Chapter 18- Anew
She has read the short letter in her notebook from Thomas at least a dozen times since her father left for the prison. She daubs the paper with her apron when her tears drop on the page, trying to keep the ink from smearing.
Mr Hayes knocks on the bedroom door. Lizzie answers, her face streaked, her hair disheveled, her apron smudged with pencil. She dreads what he has to say.
"Miss York. We received this at the last moment." He hands her the letter.
She reads it once, twice, and a third time before handing it back and shaking her head in horrified disbelief.
He realizes Lizzie thinks Thomas has been hanged, "He's alive, Miss. Get yourself ready. It will give them time it get his new cell set."
Lizzie nearly faints, catching herself on the doorframe. Mr Hayes helps her into her room and sits her at the dressing table. She thanks him with her bow.
"Just come down to the kitchen table when you are done. He's going to need you."
The click of her door happens at the same time that everything clicks together in her head. Thomas is alive. She is needed in the prison. She is a mess. She jumps to her feet, tosses off her apron, and washes her face. She tries to tidy her hair, but gives up, tearing it down and dragging her brush roughly through it before pulling it into a messy bun. She grabs her notebook and pencil. She takes the stairs two at a time. Mr Hayes looks up from the letter when she arrives in the kitchen.
"Ready?"
She nods.
"Right. Let's go." They walk to the prison and, as he takes her down new halls, he explains, "He'll likely be taken somewhere else for the long term, but I'm going to write the Home Secretary and offer to keep him here, so he's closer to family- you, your father." He glances to her and she nods in acknowledgment, though he's not sure she is listening. He stops and touches her arm, "Lizzie...you should know that he had the noose around his neck when I came into the chamber with this letter. He's been through hell- Mr Angel's hand was on the lever. I don't know how he's going to act when you meet him."
She scribbles in her notebook, "Just take me to him, Mr Hayes. I will worry about his state of mind once I have him beside me."
He sees the determination on her face and clears his throat before continuing forward, "Right then- let's go." They are soon in the back corner of the prison, in an area that looks very different from the rest. The cells have doors with large, barred windows, but doors none the less. The rooms she can see into have real beds and small writing desks. "We used to use this wing for the Lords and Bishops we'd get through here. It's a little more comfortable. We don't get many of them these days, but we still keep it ready."
In the farthest cell, one with its own window to the outdoors, she sees her father. She hurries towards it. Mr Hayes does not stop her as she breaks into a run. Mr York steps outside the cell and intercepts her.
"Lizzie, stop a moment. This was probably the most terrifying thing he's ever experienced."
She takes a deep breath and pats her heart, then points towards the cell.
"I know. But I'm not sure what he's going to want to tell you, or if he's going to say anything at all. The Crown's been damn cruel to him." He steps aside and Lizzie enters the cell. Thomas is curled up on the bed, his back to the room, trembling. Gerry carefully arranges the books dumped haphazardly on the desk by the other guards.
"I'll be out of your way in a moment, miss. Just giving a little care to what the boys dropped here." He finishes setting them in a neat stack before leaving the cell. He leaves the door open and Lizzie can hear him talking to her father and Mr Hayes, their voices low, a dull murmur in the hall. She perches on the edge of his bed and very gently rests her arm against his side, her hand on his shoulder.
"Thomas?"
He does not look away from the wall, "Lizzie?" But he knows it is her. There is no one else in Carlisle who sounds like her.
She leans down against him and weaves her fingers with his, her face close to his cheek, "Talk to me."
"I can't."
She kisses his cheek, "I understand." She coughs.
Thomas turns on his back and Lizzie tries to sit up, farther away, but he pulls her down to bend over him and rests a finger on her lips, "Don't speak. Please use your notebook. For your own sake." He calls for water, and he hears footsteps heading away. Someone has heard. She hears the footsteps returning and sits up. Her father enters and hands her a mug. She nods her thanks and sips. He returns to the hall.
Thomas sits up slowly, still shaky, "Today has been...rough."
She snorts into her mug, nearly spitting.
He smiles, "An understatement?"
She nods. She finishes the water and sets the mug on the floor, then retrieves her notebook, "Understatement is an understatement! I thought you were dead. I spent all morning in mourning."
"I'm sorry, Lizzie. I shouldn't have put you through that."
She shoves his arm, her expression mildly annoyed, before she writes, "You put me through it? Good lord- Thomas, you act as though I have no heart of my own. I chose to pursue you, knowing full well you would be executed. I knew I would grieve. Until this morning, you have only ever made me content."
He leans close to her ear and whispers so her father will not hear, "Only content?" A little shutter tingles up her spine as she puts pencil to paper.
"Content with the state of my heart, which has felt so different these past weeks. Months. However long it has been that we have known one another. I think this is something big. Perhaps even the beginning of l_. I dare not write the word in this context. For now, I use 'content' until I know."
"What examples of it have I had? Not my parents. My sister? That was twisted, a thing distorted and perverse, grown from damaged hearts. My wives? More adored for the hope they represented- the hope of an escape. I do think Edith was different, but still, not right."
"I know you have a heart- I heard your voice when you spoke of your son in the carriage. We will learn the way of it together, if this is what we have. I read your note. I know you did not want to risk anything when you were to die, but now that things have changed...may we see where this could lead?"
Thomas takes her hands, "Lizzie...I have never been so terrified as I was not even half an hour ago- has it even been ten minutes? Everything shook. I'm still trembling. I begged for forgiveness. I was afraid my body would lose composure and I would embarrass myself. I could think no farther than that I desperately did not want to die, though I knew I deserved it. The rope was around my neck... I did not hear him. I could not. All I could hear was the white noise of my own fear and the pounding of my heart. After...confusion. A turned stomach. I hardly know how I got here. I cannot shake this terror. How can I hope to pick up where we left off?"
Lizzie leans in her eyes closed, lips parting for a kiss, and he initially draws back. She pulls his hands on her waist and slips her hands up his arms, resting them on his shoulders. She smiles and kisses his cheek instead. He blushes. She raises an eyebrow, curious as to what he will do next, then kisses the corner of his mouth. He does not back away, his eyes closed, mouth seeking hers. They meet, her lips soft, gentle, and lingering. He wants to lose himself entirely, but he knows that with her father just outside the door and Gerry on guard, he cannot risk letting this carry him too far.
She leans forward to whisper in his ear, "Just like that."
"We are being listened to. Watched. Guarded."
She opens the notebook, "I know. That is why I kept my hands only on your shoulders instead of letting them wander." She shows him the message and smirks. He raises an eyebrow, his smile awkward and embarrassed. She keeps writing, "If anything, your near-death makes this feel all the more important. I nearly lost you this morning. I realized just how deeply embedded in my heart you are. I cannot let this opportunity slip past me."
"But what of my imprisonment? Surely that will make this far more difficult?"
"It will. And I will have to continue work in the jail in the village. But I will set up visits when I can, and Nathaniel can accompany me when my father cannot. And we can write letters that do not have to be so carefully distant. If you wish, I will scent them with Rebecca's herbs, with lavender and rosewater, and write in flowery language just how dearly I miss you. And then, after that is taken care of, I will describe in the most un-subtle ways possible just what indecent things I dream of doing to you."
Thomas turns crimson, "Oh, um. Yes? Are you sure that is entirely proper?"
The glint of mischief in her eyes answers his question before she writes it, "Proper has nothing to do with it. I will have to wait over a decade for you to leave this place; I am not going to curb my imagination that long. And besides, it will make your release something all the more to look forward to."
"I suppose it will. It will certainly alleviate the feeling of dread at returning to Allerdale Hall."
"Why would you return there? I will have a house of my own by then, a place to welcome you to, a warm cottage with a soft bed and a solid roof. No one will be able to take care of the manor house while you are here and after a decade, at the least, you will likely find it only rubble. There will be nothing there to return to."
"You would invite me to your home?"
She nods.
"And your bed?"
She kisses his cheek.
"Then might I ask something of you?"
She tilts her head, a question.
"Will you dispose of it? The mining machine, give that to Ezra, so that he might make something greater of himself by studying it- give him all my steam powered things. My workshop, my tools, my machinery, the driveshafts, everything. Disassemble the manor to build him a steam shed. Take my sister's dresses, sell them, take them for their fabric, whatever you wish. The textiles are fine, if the moths have not destroyed them. Anyone in the village who wants furniture, it is theirs. And find a place for the library, or sell it. But if it will do nothing but rot until I return, then I would rather this than it all go to waste. Oh, but save the portrait of my mother- fold it, crease it, whatever, so that I may burn it when I am free."
"Of course. I will be your faithful steward and I will dismantle it on your behalf." She shows him the words and then holds up a finger, returning to her writing, "How do you plan on getting through today? Can you face the night alone? Or will this be something they will allow my assistance with?"
He lowers his voice and whispers, "I will not deflower you in a jail cell if that is your intent."
"That will wait- in part because I do not want to risk being inhibited by the potential of voyeuristic guards. I will stay with you, though, if I am allowed."
He smiles, laughing a little, "My god, Lizzie, I'm alive. And glad of it. When did this become possible? When did I...did I start wanting to live?" His face becomes more serious, "But what could I do to make up for everything I have been a part of?"
"Make it count. Every moment. Lay flowers on their graves, remember their names, and learn to be the man they thought you could be."
"And who is that?"
"Thomas Sharpe. Someone who loves deeply. Someone who will change a little corner of the world."
"You believe I can?"
"Change your corner of the world? You already have. The other?" She sets the notebook aside and places both hands on his shoulders, her legs draped over his. She kisses him deeply, hoping her father is not watching and also not entirely sure she cares if he does. When she pulls back, she tugs his lower lip just a little with her teeth, a tease of what may come down the road.
He has to take a moment to find his thoughts, "Thank you. For every moment of your trust. I certainly did nothing to earn this."
"They say my mother had an intuition about people- she knew things about them on sight. And they say she could know a person's soul by touching them. I don't know what was true- she was a bit of a legend, the crazy Scottish woman who crossed Hadrian's wall to find a lover she'd seen in her dreams... But I sometimes think that some of it was true and I have inherited at least that part of her gift- I knew that I could trust you. Hopefully I have not also inherited her madness." What she does not write is that she had a vision, like her mother, of her family years down the road and she had it long before he was in the prison wagon. She knew his voice before she heard it.
Thomas cannot think of anything to say, so he waits. He puts an arm around her shoulder. She leans into him. They sit, comfortable with the silence.
Mr Hayes comes by to ask about lunch and has it delivered. Gerry, needed elsewhere in the prison, locks the door. Mr York follows Mr Hayes to his office to work on a strongly worded letter to the Home Secretary.
Lizzie and Thomas eat without conversation and, after, sit together on the bed, Lizzie in front of Thomas, comfortable resting against his chest. They explore each others' hands. Holding them. Tracing the lines on the palms. Easing tension from the muscles and joints with gentle pressure. Lizzie holds his palms open and up, examining the little scars, some from cuts, some from burns. She lightly kisses his fingertips, then pulls his arms around her waist, nestling into him. It is not long before they both fall asleep.
This is how Gerry finds them when he comes to retrieve the lunch dishes. He smiles and sneaks in quietly, unwilling to wake them. They are still sleeping when it is time for supper. He gently rouses them so it will not get cold and they eat, groggy, tangled up together. After supper, Mr York pulls Lizzie aside and asks her to come to Mr Hayes' house for sleeping. She wants to argue, but instead relents, asking that Gerry send for her if Thomas needs her. After explaining this to Thomas, she kisses his forehead and follows her father.
Left alone with his thoughts, Thomas tries to quiet them with a book. They wander into difficult places. When he finds himself nodding off, fear rises in his chest. The walk to the noose. Mr Angel's steady and soothing voice. Rope around his neck. He jerks upright, trembling. Sleep will not come easily. He tries to read again and once again begins to doze. This time, he falls asleep.