Chapter 10- Edith
Thomas is incredibly gentle with his quilt, folding it carefully each day, keeping it from touching the floor. The smell of Christmas baking still lingers on it and he imagines that she pieced it together while sitting beside the oven, waiting for the spice cakes to bake. He loves that he falls asleep under the memory of cinnamon and ginger.
Alan checks on his wounds every few weeks and in mid-January, tells him there is little to do but wait for the wound to finish healing. His shoulder still aches and stiffens on the colder days. The assizes are approaching and Thomas asks Alan if there is any chance of one final conversation with Edith before he is taken to Carlisle. Alan promises to bring it up to her, but also guarantees nothing. She will make up her own mind as to whether or not she wants to speak to him.
There are two days before they travel to Carlisle when Edith comes. She is wears gold, smart and put together, just as he remembers her. Lizzie escorts her to the cell and sets up a stool outside the door. She hands a note to Thomas.
"Malachi is next door upon her request. I thought you ought to know you have a listener, even though he will take anything you say here with him to his grave. Speak freely, he is trustworthy."
After Lizzie has gone, Edith gestures to the note, "What did she say?"
"Malachi is next door and is trustworthy so I should speak freely."
"Does she know?"
"Her father wrote out my confession. I have no doubt she has read it. Lizzie is a bright young woman."
"She doesn't speak?"
"No."
"But she works the jail?"
"Every day. She brings meals, blankets, when needed, changes of clothes...she is dedicated to her work."
"And to you?"
"No. Nothing of that sort. She did her job for Lucille, too. And from what her father has told me, she has done this for every person who has come through here since before her voice left her. It is her work and she is quite proud of it."
"Ah." The conversation is awkward enough, but the pause makes it even more uncomfortable, "I've asked my lawyer to file divorce papers."
Thomas sighs, his heart sinking, even though he has known this likely, "I understand."
"You tried to kill me."
"I don't suppose telling you I deeply regret it makes any difference?"
"Not really. But it at least makes you still seem human."
"I'm sorry, Edith. For everything."
"You said you loved me."
"Love, not loved, but yes."
"Even now?"
"You were light in the darkness of Allerdale Hall."
"That's not why you married me."
"I married you because I wanted to. I hoped I had brought home someone clever enough to survive. I hoped that with the machine running, Lucille would have mercy. But I was mistaken."
"What you did cannot be forgiven. At least not by me. I heard your confession. I was sitting in the cell next door. And I understand why everything went so wrong, even if you both could have done so many things differently and avoided this tragedy all together. But that's no excuse. I'm set to testify against you in Carlisle."
"I had assumed you would."
"After, I'm going to return to America with Alan. He has developed a fascination for folk medicine and its efficacy thanks to Mrs Doyle. I think he will be committing himself to his practice and this new study. He's decided also to further explore ghosts in photography thanks to my experiences."
"I wish you both only the best. And if you decide on a future together, whether romantic or simply as close friends, I hope it is blessed."
Edith smiles for the first time since arriving, "Oh, Thomas...you had such great potential...your heart is so much bigger than you've ever allowed it to be. Your kindness is something I will miss. I wish your life had been different so your gentler side could have flourished along with your aptitude for engineering. You could have changed the world."
"Trust me, Edith, if there is one person who wishes things were different more than you do, it is I. I've a life done wrong to reflect on while I wait for the noose and nothing but a waltz and one night with you that I can say I have done right."
"It was a lovely waltz. And a perfect night. I am grateful we had both. I've been trying to distance those memories from all the ones I wish I could erase. Looking back, I now see the subtle ways you tried to warn me. But why did you not just tell me? Slip a note under my pillow, something?"
"I feared her and I was terrified that once you knew, you would flee and we would hang. Which, given that I will likely hang now, seems like a ridiculous reason to risk your life. I knew there would be consequences, but I had hoped...I had hoped to flee with you, with her...perhaps in the cities, everything behind us, a new life... Childish dreams of a stupidly desperate man."
"You believed she would let you leave her bed?"
"I hoped."
She sighs as Thomas slumps, the admission of this heavy on his heart, "You were foolish in that, Baronet Sharpe...but hope is a hard habit to break, isn't it?"
"Even when hope is ridiculously out of reach and a fool's errand. I am so sorry, Edith. And were I to have the others before me, I would grovel, my face to the stones, begging you all to forgive me."
"You don't need to grovel. I think I've heard what I need to hear. You are no monster. A desperate boy trapped in a dead house, yes. And spineless, yes. But a monster? No. I cannot forgive you. Not yet. Possibly not ever. You brought me to the brink of death, destroyed any shred of innocence I had left, and have weakened my body so far that Alan does not think my lungs will ever fully recover. But maybe some day, when I am an old woman and I can look back on this time without feeling the incredible urge to strangle you, I will feel differently. But I should be going now." She rises and steps away, then stops and turns back, "Thomas?"
"Yes?"
"I hope you find your peace before you face the hangman. You should know, they found them. All four bodies. Thaddeus is out digging graves today."
"Bury the baby with Enola."
"Oh?"
"Lucille killed him. Please, tell him to have mercy. The child does not deserve to be buried with his murderer. He is an innocent and should be buried with someone who loved him."
"She killed him?"
"She confessed in the carriage on the way here. I did not know, I promise you this. I loved that child as I have loved nothing else. I did not lift a finger against him. I did not suspect she could... Just please, tell them to take care of him."
There is an urgency in Thomas' voice that tells Edith this is something she needs to honour, a deep desperation; she nods, "I will tell Rebecca."
"Does she know of Lucille and I?"
"No. But I will tell her that the child is Enola's."
"Thank you."
"Goodbye, Thomas Sharpe. I will see you in Carlisle, and then never again." She leaves and he hears Malachi exit the cell next door to follow her out, the heavy wooden door between the jail and the York home thudding closed behind them. Silence. He is left with his thoughts. And then there is a soft click and the sound of footfalls on stone.
Mr York appears with coffee, "Malachi says you might want this. Difficult conversation." He places it on the carousel and Thomas retrieves it.
"Thank you."
"She told you they found them?"
"Yes."
"And the baby?"
"Did she tell you of my request?"
"Aye. She said she had to go tell Rebecca and Thad quickly, since he's digging graves and she's doing her prayers for the dead."
"And the Brother?"
"He's still recovering, but I'm sure she'll consult him, or at least let him say a few words. Even when I have to put on my preacher's hat, we've always let Rebecca do her work. Seems to most of us that it should be good enough for any god out there. Her heart's in a loving place when she does what she does. And her foremothers have been the village witches for centuries."
"The child was never baptized. He was hardly named..."
"She blesses the dead with water she brought from the spring at Kildare years ago. She took a great jug of it. It's holy there- Saint Bridget and the goddess of the same name. If water's needed to cross over to the next world, that'll be the stuff they accept. And I'm sure she'll let Mort say a few words."
"Do you think he needs it?"
"For a man who doesn't believe in the hereafter, you're mighty worried."
"I will take chances on myself. Someone as innocent as that child...I can't risk damnation."
"I'm putting on my preacher's hat here, son, but any god who would send a baby to hell isn't a god worth keeping around. He's in Rebecca's hands. She's brought children into this world and she's held them as they've left it. Trust her, she knows what she's doing, if something needs doing at all. Me, I don't think you need any sort of ceremony to cleanse an infant. There's nothing there that's been sullied. If the god the Brother believes in is out there, your son's already in his arms. And if it's Rebecca's goddesses instead, I'm sure they've been playing with him since he got there."
Thomas nods, his eyes cast down, "Thank you for this bit of comfort, Mr York. And for the coffee. I feel a bit better."
"Do you need Lizzie to come sit with you?"
"No, I think I will be fine."
"Don't think I don't notice that she's a bit fond of you."
"I do not intend to encourage a deep friendship, sir. I do not want to tear her heart when they hang me."
"I know. She's a strong girl, though. Stronger than you know. If she sets her sights on this, I won't be able to discourage her. Right now, she says it's nothing. Just a friendship and a girlish crush that she's sure will fade. I'm not so sure it will."
"You could always remind her that I am still married to Miss Cushing."
"She knows."
"Ah. I assure you, Mr York, I have no intentions of anything with your daughter."
"I know. But that's not always the way hearts work now, is it?"
Lizzie, meanwhile, has traveled across the village with Edith and is helping Rebecca prepare the bodies. She is taking special care with the baby, his tiny corpse so very fragile. She has heard Edith's instructions from Thomas, but she, unlike Rebecca, knows who really bore the child. Giving him to Enola takes on a special significance. As she slips him into Enola's coffin wrapped in soft flannel, she lays a miniature velvet rose and a sprig of rosemary against his chest and drapes a cotton shroud over both of them.
She bends low and whispers so quietly that Rebecca cannot hear her, "Your father loves you, little one." The bodies are both ready for burial, sprinkled with the holy water of Kildare and gifted funeral herbs. She and Rebecca carefully place the lid on the coffin and survey their work. Three large coffins. Four bodies. And word sent to Thaddeus. They will soon load them onto the wagon to take them to the churchyard. Headstones will come later, in the spring, when the weather breaks. But for now, they will rest in graves marked by rough wooden crosses with plenty of peace and quiet.