Chapter 9- Christmas Day
Late the next morning, Thomas hears music coming from behind the door at the end of the hall. Someone is playing the piano. There is laughter, and the smell of good food cooking.
Malachi comes through the door with Mr York, "I think you're a damn sentimental fool, Reg, but if you're sure, I'll trust you."
Mr York opens Thomas' cell, "Come on, son. You deserve a proper Christmas at least once in your life."
"Excuse me?"
"You said you'd never celebrated Christmas. That's what we're doing. I'm inviting you to join us."
He hesitantly steps out of the cell; Malachi stops him before they proceed, "Mr Sharpe, Reg here may be softhearted, but I'm not going to hesitate to put you in your place if you step out of line. When he says 'enjoy yourself', I add 'remember you're still in prison for killing three women'- do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now come on."
Mr York shakes his head, "Always reminding me to stick to business, Mal. Don't worry, Mr Sharpe. You'll be fine. It's just a little party and some supper."
They pass through the door. Ezra and Nathaniel are playing cards. Lizzie is in the kitchen with an older woman. Another girl plays piano. There is a large table in the middle of the room with a festive cloth draped over it and candles in the middle.
Mr York walks Thomas around the outside of the room towards the stairs, "Before you join us, I want you to make yourself comfortable. There's a bath drawn upstairs for you. Clean clothes. Follow me, I'll take you up."
Lizzie waves to him from the kitchen and Thomas waves back, "Thank you. This is far more than I expected anyone would ever do for me."
"I said when I took you in that we'd take care of you. The more of your story I hear, the more sorry it is. You're going to have at least one right and proper Christmas." They go up the narrow stairs to a light and airy second floor, the windows along the hallway overlooking the village square. It is snowing, the flakes large and fluffy. He cannot help but stop and stare.
"Mr Sharpe?"
"Thomas, please. Just...Thomas. I don't need the reminder I am my father's son."
Mr York nods and leans on the wall, waiting, "Penny for your thoughts?"
"It's beautiful. The snow coming down, the sun glittering off the flakes when the clouds break. And the village itself- there is...life here. It is so different than Crimson Peak. The white makes everything look so pure and nothing seeps red." He pauses, "The churchyard seemed so much farther away..."
"It's not that big of a place. We stay close to one another- no sense in building farther away from your people than you need to."
"Such as all the way to Allerdale Hall."
"Never could quite make sense of why your people built way out there. I know, that's where the clay is, but the house is so remote and it takes too long to get there. It sure made it harder for the miners to get out to work. Nobody liked getting up before dawn to travel to the clay fields, or getting home after dark. Your father worked men hard."
"I know. He was a brutal man."
"I remember your confession. Brutality didn't end in the clay mines."
"No, it started at home."
Mr York gestures to the bathroom, "I try to be a fair man. You don't get much in the way of comfort in the jail, but your needs are met. But today's a holiday. So here's your bath. Rest. Relax. And enjoy it. Really enjoy it. Nobody's going to tell you you're taking too long or try to make you come down before the water's cold. There's a good hour before supper's ready. We'll be ready for you when you're ready for us." He pauses, "And because Mal would insist, I'm going to remind you that I'm putting a lot of faith in you as my guest. I expect that you remember that and don't try anything stupid."
Thomas smiles and nods as Mr York opens the door for him. He hears his footsteps go down the stairs as he surveys the large bathroom. Toilet, sink, dressing table. A free-standing mirror. A large soaking tub. A steaming coffee pot and mug on a little end table pushed up beside the tub- there is a note on it in Lizzy's handwriting telling him "enjoy!" A fresh set of clothes neatly folded on the dressing table. He undresses and sets his laundry in a folded pile on the floor. He slips into the bath. The water is perfect. Just a little on the hot side, enough to scald away the stiffness from the cool stone of the jail. He eases himself back, reclining against the porcelain.
Bathtubs are something he has, for years, hated. The one in Allerdale Hall, especially. After he returned there with Lucille, he scrubbed that tub for hours, not because it was still dirty, but because he could not drive away the image of his mother in it, her head split open, the water coloured with blood. From then onward, he bathed quickly, never taking the time to relax. Lucille had still taken long, luxurious baths. He had never understood how.
When travelling to try to finance the mining machine, he had taken a little more time in the bath, but not enough to stop and think about the other reason they were in the city. But they had been an escape, at least, from his mother's grisly demise. He often swore her ghost was still there in the tub. It would have explained the perpetual chill in the bathroom.
Mr York's tub, however, holds none of these memories. It is just a tub. A very nice, deep tub with a swooping back to allow him to really recline, his entire body under the water. It is a luxury he has never had and, he thinks, is unlikely to ever have again. There is a little metal caddy hooked over the side. The soap, a fresh bar, smells of lavender. He wonders if Rebecca made it as he washes. It is a very fine soap- finer than some he has used in the hotels in the big cities.
He washes his body, his face, his hair. And then he rests in the water, sipping the coffee, the lavender turning off his mind. He starts to slip into sleep more than once and that, he decides, means it is time to get out of the water. It is starting to turn a little cool, anyway. The towel folded on the dressing table is soft and he takes his time drying himself before dressing in simple, clean clothes. They fit well and they are soft. He brushes his hair, ties it back with a ribbon from the dressing table, and joins the others downstairs.
The young lady at the piano is playing something silly and making up somewhat bawdy lyrics as she goes, much to the amusement of Ezra and Nathaniel. Malachi sits along the edge of the room near the Christmas tree, tying presents onto its branches.
The woman in the kitchen calls out an admonishment, "Victoria Marie, you watch your tongue- don't be encouragin' those boys to no adventures you can't follow through on!" But she is laughing and it is obvious this is more kidding than a serious warning. Victoria plays more enthusiastically, her performance verging on the comical, because of it.
Thomas feels a bit lost, but Mr York slips beside him and brings him to the kitchen, "You already know most of the people here, but you don't know my sister, Helga York Hale, or her daughter, Tory Hale. Helga, this is Thomas Sharpe." Helga, her apron covered in flour, her hair powdered with the same, wipes her hands on a towel and extends it.
"Pleasure, Mr Sharpe. Lizzie here's been tellin' me all about you. Seems she's taken a likin' to your company."
"She's a kind young woman, Mrs Hale. But I assure you, our acquaintance can only go so far. I am certain she has told you of the charges against me."
"Nah, she's been too good to mention 'em. Her father's done it, though, and I think it's a right shame, what with the life you've had to this point. The boys say there's a mining machine in your yard there at Allerdale Hall that's got a pretty tick to it. They've been back a few times to take a look at it. Our Ezra out there, he's got a fascination for steam. Never understood quite how it works, mind you, but from his days on the rail, he's got a special place for it in his heart. He stoked up that engine of yours and said it ran right pretty. It's a shame we might lose you to the crown. He'd love to learn it from you, you see."
Thomas is relieved how freely she talks to him, "I assure you, madam, that if I am somehow granted mercy, I will teach him everything I know. I would be grateful if he would care for my machinery and, if things go poorly for me, that he consider it his. It is relatively safe, thanks to the release valve."
"Oh, to hear you talkin' about its bits makes me happy as a lark. You boys would have been great friends in another life, I guarantee it. Maybe you will be if this one doesn't end too soon."
Lizzie smacks her aunt's arm and signs to her to stop talking.
"Oh, Lizzie, dear, you know we'd best be blunt about such things. Takes the fear out of 'em, I say."
She shakes her head and points to Thomas, then gestures to her lips and draws a question mark in the air.
"Oh fine, I'll ask. She says I'm to make sure it's not too bothersome to you to be speakin' so dark."
"It's fine. It seems inevitable. I ought to be comfortable with it." He turns to Lizzie, "But I am grateful for your consideration. Thank you."
Lizzie smiles and turns away, focussing her attention on the pie crust she has been rolling out. She is blushing and she does not want him to see.
Mr York takes the lull in the conversation to move Thomas out of the kitchen, "Come, let's leave these ladies to their baking. I've got a niece to introduce you to."
They walk to the gathering room. Ezra and Nathaniel have abandoned their card game to take turns adding lyrics to Tory's song. It has gone from bad to worse.
Helga hears what they are saying and calls from the kitchen, "Boys! You be good with my girl, you hear? I don't want to be hearin' none of that- you'd best be mindin' yourselves or I'll come out there and mind you myself! And don't you be encouragin' 'em, Miss, Tory, I'm listenin', girl."
"And with that, I'd like to interrupt your little songwriting session to introduce you to someone."
Nathaniel nods from where he is leaning on the piano, "No need, gov, we already know him."
"No, you boys already have met him. There's been very little knowing. And she hasn't met him at all."
Tory turns around on the piano stool, "Yes?" Her voice is cool and a bit detached.
"Victoria, this is Mr Sharpe. Mr Sharpe, this is my niece, Miss Hale."
She nods, polite, but not friendly, "Mr Sharpe. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"And I yours, miss." He maintains the formal distance she has set with her tone.
"If you'll excuse me, I'd like to return to songwriting with my intended." She smiles at Ezra and he beams back.
"Of course, I did not mean to intrude." He steps back and sits down at the card table with Nathaniel. Mr York drifts back to the kitchen to see if there is anything he can do to hurry supper along.
Nathaniel leans towards him, his voice lowered, "Sorry about that. Vic knows about the charges and isn't exactly keen. Her mum doesn't care, and I don't think Ez does, either. I'm a little wary, but if Mr York thinks it's fine for you to be up for Christmas, I trust him."
"Thank you."
"You haven't had a whole lot of friends, Mr Sharpe, have you? You seem amazed any of us would bother with you."
"No, I haven't."
"Well you've managed to catch Lizzie's eye. I think she might be sweet on you."
"Ah. Well I have no intention of pursuing any sort of friendships beyond acquaintance. If I am to hang, I do not want to leave anyone behind who might grieve too deeply."
"That's a bit morbid, mate."
"Yes, it is."
"See here, we're about the same age. I've travelled a bit- visited a friend in Australia. Seen a few things that have made my hairs all stand on end. And nearly died a few times, but don't tell Mum Hale that. She'd never let us out of the house."
"She is your mother?"
"No, I don't have one. Ez doesn't, either. But she's looked out for us for a while, long before Ez made Miss Tory his fiancée. She's a good woman. Likely she'd take you in, too, if you weren't in jail."
"Ah, well, that does put a bit of a hitch in my social engagements, now, doesn't it?"
Nathaniel laughs, "It does, it does. But you've got today, right? That's better than nothing at all!"
There is a clanging from the kitchen as Helga strikes a stockpot with a ladle, an improvised dinner bell, "Hear ye, hear ye, slackers, sinners, and saints! It's time for Christmas dinner, so get your sorry arses to the table."
Lizzie begins the parade of dishes from the kitchen as her father finishes with the place settings. Helga bustles out after her, placing trivets and hot pads, bringing out serving spoons, and generally fussing over everything. Lizzie and Mr York set the spread while Helga serves water and wine.
When her tasks in the kitchen are done, Lizzie tosses her apron over a chair in the kitchen and sits beside Thomas. In this light, her hair is more red than gold, and her eyes a little brighter blue streaked with olive. Thomas has a flash of regret that he has only just met her, that they did not abandon Allerdale Hall and seek work in the village.
After they are all settled, her father asks everyone to join hands for grace. It is sung, a few short lines of thanksgiving, but entirely new to Thomas. Her hand lingers after they sing the 'amen' and she pulls it quickly away when she realises that she has let it stay just a moment longer than she should.
The food is rich and warm and all of it was prepared with care by hands around the table. Ezra shot and plucked the duck. Nathaniel raised and butchered the hog. The milk and cheese comes from Helga's goats. There are pickled things and preserves from the Rook family pantry and potatoes from their cellar.
The supper conversation is lively, stories told of adventures hunting duck, hunting deer. A dog that ran afoul of something smelly. The Rook children's decision to try to harvest potatoes using only spoons. And, of course, Victoria and Ezra's wedding plans. Thomas says little, listening to the stories of life. Life that seems so very strange and different to him, like nothing he has ever experienced. Malachi has a wife and children that are visiting her sister, a sister who does not approve of him and he avoids to maintain peace. Thaddeus and Rebecca are hosting a Christmas supper for their patients. Roger is visiting his mother in London with all ten of his siblings. Mr York has only one sibling, and she sits beside him, laughing loudly with Malachi at the slightly bawdy stories that begin as they transition from full plates to sipping coffee and waiting for their supper to settle enough to bring out the pies. Thomas considers that the wine might have loosened her tongue, but sees only water in her glass. Helga is boisterous by nature.
After desert, there are gifts to be opened and carols to sing, but Thomas, feeling very overwhelmed, asks to return to his cell. Lizzie convinces him to stay just a little longer- long enough for Malachi to find a little something under the tree and a little something on the tree to send with him. She offers to escort him to his cell and her father hands her the key with a look.
He sits on his cot and she points beside him. He pats the cot and she sits.
"Thank your father once again, for inviting me, would you? It was a lovely party, and the food was heavenly- cooked primarily by your hands?" She nods, "Then may I be so bold as to say that the cook is the only thing more lovely than the spread she prepared?"
She beams, but also feels the colour rising in her cheeks at the compliment and looks away.
"I'm sorry. A bit too bold. And likely impolite."
She shakes her head and hands him the presents.
"For me?"
Another nod.
"Oh. Thank you."
She gently prods his arm and mimes opening one, peeking inside, and being surprised.
He takes the hint and tugs the fabric- a white handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it- off. It is a little bundle of candies, each wrapped in pretty paper. He smiles and sets them aside, his fingers lingering on the delicate embroidery. The larger gift is wrapped in fabric, but the edges are tucked strange and he cannot figure out quite how he is supposed to open it. She tugs on one corner and it slips. He continues tugging and it unfolds. It is a quilt, backed in black. The top is simple squares in autumn colours, soft and strong. He drapes it over his lap, admiring the handiwork. And in one corner, he sees the monogram, incredibly small, of LY.
"You made this?"
She nods.
"For me?"
She nods again.
"I don't know what to say. It's beautiful, Lizzie. And quite warm."
She takes the corner out of his hand and gently pulls. He lets her take it and she drapes it over his shoulders.
"You are too kind, young lady. I am sorry I have nothing for you."
She pulls her notebook from her chatelaine and writes, "I had a lovely supper with a friend- what more could I ask from you? Thank you for coming in with us. I hope this wards off the slight chill we get here when the wind gets too strong. Father keeps it fairly warm, but the nights are hard to compete with."
"The quilt is beautiful. It is already helping to hold in the warmth. It is a grand gift, indeed."
Lizzie rises to return to the party and starts to write something; she stops and carefully clears her throat, "Happy Christmas, Thomas."
He smiles, "Happy Christmas, dear Lizzie."