Of course he'd find it, Edith thought as she stood in front of the fireplace the next morning. I shouldn't have left it lying out. She knelt and started picking through the embers, for no other reason than to cover her pale fingers with the ashes her words left behind. I'll write the letter at the post office, where he won't be able to destroy it.
She went to the wash closet to complete her toilet, and then returned to her bedroom to dress, imbuing every move she made with as carefree an air as possible. She wondered if he was watching her at that very moment, if he were making note of the expression on her face and whether or not her hands held steady as she buttoned her boots. Don't panic, she thought. Don't make it look like you're desperate to escape. He can only know what you choose to show him.
And you certainly showed him last night, didn't you?
She leaned over her vanity and gave herself a good long look in the mirror. How could she expect him to leave her alone, when he knew as well as she did how fervidly she'd longed for him, before they were married, after they were married, even after he was dead? You've tied him to your soul, she thought, always thinking about that one night together. You've troubled his spirit. He can't rest, and it's because of you.
She knew enough about ghosts to know what passions drove them to haunt the living. She'd spent her entire life surrounded by spirits and shadows. Thomas was no different from the other spectres who'd come to her. They knew she could see them, could hear them. She was their only link to the lives they used to know – lives they'd left unfinished. She wanted to believe Thomas understood her enough in life to grant her peace when he passed on. But she also knew some ghosts had no other choice but to cling to the souls of those who refused to let them go.
Edith stared at her icy reflection. Part of her wanted to burst into tears and scream out his name, to beg for his forgiveness for dragging his spirit away from Allerdale Hall. Yes, it was a hellish place – a decrepit building destined to sink into the ground, where the red clay could drown its demons - but it was the only home he'd ever known, as much a part of him as his own skin. If it was his fate to die there, to have his spirit carried away on the English wind, then who was she to take that from him?
The other part of her, however – the part of her he'd wronged so heinously – wasn't so quick to forgive him. Why hadn't he chosen to chase Lucille's spirit around the halls she'd turned into his prison? The woman was a monster, tormenting him throughout both their short, tragic lives. She was the one who'd stuck the blade into his brain and sent him to his grave.
And Lucille had taken the same sort of thoughts to her own. Edith's throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. Lucille had memories of countless nights she'd spent with him. Why hadn't they been enough to warrant perpetual torment?
Get your wits about you, she thought, taking a deep breath. You have to mail that letter. You can worry about exorcising him afterward. She straightened her back and headed onto the landing. Keep your head while you're here, that's all you need to do. He can only see you. He can't look into your heart.
She walked down the stairs with her chin high, and carried herself to the front door the way her mother taught her to all those years ago – with grace, and confidence. It will all be over soon enough, she thought before stepping over the threshold and onto the veranda. Whatever you do for the next few weeks, don't betray yourself. And no matter what, don't give in to him again.