days and yet I feel like I'm among sisters when we're together. You'd love them Auntie Nell."
"What about the housekeeper?" Anthony asks. "Mrs. Bedwin, was it?"
Johanna shrugs, spearing a carrot with her fork. "I haven't gotten to know Mrs. Bedwin as well as the others; she tends to keep to herself. She seems nice enough, though."
"I'd keep an eye on that one, love," Nellie says, snapping to attention. "Those 'ousekeepers are a bossy lot - think they run the whole bleedin' 'ousehold."
"That's not always true," Johanna points out, chewing thoughtfully. "Clarence is the head butler and Mr. Foster's favorite, but he's lovely. Not at all egotistical."
Eleanor nods approvingly. "Well, what about this Mr. Foster, then? What's the bugger like?"
"Not at all what I expected," Johanna admits. "Hardly a black-hearted tyrant. He seems like a very sensible man; very amusing, actually. Both he and his wife come from very wealthy families but they don't seem to act like it. Just this morning, I overheard them teasing each other over a game of chess like competitive children. I'm not sure what to make of them."
Anthony laughs, picking up his drink. "Sometimes wealth is just that. It doesn't always change a person into an unfeeling beast."
"Exactly," Johanna points so wildly with her fork that Anthony flinches. "Harry says - "
"Which one is Harry again?" Anthony asks, frowning.
"The drunk one," Toby offers, glancing up from his plate with a full mouth.
"Ah."
Johanna rolls her eyes at the interruption. "Harry says that sometimes, when Mr. Foster can't sleep, he'll come downstairs and play a hand at cards with them! It was the most preposterous thing, and yet I don't have much difficulty believing it. Mr. Foster is an odd sort of man..."
"Should you really be living with a man so lacking in propriety?" Lucy asks, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.
Eleanor suppresses an exasperated sigh and lets her chin rest in her hand. It had been such a lovely dinner so far...
Johanna laughs softly. "He's not a caveman, Mother. Mr. Foster is just more friendly with his staff than most - he respects them. That's not such a terrible thing in an employer, is it?"
"No, I suppose not." Lucy sighs quietly, regarding Johanna with the same look of nostalgia one might use when recalling a fond memory. "I only mean...Darling, are you quite sure you wouldn't like to return home? Your father is going to begin barbering again; we won't need your - "
"I'm sure," Johanna says, her voice steely with resolve. She straightens in her chair, as if preparing herself for a battle. "We need all the income we can get."
"Johanna, there's no need to be stubborn," Lucy pushes her nearly full plate away, smoothing her napkin on her lap. "You're far too young to take on such a responsibility. I miss you, darling. Stop all this silliness and come home."
Gazing at her mother through bewildered eyes, Johanna shakes her head. "Why can't you just believe in me? The way Auntie Nell does? The way father does?" She leans back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. "I am ready for this - even if you may not see it."
For a moment, tense silence reigns as Lucy and Johanna stare at one another. No one dares to move or even breathe. Anthony's chair creaks as he shifts uncomfortably, clearly unused to such conflict. Even Toby has stopped eating, watching the scene with wide eyes, his fork halfway to his mouth. Mr. Todd is watching them all with such detached interest that Nellie wonders if he even hears them at all. Perhaps he's far away, in some other time, lost in a memory. She only wishes she could be there as well.
Finally, Lucy nods, swallowing. "Alright. If you're sure."
Johanna nods once, mouth set firmly.
Smiling sadly, Lucy stares at the tabletop. "Very well, then."
--
With a lump in his throat, Sweeney watches his wife retreat back into herself. Lucy has never been one for conflict, shying away from it whenever she can. He can only imagine her shame at having a disagreement at the dinner table. She clears her throat and fiddles with her glass, her cheeks pink.
After a brief silence, where only the rattle of cutlery and the clinking of ice in glasses is heard, the conversation slowly begins to pick up again. Mrs. Lovett stops biting her lip and begins talking again, making a wild gesture that Sweeney follows with his eyes before he remembers he shouldn't be looking. He focuses on his plate again.
The rest of the meal passes quickly and after dessert has been served, Lucy stands, slipping away upstairs. She no doubt disapproves of the bottle of gin Mrs. Lovett has just pulled out and wants nothing to do with it. Hoping to have an actual conversation with his wife, Sweeney might have joined her, if the promise of alcohol and more time with his daughter hadn't been so tantalizing.
"I'll pour the drinks," Johanna volunteers, her cheeks flushed in her merriment as she reaches for the bottle. "Who wants one? Father, are you joining us?"
Sweeney nods and Johanna hands him a glass.
"Toby, love, you should be 'eadin' off to bed," Mrs. Lovett warns as the boy eyes the bottle. He looks very much like a starved dog staring at a slab of meat. Evidently, Mrs. Lovett notices too because she sighs and puts a hand on her hip. "Alright, one glass and then it's off to bed."
Unable to keep himself from staring this time, Sweeney turns his eyes on Mrs. Lovett and finds Johanna and Anthony gaping at her as well. Smiling, Johanna asks, "Starting this one on the drink a little early, don't you think?"
Mrs. Lovett wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. Reaching for the bottle, she pours a small glass and hands it to Toby. "There you are, love. Now hop off to bed before I get out my rollin' pin, eh?"
Toby grins at her and scampers off, heading for the parlor. Staring after him, Johanna says, "Gin? Honestly, Auntie Nell. He's only a child."
Face suddenly serious, Mrs. Lovett settles into the chair across from Sweeney and he pretends to study his drink. "They gave it to 'im at the workhouse, to 'elp 'im sleep. Almost a necessity to 'im now."
Brow creased with pity and understanding, Johanna murmurs, "How ghastly." She glances toward the doorway again. "You know, he looks terribly familiar. Have I seen him somewhere before?"
Mrs. Lovett stiffens but the movement is so subtle Sweeney thinks he only notices because he's looking for it. Her voice is light as she picks up her glass of gin. "I don't know, dearie, 'e could be any - "
Johanna snaps her fingers, eyes wide. "Of course! He's that horrible Pirelli's assistant, isn't he?"
"Why yes, I believe so," Mrs. Lovett says, gulping down her drink.
"I thought he had blonde hair?" Johanna asks, turning to look in the doorway once more, as though Toby might still be standing there for her to scrutinize.
"It was a wig."
"Oh." Johanna scoots the bottle toward Nellie, offering to fill her glass again. "What's happened to Pirelli, then?"
If he hadn't been listening so closely, Sweeney wouldn't have noticed the slight tremble in Mrs. Lovett's voice as she says, "I dunno, love. Blighter might've abandoned the poor thing. 'E just showed up one day lookin' for 'is master and never left."
Johanna smiles at her aunt from across the table. "It's awfully wonderful of you to take him in, Auntie Nell. Who knows where he would have ended up without you."
Mrs. Lovett offers a brief smile, patting at her hair. "Just me gentle heart, I s'pose."
The guilt that had alleviated with Johanna's earlier embrace comes rushing back like a tidal wave now and Sweeney glances away. He knows Mrs. Lovett must feel just as loathsome for lying to Johanna, but they don't have a choice in the matter. It isn't as if Mrs. Lovett can tell her the truth, and he visibly flinches as he imagines it. "Actually, love, your father slit Pirelli's throat and we tossed 'im to the Thames. Thought it was only right to take in 'is apprentice afterwards."
He shudders. Sometimes, lying is the only option.
--
Spending his afternoons in his barbershop is as painful as he had known it would be. Benjamin Barker used to shave clientele in here, with the sun streaming through the windows and his beautiful wife sitting nearby, holding their perfect child. The sun doesn't see fit to make an appearance, his wife doesn't like to venture inside this room anymore, and his child is downstairs - still perfect, but no longer comfortable in her mother's arms.
Even so, the past continues to close in on him. At first, Sweeney stands at the window or paces the length of the room like a caged animal, fighting down the urge to sling his blade at the wall. The sounds of rambunctious customers from the pie shop down below waft up to meet his ears and occasionally, he hears the sound of Johanna's laughter or Mrs. Lovett's shouts to Toby for more ale. Their voices anchor him and keep the past from swallowing him whole.
And then, quite without warning, there he is.
It had only been a flash of grey hair at first, a glimpse of a green waistcoat. Standing at the window, nose touching the glass, Sweeney feels his heart begin to pound. The world starts to split open, tilt, and shift around him. Nothing makes sense.
Striding down the lane, hands in his pockets, chin in the air, Judge Turpin makes his way toward the pie shop. Breath coming so hard and fast it begins to fog the window, Sweeney can only stare. Looking for all of Fleet Street like the arrogant bastard he is, Turpin saunters ever nearer, whistling. Sweeney scans the courtyard frantically - Lucy must be inside, safely nestled in their upstairs parlor. She never did like being around Mrs. Lovett's customers.
Heart in his throat, Sweeney spots Johanna at a table outside, holding a pitcher of ale and leaning against a table, talking to a customer. He growls audibly, twitching hand automatically sliding to the razor hidden away in the holster at his side. If that filthy, miserable insect goes anywhere near his daughter -
Johanna glances up, still smiling, and spots Turpin entering the courtyard. The grin slides from her face immediately and she stumbles backward, clutching the pitcher of ale. Turpin nods to her with a pompous smirk and Sweeney snarls. Face white, Johanna turns abruptly, hurrying away into the pie shop, head down.
For a moment, Turpin stares after her. Then, he takes a seat, drumming his fingers against the table. Tearing himself away from the window with an enraged roar, Sweeney slams his shop door behind him, footsteps pounding on the stairs. He doesn't trust himself to look at Turpin without slicing his face open in front of half of London, so he keeps his eyes firmly on the ground until the pie shop door shuts behind him.
Mrs. Lovett isn't behind the counter, where she usually is, laughing and leaning close to gossip with a customer. Only Toby is visible, trying his best to attend to the teeming crowd on his own. Sweeney brushes past him, pushing his way through the mass of people to the kitchen door. Sliding inside and shutting the door firmly behind him, Sweeney stares at the sight in front of him.
Standing in the corner, Mrs. Lovett murmurs quietly to Johanna, smoothing her blonde hair soothingly. "It's alright, love. Just breathe, now. C'mon."
Johanna struggles to speak through panicked breaths, cheeks bright red and eyes welling. "He-I-I don't - "
"Sshh," Mrs. Lovett soothes. "Hush, love. I want you to take a deep, breath, you 'ear me?" Johanna nods and swallows, breathing deeply through her nose. "That's a good girl. Just keep that up now, eh? Don't you dare try talkin' right now or I'll slap you silly."
Johanna manages a small smile at that, clutching at Mrs. Lovett's arm as a child might to its mother's leg. Mrs. Lovett finally glances at Sweeney, her expression slightly panicked now that she isn't looking at Johanna. She draws Johanna a little closer and opens her mouth to speak when the kitchen door swings open and Lucy appears.
"Eleanor, you have that poor boy working - " She stops, taking in the sight in front of her. "What's all this? Johanna, darling, what on earth is the matter?"
Sweeney suddenly remembers what Lucy said to him, the day he returned. I haven't seen him in years. He whirls on her, watching her blue eyes widen in alarm. "What is Turpin doing here?" He grates out, trying his best to keep his voice level. He doesn't want to startle Lucy, he only wants to understand. "You said he left you alone."
Lucy pales, staring up at him mutely. "He has left me alone, Benjamin," she protests. "I haven't seen him in quite some time. I can't imagine what he's here for."
"Me." With her face buried in Mrs. Lovett's shoulder, Johanna's voice is muffled and she lifts her head. "He saw me at the Foster's home; he kept staring. The servants...they said..." She stops, gulping, and Mrs. Lovett whispers something softly. "They said he would leave me alone if I ignored him."
Mrs. Lovett snorts her disbelief. "Love, ignorin' that man is like givin' 'im an invitation to court. Your mother would know all about that - "
"Eleanor!" Lucy interrupts softly, startled. "You have no right to - "
"I'll kill him," Sweeney murmurs, ignoring them both.
Mrs. Lovett's answer is immediate. "I'll help."
Lucy gasps quietly. "Stop it, both of you. This isn't funny."
"Who said anythin' about bein' funny?" Mrs. Lovett scowls.
"That's quite enough," Lucy snaps, bright eyes suddenly cold. "Take Johanna upstairs, Eleanor. She needs to rest."
Johanna pulls away from Mrs. Lovett instantly, jaw set stubbornly. "Don't be ridiculous Mother, it's the dinner rush. I can hardly - "
"Your mother's right, love," Mrs. Lovett's mouth twists, as though saying the words has left a sour taste in her mouth. "Let's get you settled. Don't you worry your pretty 'ead about the shop. Toby'll serve whoever's left and close up for the night."
Johanna continues her protests, but Mrs. Lovett only nods in reply, absently muttering, "Of course, dear", as she pushes Johanna toward the door. Left alone in the kitchen, Sweeney and Lucy stare at the floor, neither of them willing to make eye contact.
"I would prefer if you did not speak that way in front of Johanna," Lucy finally says stiffly. "Murder is not something to be spoken of in jest and I will speak to Eleanor about it as well."
Slowly lifting his eyes from the floor, Sweeney finds Lucy alternating her gaze between him and her own hands. Brow furrowed, he rumbles, "I wasn't joking."
"Benjamin," she whispers, appalled blue eyes finally meeting his. "What are you talking of?"
Hands balled into fists, it suddenly dawns on Sweeney that Lucy would never understand what he had done. She would never be able to justify the killing of another - no matter the circumstances. Pirelli's death would taint him in her eyes, more so than he already is. "He sent an innocent man to that hellish island - "
"You have no proof of that, Benjamin," Lucy interrupts, eyes widening.
"Neither did he," Sweeney snarls. And then, the full weight of what she has just said steals the air from his lungs. No proof. She doesn't believe Turpin did it. She might as well have slapped him.
Lucy stares back at him, shocked to the core by his tone. "Benjamin, think about what you're saying. You're accusing a potentially innocent man - a prominent judge - of wrongfully accusing you. Why would he jeopardize his honor? Someone framed you, yes. But you have no way of knowing it was Judge Turpin." She sighs shakily, watching his hard expression. "And even if you could prove it...revenge will solve nothing."
Disbelief coupled with a powerful rage overwhelms him, driving him to whirl away from his wife, jaw clenched. How can she doubt him? How can she possibly defend the man who altered their lives forever, who sent him to hell with no remorse? The anger wells over and spews forth before Sweeney can stop it, and without thinking of the delicate creature in front of him or the way she regards him through a haze of tears, he slams his fist against the wall and roars, "He won't touch my daughter!"
"Benjamin, please." A little sob escapes Lucy's lips and tears begin to slip down her cheeks. She chokes on her own words, struggling to speak. "Stop it. You're scaring me."
Her soft, strangled voice brings Sweeney back to himself and he lifts his gaze to find her shrinking into the wall, those bright eyes shining with tears. Her face is flushed and her breathing is heavy and uneven. He has never seen anyone look so frightened before in his life. His own wife is afraid of him. Throat closing over, eyes burning, Sweeney draws in a deep breath, wondering if this is how it feels to suffocate.
"Lucy," he begins softly, stepping forward.
Shutting her eyes, Lucy shakes her head quickly. Backing away slowly, she never takes her eyes from his as she inches toward the door - as though unwilling to let her guard down. She feels around wildly behind her for the doorknob and in a flash of lace and yellow hair, flees the room. Her light footsteps sound on the stairs as she hurries to their rooms, slamming the door behind her.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs to the empty room.
A/N - Gah, this chapter was SUCH a pain! I don't even know why. Lack of inspiration, mostly. But then I got going and it was fine. I actually had another part to add to this chapter, but is was getting really long, so I have to save it for chapter nine. Haha Anyhow, TREMENDOUS thanks to DojoGhost, who has been my sounding board and personal editor while Robynne is away. She's been so helpful with making sure I say everything I need to say, describe what I need to describe, and she's given me some really fabulous ideas. She's superhuman and needs her own special holiday where we can recognize her brilliance.
Not to be left out, Robynne actually managed to act as beta even while on vacation. She made sure I didn't make any stupid mistakes even while trying to enjoy the fabulousness of Greece. She may be superhuman as well. THANK YOU, Robynne!
Also, Robynne made me a Proof of Heaven banner forever and a day ago, but I forgot to mention it to you all. Haha It's gorgeous and the link is on my bio page. Also on my bio page is the link to a podcast I made with Robynne, wherein we discuss the character of Sweeney and Nellie, and generally act like the retards we are:D Anyway, the link is there if you want to have a listen.
Lilia-Rose - Thank you! I had an awesome holiday. It was nice to take a break for a week. And then I had to come back and start classes, which sapped up a lot of my writing time. But I eventually got around to it:D Andyeah, things are starting to take shape now. I'm really excited about it. Haha Thanks for reviewing!
Penelope - Haha, Johanna being gone sometimes definitely helps with Sweeney and Nellie's alone time. As for Sweeney's continued killing, you'll just have to wait and see:) Thanks for the review and good luck with studying!
sweenettfan - LOL, Thanks so much but Sweeney and Nellie won't be smooching just yet. These things take time:) I'm glad you like my writing, that's always wonderful to hear. Thanks for the review!
Mrs. Todd Barker - Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked the way I described Pirelli's death. It was definitely a tough scene to write:D Hoped you enjoyed the update!