((Guillermo del Toro has graced us with bios of the characters, and I have drawn from them I believe twice before, if only in passing. In this chapter, I do it more heavily. A lot of what I put into Thomas's thoughts here about himself and about Lucille is Word of God.))

9. Before the Storm

It was almost like a second honeymoon. Or rather, an actual one, the way it was meant to be. Back then, Thomas hadn't touched Edith. They hadn't even slept in the same room. He had still been so entangled in the web woven in his childhood, he had felt guilty of every tender look he gave Edith. The problem had been, even then, that he had meant them. He'd been taken with her from the start. He had ditched his plans to woo Eunice for no other reason than that. He had, of course, not thought that through, but with every day in her company her brilliance, her wit, her sheer strength of will had pulled him in closer and closer without him even noticing. He remembered their dance. He had felt the slight tremor in her hand as she touched his, had seen the contrasting steadiness of her gaze, drowning him. He'd entertained the irrational thought that this woman would be either his death or his salvation. She had almost been both at once, and he'd only narrowly avoided the former.

Now he could touch her, and unlike their first time, he did it without guilt or regret. There was only the two of them, as close as two human beings could be, breathing the same air, joined in body and soul. Bringing a warmth to their temporary home that no fire could offer.

Winter in Cumbria was a harsh affair – even though this one was remarkably mild – but the cottage they'd rented offered protection from the storms, and it was small enough to be heated quite thoroughly by the fireplace. Thomas was fully aware that a huge manor had its downsides. He could get used to this. With delight, he noticed that Edith started writing again. He wondered if she had an older version of her novel left somewhere or if she had to start from scratch. He refrained from asking for now. He knew the kind of frustration that came with creating something and losing all of it.

Some evenings, they discussed which of the two people the Reverend had suggested they would approach. Some evenings, they sat together reading on the hearthrug, backs against the loveseat and one of Edith's legs crossed over his. Some evenings, they danced, sometimes slow, lost in kisses and a close embrace, sometimes crazily wild as if they had the devil in them. Some evenings they talked about the future. Their future. For that was no longer a question. Edith was here. With him. And she wasn't going anywhere except with him.

Thomas remembered the first time she had come to his workshop. He had almost done it then, made love to her on his desk, unable to resist any longer, to deny what he felt deep in his heart. If Lucille had caught them, it would all have gone faster. Maybe better, but he'd never know that. Probably, though. She'd been so much healthier and stronger then. It had been a close call. One more day of that horrible poison and nothing could have saved her. He'd seen it often enough to know that much. It was a miracle that Edith was alive. Even more that she saw in him someone worthy of her love.

That day, he had told her she was different. And she was. Thomas had learned the art of love from those books in the library and experience, he knew how to pleasure a woman, knew what they wanted. Or he thought that.

Polite society thought women didn't enjoy the act of making love, nor would they demand it. He knew that was not the case, because Lucille had demanded. So he had never entered this beautiful new adventure that would last the rest of his life believing that Edith would participate in his advances as a silent sufferer because it was her duty. He had felt her passion before, in the workshop, in the depot. Women could do desire just as well as men, and it excited him immensely that he should be able to inspire that sort of feeling in her.

He had made another error, however, in believing that what Lucille liked was universal. Lucille had controlled him, used him. Edith enjoyed him, thoroughly, sometimes guiding, sometimes being guided. Lucille had wanted it in the dark; had never, after they'd been caught, been fully naked, nor had she wanted him that way. And everything had been ritualistic. Now Edith … Edith was creative and impulsive in her love for him, and sometimes she couldn't look her fill, staring at him as if he were the statue of a Greek God rather than a still too thin English aristocrat with more issues than he'd ever been aware of. She wanted to see him. All of him. And she let him see her. When they made love now, there was nothing between them, no clothes hiding either of them, and while Thomas still struggled to understand why she actually enjoyed it when he lost himself and moaned into her ear like some wild creature, he learned to just stop thinking so much. He also stopped covering himself immediately after, and a little while ago, he'd decided there was no point that either of them dress for sleep at all. They snuggled under the covers and held on to each other, skin to skin, and the world couldn't have been any more perfect than when he had her near him like that, feeling the life in her, that incredible strength of his amazing wife.

And in this beautiful and novel daily routine of theirs, another tradition had emerged. Every morning, without failure, Thomas made them breakfast. Sometimes just bread and butter and honey, sometimes, if they planned to spend the day out in the cold, something opulent, but always prepared or made by him. And every day, when she ate it with gusto, he fell in love with her all over again.

If it was all the same to God, winter could stay all year. As long as it was winter, he didn't have to face Lucille. As long as it was winter, he had not a single thing to worry about. Edith was the one that kept them warm and fed with her funds, but even that didn't matter.

Another thing that was different between the two women in his life was Edith's silence when she was struggling. Lucille had always been outspoken about his shortcomings. Now, as the winter was slowly giving way to the first few warmer sunrays, he noted for the second time that Edith was … quiet. And since she was no more forthcoming than the first time, he decided to put his foot down, if gently. She didn't need to bear whatever worried her on her own, even though she was strong enough to do it.

He'd given her until the evening, watching her go about the day with her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. He'd even dared to ask what was wrong a bit earlier. She'd barked at him before hugging him tightly and apologising more profusely than he found necessary. When they lay in bed, the darkness complete in a moonless night, he turned to her, his head propped up. He couldn't see her, but he did it anyway. 'Edith. Won't you talk to me?'

At first, she remained silent, and he was about to resign. But then she faced him and curled into his chest. 'It's probably stupid,' she said.

Thomas rubbed circles into her bare shoulder. 'There's a good chance I'll disagree, but I'd have to know a bit more, first.'

'I mean … We've been here for almost three months. Haven't we? And we have … we've made love, well, often. I've stopped counting.'

And it dawned on him. He had to admit, he had wondered in passing if he should bring up that they might want to be more cautious. But he hadn't, and now he thought about it, he understood. 'You think we can't have children.'

'I don't know. I just know that I'm not pregnant.'

For a while, Thomas just held her, wording his response in his head. He didn't want to sound as if he didn't care, because he did. He also didn't want her to doubt what took priority. 'The Sharpe name is a bit overrated anyway,' was what came out of his mouth. He winced at his own words, but his inelegance had a good effect. Edith chuckled softly. 'Let me try that again: Don't think that I wouldn't like the idea. I would. But if this is not to be, I don't want you to think that makes you any less of a dream come true. You are my life. Do you hear me?'

'I hear you.'

He swallowed. 'You may want to blame me, if it truly will not work. The poison or your fall … God knows what that did to you.'

'Neither of which was your doing. I remember you screaming at Lucille not to do it.'

He held her tighter, remembering with horror how she had crashed into the railing below her with a sickening crack and he'd thought she must be dead, all lost, all hope lifeless on the snowy ground. But she was not. She was warm and alive and right here with him. He pushed the thought firmly away. That, too was becoming easier: to stay with her, in the present. 'You were worried about this. What I'd say.'

'I didn't expect you to kick me out if I couldn't bear you an heir, it's not that. I just feared that you'd be disappointed.'

Thomas shook his head, but of course, she couldn't see that. 'No scenario that has you by my side could disappoint me. Ever. I hope you believe that.'

Edith shifted in his grasp, kissing the corner of his mouth. 'I do. Thank you, Thomas. For quelling my fears. Sweet dreams, my love.'

He smiled into the night. 'See you there, beautiful soul.'