I just can never resist...

When I think on Thomas and our brief time together it seems now like a memory of a dream and yet, a dream so real that it impressed itself upon soul and memory with enough fire and emotion to last a lifetime. It is as if those few short months of days and hours and moments seared themselves into my very being, like the images on the photographic glass Alan once explained to me.

After Thomas' death, I spent many months relieving that time, trying to understand...anything. Alan was my mainstay, my sanity, then. Always making sure I got out of bed, ate, left the house instead of becoming the determined shut-in I tried to be.

The problem however wasn't that I *couldn't* forget, which he was always trying to get me to do. "Just forget it, Edith, you are free of it, of them." If he said it once, he said it a thousand times. No...it wasn't that I couldn't forget...

It was that I so,so desperately didn't wish to.

At first, everything seemed so surreal. The people rushing to help us, the questions. What happened? Whats going on? Where is Master Sharpe? And his sister? Why are they so bloody? Everything passed over and through me, like the sharp-edged snow laden winds. I focused myself solely and fixedly upon helping Alan until even that was taken from me by patting, soothing, helping hands. The hands draped blankets over our shoulders and helped us into carts and handed us warm things to drink and stopped the ceaseless flow of blood from our bodies. Then they herded me into a bed and I knew no more for I know not how long. But eventually I woke, suddenly, and reached out my hand, Thomas' name upon my lips...and remembered.

Once, when I was much younger, I was a bit of a tomboy. My father indulged me in this, as he did in so many things, and allowed me to play with Alan and various others boys who were not unwilling to have a girl tagging along. I think, now, that forbearance was due mostly to my father's influence upon those young fellows father's but then, I was just glad to be tolerated. Even so, it was during a game of toss that one of the boys, a slightly older and much bigger (than I, at least ) boy decided to toss me the ball. Perhaps it was accident, perhaps not but, he threw it quite a bit harder than had been the practice and the ball slipped straight thru my young hands and hit me solidly in the chest. I was sure I had been struck a fatal blow.

Of course, the boys, knowing I would survive being winded, continued the game, slightly further from my pitiful presence. Except for Alan who, as my gallant protector slash brother figure, made sure I was alive and then dashed away to retrieve my nurse.

For my part, my chest ached, I could draw no breath and felt as if my stomach had collapsed inward. I dropped to the ground curled around the misery in my middle and prayed my end would come quick.

It was my first true injury and a pain that I never forgot.

I felt that same pain when my father told me my mother had died.

I felt it when I gazed upon my father's lifeless body.

I felt it again now.

I slowly drew my hand back again to myself and laid my head down upon the pillow, staring vacantly at the place where my husband's head should have lain. I could not describe then nor, with the passing of time and hindsight, now, what it was I felt at that moment . So many times in the past few weeks had I awakened as now and put out a searching hand to find him only to be left wanting...as now. It had not always been so.

At the beginning, everything had seemed so surreal. My engagement, my father's death...everything. As horrid as I had felt about it at the time, I was so relieved when Lucille took ship for home. To prepare my homecoming, as she said. I thought it selfish but I had greatly wanted, and needed, the entirety of Thomas' attention then and with her there, I never felt as if I truly had it. Perhaps that should have been a clue. Then I knew only that it was as if a great dark cloud had lifted and, while everything was still dark and solemn about me, there was some hope for light soon because I had Thomas. During this time, he was my rock and I leaned upon him unreservedly.

I opened myself to him unabashedly. I cried and raged and wept and raged some more and he was always there, listening and holding me and offering handkerchiefs and drinks and food and sympathy and whatever else I required. He was so very good at being exactly what I needed when I needed it. I don't know if this was studied behavior for him or a natural tendency. I think, knowing what I know now, that it may have been a bit of both as he was entirely too at ease with it to be merely an affectation. The entirety of his life now, to me, seems to have been spent in being what someone else needed. It saddens me. My poor Thomas. I hope that maybe, just perhaps, even if it was near the end, I was just what he needed also.

It would have been unthinkable to marry immediately after my father's death so we waited two months. At the time it seemed an eternity. I craved so desperately for some normality to my life instead of the endless round of mourning visitors, a custom I would gladly have shirked, and meetings with father's business partners. Of course it was not expected that I, a woman and a young one at that, should do more than listen to their suggestions and sign where they pointed. It was here that Thomas was actually quite helpful, reviewing with me the suggestions made and explaining, with endless patience, why this needed to be done or that contract signed or not signed. It actually earned him some measure of respect amongst father's cronies as he proved he had some business acumen beyond inventing. Even Alan consented to a begrudging sort of approval for Thomas' efforts on my behalf. Indeed, at times it seemed he was a completely different man than the one I had first met. I was quite proud of him.

All in all, I was unspeakably grateful that father's death allowed us to marry quite quietly and humbly. I had always dreaded the thought of a grand and ostentatious wedding, all the while knowing that my father's wealth and social standing would ensure me nothing else. With the strictures of mourning however, such a display would have been unthinkable. And, while I cried from the guilt of it, I could not escape the gratefulness I felt for being allowed to pass that particular social ritual of the wealthy by. Therefore, we were married quietly and soberly by the same minister who had baptized me and buried my parents and witnessed only by my maid, Alan and my father's good friend and lawyer, Mr. Ferguson.

As the days grew closer toward the time of our departure and marriage, I noticed a subtle but marked change come over the man I was to marry. We were wed the morning of the day we were to take ship for England as we couldn't travel together unwed.

As I took his hand to pledge my troth to him forevermore, I looked up into his face and was struck hard by the change that had come over him. For the past few weeks he had been kind and witty, charming and affectionate. And always solicitous of my wellbeing. Truly, the kind of man most women dream of for a husband. And yet now, the stark pallor of his countenance, the oh so slight tremble of his hand and the somber, sad darkness of his usually bright eyes was enough to cause me to pause and stumble upon my vows. He gave me a curious look and then squeezed my hand and offered me a tentative smile. I smiled tremulously in return and squeezed back, gathered my courage and finished my vows with a ringing clarity that echoed back to me from the vaulted ceiling of the small chapel.

Despite my deep sadness over my father, I could not help some excitement at this new course my life was now set upon. I had never been aboard a ship before, the height of my experience upon the water being leisurely rowed around the small lake in the park near my home by Alan. I would be lying ere I said the idea of sailing out across the open sea did not by turns excite and terrify me. As we approached the (intimidatingly large) vessel, I spared several seconds for intense prayer that I should not be one prone to sea sickness. Somewhat of my trepidation must have translated itself by my resolute grip upon Thomas' arm, for he patted my hand and turning to smile down at me, assured me there was naught to fear. I smiled back, wanly, I'm sure, but he did not call me upon it, simply held me steady as we mounted the gangplank.

I wonder, if I had known then what was shortly to be in store for me, would I have stepped my boot upon the swaying surface? Or would I have hiked my skirts and run apace after the carriage that had just disgorged us?

I try not to think upon it to much.

I will never know what possessed me to speak deceptively to Lucille when she questioned me upon the intimacies of my marriage bed. Perhaps it was the wrongness of her that reached out to me even in my ignorant state, warning me of divulging too much information to this strange and strangely intimidating woman. At other times I think it was just shock that, being an unmarried woman herself, she should have such knowledge and feel free to question me about my own. After all, I had been quite ignorant of carnal knowledge myself until a particular night aboard ship...

I had implored Thomas to let us take our evening meal in the privacy of our sitting room as I simply did not feel up to dressing for dinner in the more formal dining room. He gave me an assessing look and I endeavored to look as pitiful and worn as possible. There had been a bit of rough seas earlier as we had passed thru a small squall and, while it was true that I had experienced a bit of discomfort the first couple days we had been at sea, I was now as hale as any sailor upon the deck.

He acquiesced however and left to procure our meal. As soon as the door shut behind him I shot off the sofa to set my plan into action.

I knew precious little of the ways between men and women personally, but my maid had been a potential well-spring of information that I had pumped with ruthless tenacity. Being a solid married woman herself I had assumed she would be most willing to share whatever information I needed upon the mysteries of marriage but I had been disappointed to find her quite reticent when it came to speaking about it. The most I had been able to pry forth from her was that it was a wife's duty to please her husband, in whatever way he required and to not be afeared if my husband asked me to disrobe. At this point she grew rather flustered and her Irish accent, normally quite nonexistent, made a rather marked appearance and I was only able to understand that I should allow him to touch me wherever he wished and not complain about anything he did.

This did little to satisfy either my curiosity or my nerves.

So I racked my father's library, his study and his bedroom, looking for...something. Surely there was a guide for marriage. I am a firm believer in the guidance to be had from the written word. And I was not completely ignorant. I spent much time in the stables and was well aware of how progeny, at least of the equine sort, came into being. Therefore, it only stood to reason that something of the same pattern must hold true for other species as well.

Including the human one.

But how such would work was the question. And surely I was not the only person ignorant on this topic. Therefore, their must exist a manual of sorts.

I found nothing.

Therefore, taking my courage (and some money) in hand, I bade my maid to find me a book on marriage that would be helpful.

What she brought me was far from it. After locking myself in my room and opening its hallowed informational pages, I made it roughly halfway thru before chucking it into the flames of my fireplace. It was full of imagery about bees and flowers and...well. I am neither a bee nor a flower and neither, thank God, is Thomas. I hung my head over the edge of my bed, screwed shut my eyes and pondered my options.

There were precious few.

At the point of quite giving up, I was unexpectedly saved by the utterly unforeseen auspices of Alan's mother, Mrs. McMicheal herself. She had come by quite unexpectedly one afternoon and, as we took tea, removed a small book from her handbag and passed it hastily to me. Amidst several starts, stops and stammers, she managed to convey that she, as a friend to my mother, wished to give me the information that my mother would surely have provided had she still been with us, God rest her soul. She then, quite astonishingly, gulped down what was left of her tea and beat a hasty retreat. I was left with a hanging mouth, witless look, cup of cooling tea and a small book in my hand. I hastily hid it under my skirts as Thomas chose that moment to breeze into the parlor and inquire about the lady's visit. I managed to say something coherent and shooed him off to wherever and after he left exhumed the small volume from the midst of my skirts and, after hastily shutting the parlor door, retreated to my favorite chair to examine its contents.

*This* book was most informative.

Now, aboard ship and with my husband out for the moment, I set about setting the scene for seduction.

To say Thomas was receptive to my overtures would have been the grossest of understatement. After his initial shocked surprise when realizing my intent and desire, he was a ready participant...and a most willing and patient teacher. I had determined in my mind to not be hesitant or show shame for anything that might happen for, while the manual had been most explicit in describing the actions between man and woman, it was also, quite...clinical. As I had tried to envision these here-fore described activities occurring between myself and Thomas, I was beset with both embarrassment and want in equal measure. I was surprised to find how much I actually *desired* to experience these activities with him and wondered if it would be the same for him. My natural reticence warred with my budding realization that this was what should occur between man and wife and was therefore not carnal sin but perfectly allowed. I there determined to strangle my maidenly shyness into submission of my greater desire, which was to love, and be loved, by my husband.

Thomas approached me like a supplicant, hesitant and tender, as if afraid of either my breakableness or my shyness. When I discovered to him that neither of these were of consideration for me, he then made love to me with a desperate sort of hunger, as if he had longed for such as this for an eternity and would never be allowed such an experience again.

He begged for me to touch him, hold him, *love* him with a humble intensity that brought tears to my eyes and returned my ardor to me sevenfold. When our passion was spent, he curled himself around me and there we slept the sleep of the fulfilled and blissful, twined as vines about each other.

There followed days of blissful happiness as I discovered the joys to be found in my husbands arms...and in his bed.

As the time of our arrival to England grew near, again I noticed my husband, earlier so warm and willing to please, seem to draw in upon himself. The quality of his attention to me the night before our arrival the next day had all the seeming hallmarks of a farewell. Even stranger to me as he had seemed to avoid me all that day. I had expected, with his oddly reticent behavior, that he might avail himself of the stateroom he had all but abandoned after the night we formed our more affectionate understanding. I had therefore been truly surprised at his appearing in my stateroom that evening and had said as much. He apologized with a sad, quirkish sort of smile and of course I, in my youthful and ignorant blindness, thought little more of it and was most content to slip beneath the bedsheets beside him. He seemed content simply to hold me, as close as could be managed, and thusly I fell asleep...only to be wakened in the wee hours by his ardent, and rather desperate, caresses. With the gift now of hindsight to look back upon with, I wonder if it was perhaps his way of apologizing for the distance and separation that was to come.

For all I loved him, I cannot love that he would so full willingly have deceived me.

I see now, as I could not then, how life and circumstance had shaped him into the sadly warped man he was. Do I hold his sin against him then? Does the log in the fireplace hold aught against the fire that burned it? Can I find fault with him for the untenable circumstances with which he grew to manhood? Circumstances that shaped him into the man he was?

Can I fault his sister? That strange, sad, depraved woman who preyed upon the only other person in her life to supply all her needs? For all she was undeniably insane, do I fault her entirely? If so, then I must not excuse Thomas upon circumstance for, was she not given unto the same circumstances? With whom and wherein lay the fault that turned them so depravedly to one another in unnatural concourse? Was she responsible as the older sibling? Was Thomas simply weak? Was it a sickness of mind or bloodline?

Or does the fault lie with their parents? I can only imagine, from the little I gleaned from those few times they were ever mentioned that the parents they had known had differed so mightily from my own that words cannot even be found to express it.

I could conjecture from here til eternity, I think I could verily drive myself as mad as Lucille in the end if I pondered upon it too long and so I try and satisfy myself with only this:

Whatever happened, whosoever faults it may have been, in the end, I loved him and Thomas loved me, enough to break from his bonds and seek to save not only me but Alan as well. Enough to stand against the only other love he had known..

Enough to cross the boundaries of death.