"This fellow, Cavendish, your hero. There's a darkness to him. I like him. Does he make it all the way through?"
"It's entirely up to him."
"What do you mean?"
"Characters talk to you. They transform. They make choices."
"Choices."
"As to who they become."
Chapter 2
The letter arrived at Edith's apartment early in the morning. It had no return address or name. All that was written upon the envelope's front was: To Ms. Edith Cushing.
With confusion, Edith donned on her spectacles, then opened the letter and began to read.
Ms. Cushing,
I hope that this letter finds you well and that you will forgive me for being so grossly forward. It is completely improper of me to write to you with such familiarity, when we have not been properly introduced, but I find that I am unable to help myself.
You see, madam, I am a journalist for The New York Times, and I work in the literature department. I was sent to Buffalo for my work. Imagine my excitement when I discovered that the very authoress, Ms. Edith M. Cushing herself, resides not five miles from the hotel at which I am staying.
I wonder, madam, if it would be too forward of me to request an exclusive interview?
That wasn't likely. Edith very rarely gave interviews. She was far too annoyed with the interviewers, all of them asking the same stupid, tired questions. She simply had no time for it.
She continued reading anyway...
You need not send me your reply, but should you agree, you will find me at the little café called Parker's tomorrow afternoon at 2:30 pm. I shall be wearing a black fedora and a black chesterfield coat. If you do not consent to the interview, then please accept my deepest apologies for imposing.
Sincerely,
Mr. H. Cavendish
When Edith read the name written at the end, she froze. Cavendish? What a strange coincidence. The more she examined the letter, however, the less it felt like chance.
The overall tone was far too prim and proper to be written by any American that she had ever known. The continuous title of 'madam' was not in common use in most American societies. Lines like, 'It is completely improper of me to write to you with such familiarity when we have not been properly introduced,' and, '...please accept my deepest apologies for imposing,' were surely written by someone from out of the country. Someone raised in America would have had no problem being bold or forward. Perhaps, this Mr. H. Cavendish was an immigrant from the Mother Country? But when Edith took a closer look at the writing, she was less sure of that theory.
The handwriting sparked a sort of nostalgic familiarity within her. How often had she seen it written on small notes made about her manuscript from so long ago? And how often had she seen it when she reread the letter that she had kept from that fateful day, years ago?
She ran to her bedroom and opened the drawer of her bedside table. Inside was an envelope, it's edges worn and the corners creased. She removed the letter from it and unfolded it. It too was severely creased and somewhat damaged. The ink had smeared in some places and was flecked with water damage from Edith's tears.
The letter read like so:
Dear Edith,
By the time you read this, I will be gone.
Your father made evident to me that in my present economic condition, I was not in a position to provide for you. And to this I agreed. He also asked me to break your heart-to take the blame. And to this I agreed, too. By this time, surely, I have accomplished both tasks.
But know this: When I can prove to your father that all I ask of him is his consent-and nothing more-then, and only then, will I come back for you.
Yours Ever,
Thomas
Edith held up this letter next to the one she had received this morning, in order to better compare the handwriting. After some time, she deduced that the handwriting was nearly identical. Her name was written with the same careful flourish and the tails of the 'y's were looped in a similar fashion.
Thomas, Edith thought, her heart racing. Overwhelmed with emotion, she sat heavily on the bed and wept. He was alive. Thomas was alive.
Her tears of shock and relief, quickly turned into ones of anger. It had been four years! Four years of her believing that he was dead. How dare he seek her out now!
It was then that Edith had made up her mind. She would go to the cafe tomorrow, and play along with his game. Pretend that she did not recognize him. Then, at the last minute, she would pounce like a cat on it's prey. She would give him a piece of her mind and demand to know where he had been all these years.
...
The following day Edith arrived at Park's Café at exactly 2:00 pm sharp. She had chosen to wear a white blouse paired with a skirt of pale gold. Around her waist, she wore a simple black belt.
Immediately, she began to scan the dining room for the so-called Mr. Cavendish. It took her only a moment for her to spot him. Even amongst the shadows he stood out to her. He was sat at table in the corner, wearing the chesterfield coat and the hat, just as he said he would. His hair was tied back unceremoniously with a thin, black ribbon. He looked so out of place amongst the other happy-go-lucky patrons of the restaurant.
Edith made her way to his table, and spoke when she was within a foot of him. "Mr. Cavendish?" she asked, her voice sounding small and distant to her own ears.
Instantly, he looked up at her. "Ms. Cushing," he said breathlessly.
It was hard to read his expression. The hat upon his head obscured much of his face from her view. It doesn't suit him in the slightest, Edith thought to herself.
"May I sit down?" she asked aloud.
Mr. Cavendish gave himself a little shake before nodding his head. "Yes. Yes, of course." He looked as though he were about to rise from his chair and, perhaps, pull out a seat for her, but changed his mind at the last minute.
He cleared his throat before speaking again. "I can't tell you how delighted I am to finally meet your acquaintance, Ms. Cushing."
Edith made note of the way he talked. He pronounced the 'a's in the middle of his words like 'o's and over pronounced his 'r's. It was almost as if he were combining both an American and British accent all into one.
"Likewise," she told him.
"I was wondering if it would be all right if we discussed your first novel?" he asked sheepishly. "It is quite the success and it left me with so many unanswered questions."
This did not surprise Edith. Of course he would want to know about her motivation for writing her story. Their story.
"You mean Crimson Peak," she said bluntly.
Mr. Cavendish shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His hands, which rested upon the table, could not seem to decide whether they preferred to be folded or unfolded.
"Um, yes," he said finally.
"What did you want to know?"
Mr. Cavendish opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted when a waiter came to their table, two glasses of water in his hands. "Sorry about the wait, folks," he said, placing the glasses in front of them. "What can I get for you?"
"A coffee would be wonderful, thank you," replied Edith with a sunny smile.
"Of course, ma'am," the waiter said before turning in Mr. Cavendish's direction. "And you, sir?"
"Oh, uh, coffee for me, as well," Mr. Cavendish replied awkwardly.
The waiter nodded and disappeared to retrieve their beverages.
Edith then took up the water glass in her hand. A lemon wedge had been placed upon the glass's rim. She squeezed it into her cup, then dropped the rind directly into the water before taking a sip.
She watched Mr. Cavendish regard his own lemon wedge with revolution. His mouth and nose were turned up in disgust as he plucked it from the rim of his glass. Then, he proceeded to wipe the rim with one of the cloth napkins that had been folded upon the table.
Edith had to bite back a smile. She had forgotten how much Thomas had hated lemon. "If I wanted something sour," he would say, "then I'd drink vinegar!"
A sadness settled over Edith. What else had she forgotten about him?
A moment later, the waiter returned with their coffees. Edith added an absurd amount of sugar to hers before she repeated her question to Mr. Cavendish.
"What did you want to know about Crimson Peak?"
Mr. Cavendish adjusted the brim of his hat, pulling it down further over his eyes. "The ending, for one," he said softly. "It confuses me."
Edith's brow furrowed in confusion. "How so?"
"Well, Edward Pierce, your hero..." he trailed off as if he thought the word 'hero' wasn't exactly right, but continued on after a moment. "I don't understand why Christine would stay with him, let alone forgive him."
"She loved him."
"He didn't deserve it," Mr. Cavendish said coldly. "Love, redemption, forgiveness. He didn't deserve any of it." His false accent began to fade away the more impassioned he became. "Not after what he did. Especially after what he did to her."
So, that was what this was about. He wanted to know why she had forgiven him.
"Did you ever stop to think, Mr. Cavendish," Edith began softly, "that Edward was a victim, too?"
That made him go silent for a moment. He stared at her, his mouth gaping like a flounder. Then he said, "It doesn't excuse any of it."
"I never said it did," Edith replied. "Because you are right, it is not an excuse. But what you must understand, Mr. Cavendish, is that Edward was a victim to his sister's rage and violence and hatred, just like anyone else. This makes him worthy of our pity and our sympathy. What makes him worthy of redemption and our forgiveness, were his choices. In the end, he chose to stand up against the enemy. He chose to no longer be a slave to his sister's manipulation."
There was a pregnant pause between them. Mr. Cavendish was looking down at his hands that rested upon the table. Edith watched him intently, trying gauge his reaction.
After some time, Edith sighed and reached across the table. She placed her hand over his and gently gripped his wrist.
"Enough of this charade," she said. "I know that it is you, Thomas."
Immediately, he retreated from her grasp and focused his attention towards her. From what she could see of it, his face had been drained of its color. He had been caught, and he knew it.