Chapter 19- Night
After leaving Thomas' cell, Lizzie asks her father to take her to the hanging room, to see what Thomas saw. He does.
And she runs over what he must have felt over and over in her head as she lays awake in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark room that night.
It is near midnight; a knock on the door interrupts her thoughts, "Miss? Are you awake?"
Mr Hayes. She wraps herself in her dressing gown and opens the door.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but you said to call if he needed you...and he's woken himself yelling. He's terrified."
She nods and he sees her glance towards her dress, in a heap, on the floor, "Not to be too forward, Miss York, but given what happened today, I'd recommend putting on your jacket and coming without delay."
She does as he asks, grabs Thomas' quilt from the end of her bed, pulls on her boots, and meets him by the door. They are in the prison in minutes and it is eerily quiet. Someone cries in the dark. Someone else snores. When they reach Thomas' cell, Mr Hayes unlocks the door and steps in first, gesturing for Lizzie to follow once he knows it is safe.
Thomas sits on the bed, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, head bent, as though he is sleeping upright. Lizzie sits in front of him and bends to peer up at his face. His eyes are closed. She gestures for Mr Hayes to leave.
"I'm not sure about you staying the night here. What would your father say?"
She gestures for him to leave a little more aggressively.
Mr Hayes sighs, "I hope you know what you're doing." He locks the door behind him.
She tries to lift Thomas' chin, but he turns his head to avoid her. He isn't deeply asleep, even if he was when they entered. She pushes his hair back behind his ear and admires the way the shadows cast by the moonlight play on his face. The darkness under his chin, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way his black hair falls against pale skin. Her thoughts wander and she envisions the rope just under his jaw, the knot under his ear. It hurts her heart. Without thinking, she brushes her fingers against his neck, the warmth of his skin and the slight flutter of his heartbeat a reassurance that he is still alive, that she did not lose him.
Her fingers linger a little under his ear and he startles awake, scrambling back to the corner, gasping. He reaches for his throat and then looks up to see Lizzie, her hands outstretched, whispering, "It's only me. You're safe."
"Lizzie. I'm...am I awake?"
She nods, then indicates towards the moon and then her notebook. She writes with it at an angle so she can see and then gestures for Thomas to come close.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't think and touched your throat. The moonlight on your skin was stunning. You are beautiful."
He hands it back to her, "Yes, but what are you doing here?"
"Mr Hayes said you woke yourself yelling. He said you were terrified. He asked me to come to you. Then he wanted to hover. I have no doubt he is outside the door, listening. He did not want to leave us alone."
"My crimes, no doubt, lead him to be suspicious."
"Likely. But my father has vouched for you, and he holds a bit of power here. It is his word that had the governor send his letter to allow visits. I don't think you are dangerous. Nor do I think on your own you ever have been."
"When I woke, I thought I was dead."
"Given the day, is that any surprise? Also, you changed the subject quite quickly. I am the jailer's daughter; I notice. Talk."
Thomas sighs, "Lucille came up with the idea. I wanted so badly to make the machine work. To make my father proud and restore the mines. 'Sharpe and Son'... I was a willing conspirator when it was only a conspiracy- before she told me they would die. I tried to be as distant as Lucille, but I could not be as cold- I held Pamela's hand in the end. I decided to leave when Margaret and Enola died- I left them in her...care? Perhaps that is not the right word. But I left them. They trusted me and I just...disappeared from them in their final moments. And I chose Edith over the woman my sister had picked. I knew she would survive. A creative mind, one that relished unraveling mysteries...I damaged her by bringing her here to break us. So much of this falls on me. I truly deserved to end today. I know this. And yet when the time came, death was terrifying and that terror overrode any sense of justice." He pauses, "My father would have thundered of my cowardice, raining blows down about my shoulders and when I was prone, he would have dragged me to my feet by my clothes, pinning me up so he could pummel me further or press his hands against my throat until I lost consciousness. He did it often enough, telling me I was dead to him after. That is how despicable I have been taught I am."
She bows her head and takes his hand, "That's terrible, Thomas."
"Write, my love. Do not risk yourself for me."
Lizzie takes his hands and holds them up to the moonlight, palm to palm, before letting them go to retrieve her notebook, "I gladly take risks for you, Thomas. Yours are not the hands of a hardened and hopeless man. There is a witchcraft that Rebecca has taught me that reads stories in hands, calms with little motions, and reads souls in their lines. And while I cannot excuse anything you have done, nor can I justify it or say that it was not cowardice that pinned you in place beside your sister, I can say that no one deserves the sort of treatment your father delivered to his children and it does terrible things to people to grow up as you did. And I can say that you have been entirely forthcoming in your flaws, your guilt, and your role in this horrible string of crimes. You will have to move forward from this. It is how you will live. And in our little village, we can accept this. Can you? Can you carry this in your heart and live your life in memory of these three?"
"Four. My son is victim to this as well."
"Of course. I am so sorry I forgot him. I shouldn't. I helped prepare the bodies for burial."
"You did?"
"Yes. And we placed him with Enola, as you asked."
"Thank you." He wants to say how much it means that his son is buried this way, but he falters and cannot find the words.
"I have a sign for when words are not enough. Would you like me to show you?"
"Please."
"You do your hands like this." She places his hand over his heart, rests it there for a moment, and then brings it over her own. Then she places it back on his. "From my heart to yours and yours to mine- heartspeak. Something like that. Something only hearts can understand."
"That is beautiful. Do you use it often?"
"No. But things this deep do not often find the time to be spoken of. My father has used it when we talk of my mother, but beyond that...rarely."
"Ah. Then I will take care to use it wisely and well."
She nods and then returns to her notebook, "Do you want to talk about the dream that woke you?"
Thomas leans against the headboard and invites her to lean against him. She removes her coat and folds it neatly, getting up to set it on the desk. He shifts his legs so she can sit between them and she carefully settles against him, his arms around her waist. She tugs his quilt up from the foot of the bed and he brushes the fabric against her stomach.
"You brought it."
"I brought it when you tried to kill yourself, too- I wore it as we rode."
"Really?"
"Of course."
"But this time I was to die. Why did you bring it?"
"When else would I have a greater need to be wrapped in it than once your body was in our carriage on the way home?"
He hugs her, his chin on her shoulder, "Thank you, Miss York."
"Now tell me of your dream. You need to. It is lingering."
"The dream...chained in hellfire. A world of only pain. And Lucille. Naked. Voracious. She said she would kill anyone I ever loved." He pauses, unsure if he should say the final piece, but he decides he ought to, "You included. She said she would reach from the grave and pluck you from life so that she could force you to watch what she would do to me for all eternity. I was screaming at her, pulling at the chains until they cut, telling her no, over and over again as I watched her smother you in your sleep. I awoke as you arrived and she began to torture you."
Lizzie twists to face him and whispers, "It's just a dream, no matter how real, and you are safe from her. So am I." She clears her throat, her cough just a few more syllables away.
Thomas nuzzles her hair, "I know. But these are old fears and she has only been gone a short time. She has killed everyone else about whom I have tried to care.. How do I let go and adore you without fearing the same?"
"Trust." It is the only word Lizzie can get out before the tickle in her throat grows bad enough she ought not speak. She thinks it is enough, though.
They adjust to lay more comfortably side by side and she quickly falls asleep. He watches her breathing, the moonlight reflecting against her hair. He thinks she looks angelic, her round face tucked against his chest. He kisses her forehead and whispers his goodnight. He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. The smell of cinnamon and cloves still linger on the quilt, a comfort against the chill.