Chapter 7- One Sip at a Time
It is only an hour before Mr York comes to retrieve Thomas for Lucille's burial. He chains hands and feet after lending him a coat. Lizzie bundles up in her borrowed cloak and accompanies her father, Malachi following behind.
Thomas' step grows more hesitant as they near the churchyard. There is a small party beside the open grave- Ezra, Nathaniel. Mrs Doyle with a length of greenery. Thaddeus and Roger are tying up the horses. The other men help them unload the coffin from the carriage and set it next to the grave.
When Thomas is close, Thaddeus approaches him, "Mr Sharpe. My condolences. Would you like to see her before we nail the coffin shut?" Thomas takes a deep breath and nods, "Right, then, this way. The missus has a ritual she'd like to do, if it's fine with you- a bit of comfort for those of us left in this world...which means you, really, though none of us are happy to see someone dead."
Lizzie drifts behind him, her father watching, but not worried. To an outsider, this trust would seem an unwise risk, but to those men standing around the grave, Lizzie has earned this right. She has grown up in dangerous situations, handled herself well, both before losing her voice at fifteen and after. She is a fighter and there is little they think she cannot handle on her own.
At the coffin, Thomas stops, unsure of what he will see. Ezra and Nathaniel lift the lid. His breath catches in his throat. She is lovely, as she always has been, but so fragile. Her hair has been artfully arranged to hide the wound, circled around her head to form a dark halo. Her hands are folded over her stomach, a velvet rose placed under them, a thin black shroud draped over her dress to hide the blood that stained it.
Rebecca steps beside him, "A little comfort, if I may?" He nods. She has a long chain of dried herbs draped around her neck and she gently tucks it around the inside of the coffin, "From the earth you came, an innocent child of this big and beautiful universe. Back to it you go, your life cleansed by the soil you are returning to. From life to death and back to life again as you become one with the richness of dirt, the roots of the plants embracing all that you are. Welcome home, sister, may there be great rest and peace for your soul wherever it has landed." She places a spring of dried rosemary beside the rose, "For remembrance of love when it was pure and perfect, wherever you have found it, even if only now." She turns towards Thomas and pins another sprig on his jacket, "And for you as well. Make peace with what you must, and hold onto what was true." She steps back beside the wooden cross serving as her marker.
Mr York clears his throat, "Well. Let's send her home, then, shall we?"
Thaddeus nods to the others and they place the lid on the coffin, watching Thomas for any sign that they need to wait a few moments. But he does not move, staring at the snowflakes drifting down onto his sister's cold face, noting that they are not melting like they should.
Lizzie stays close as they nail the coffin shut, every strike muffled as the snow begins to fall more heavily. They lower it into the grave and Thaddeus quietly offers Thomas a shovel. He declines, dropping to his knees as they bury her. He has no idea what he will do without her, even though he has so often needed to leave her.
A gentle hand rests on his shoulder and he hears the soft rustle of Lizzie's skirts as she crouches beside him. He rests his hand over hers, the chains cold against her skin. She doesn't seem to mind.
When the grave is filled, Ezra and Nathaniel leave. Malachi disappears into the snow, ready for time at home with his family. Roger stays to escort Thomas and the Yorks back to the jail. Thaddeus is ready to go, but Rebecca is not. She places a wreath of evergreens on the grave and then kneels in front of Thomas, breaking his line of sight with Lucille's burial place.
"Look at me, for just a moment." He does. "Everything has changed. But you are still here. I know there is possibly little time left,. You will have to start new, a little everyday. But know whatever it was that brought her to where she was, it is over." She hugs him. "Be brave. I have the feeling you always have been. And don't stay too long out here. You don't want to make yourself sick."
Thaddeus smiles, "Come, Bec. Time to take your own advice and get out of the cold. You've got patients to take care of at home."
"Aye, and I don't need another one. Best they get inside before they catch cold."
"Same to you, love." They are gone before Thomas can think of anything to say.
"Come, Lizzie. Mr Sharpe, we need to get you back," Mr York says. She steadies him as he stands and guides him back to the jail. He glances back every few steps. When he is in his cell, Mr York brings him an extra blanket and a cup of coffee to at least use to warm his hands. Lizzie disappears into the kitchen and, before long, brings him a bowl of soup.
"No, thank you. I don't want to waste it."
She sighs, leaving the bowl on the carousel and taking a key from her apron. She unlocks the cell and brings the bowl directly beside him. She puts a little on the spoon and holds it up.
"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can eat anything."
She sets the spoon down and holds her fingers less than an inch apart.
"No, not even a little."
She sighs, then spoons only the broth and brings it to his lips, "Try."
He sips and she waits a moment until he nods and she sets the coffee aside and hands him the bowl, her hand under his to keep him from dropping it. She holds up one finger.
"One sip at a time?"
She nods with a little smile.
"I suppose I have to keep my strength up for court." He takes another sip, then finally looks at Lizzie, "You are a bright and kind woman. How is it you cannot speak?"
She takes out her notepad and writes with it balanced on her knee, "I got sick. The cough destroyed my voice and it hurts to use what little is left. But I did not lose my thoughts. I am still here, even though many have assumed I am not."
"Ah. Why are you not afraid of me?"
"Because I don't choose to be. There are so many better things to be than afraid."
He sips his soup, thinking, "We killed three women. And the baby. And yet you accompany me to her grave as though she were worthy of such a burial. What sort of place is it that does this? What sort of people?"
"Firstly, she killed the child. I heard in the carriage.- the distinction is important to your heart. But we are the sort who hold you responsible, who do not seek to excuse your actions, but who at least understand that neither of you were given the chance of the same lives and choices we have had. You are both humans- you deserve dignity and kindness no matter what you have done."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we see you as people, not as your worst or most desperate moments."
"Have I stumbled on a town of saints?"
She laughs, "No, not saints. Just people. People who have lived in the shadow of the Sharpe mines and seen the cruelty of your father. The lust. The greed. Who heard the screams from the mine the day of the accident twenty years ago and experienced his callousness."
"But your father said you were near 20 yourself."
She nods, "Aye, yes- I was too small to remember it. I write poetically."
"Ah. Of course." He is quiet, his gaze somewhere off beyond the walls of the cell. She waits. He sips his soup. She rests his hand against his knee, the bowl steady in it, ready to leave him to his supper. "Please...wait? Just a little while?"
She sits and nods.
"Thank you. I...I have a lot on my mind."
She pats her chest then taps her head.
"I don't follow."
She pats her chest again and mouths, "I" before tapping her head.
"I don't understand."
She points to him.
"I'm still confused."
"I understand," she says, tapping her head. "Know. Understand. Think."
"Ah. You understand my heart is heavy."
Another nod.
"Ah. Er...I'm not sure what to say."
She presses a finger to her lips, then points to his bowl and mimes dipping a spoon into a bowl, then sipping from it.
"Silence would not be awkward?"
She shakes her head and touches her throat, then shrugs. It is no bother. She is used to silence.
He finishes his soup without another word, then his coffee. When he is done, she gathers his dishes and sets them on the carousel. She motions for him to get ready for bed. He kicks off his shoes and curls on his side on the cot. She tucks the blanket around him and waves goodnight. He smiles his thanks and she locks him in, returning to her father.