Chapter 29- Plans
Sitting at Rebecca's kitchen table, Thomas fidgets with the edge of his waistcoat. Lizzie notices and takes his hand, folding his fingers in hers. Rebecca has given them the legal options for marriage. While Lizzie would like to follow her mother's tradition, it was also how he married Margaret and he is deeply uncomfortable with repeating anything of his former marriages. They will ride to Carlisle to pay for the license.
"I have seen Lizzie's daydreams from long ago. I have heard both of you discussing the changes to them. Including the wish not to have an audience. But you will still need witnesses."
Lizzie writes, "Aunt Helga is far too sick to serve- she made an appearance at the memorial, but it is the first time I have seen her out of bed in weeks. She is likely to die this winter. Would you be willing to serve in that role?"
"Of course. I would be honoured. And as I cannot officially be your priest, I will sign it for the crown. And your second?"
Thomas thinks a moment, "Nathaniel. He is our brother. It seems only right to include him."
"Even with his participation in last night?"
"He was the kindest amongst them, Rebecca. And we have little else in the way of friends or family left."
"I understand. But they were damned cruel and I don't wish this day to be harder for you than it already will be."
He turns to Lizzie, "Thoughts?"
"I think Nathaniel is a good choice. He and I have been so very close over the years. And from what I heard, he does trust you. He wanted you to understand why the others were asking what they did."
"Then we will talk to him in a few days. I don't want to travel in this weather, though. The road to Carlisle is likely difficult."
"We are in no rush. I will send for silk to make my dress and then I will talk to my aunt so she knows our good news before she dies. And hopefully she will live to see me a bride. If not, she will rest easy knowing I will be cared for so well." Lizzie leans against Thomas and he kisses her cheek.
Rebecca watches them, smiling, "You are a lovely couple. I will talk to Brother Mort. We will make you a ceremony like none other, something simple that suits."
"He will consent to marry us? My sister did try to kill him."
"Aye, and he has worried about you ever since. Don't fret about Mort. We will talk. And you will be fine. Just decide on your place, your clothes, and we will be there ready." Rebecca lets them stay at her kitchen table, daydreaming, for the better part of the day. She makes lunch, and then supper, and when Lizzie decides that she will wear blue, she brings a box from the other room and begins to make silk flowers from scraps, adding them to those she already has tucked in a drawer wrapped in cotton. Lizzie does not want to wait until the flowers bloom.
After supper, Thaddeus returns to find them at his table, "Ah. Just the people I need to see."
Thomas draws his arms protectively around Lizzie, "Oh?"
"I've spent all afternoon talking to the boys. Rog. Mal. Nathaniel. We were a band of damned fools last night. Rude, inconsiderate, and hurtful fools. Becca here set me straight this morning. We weren't afraid for her. We were only thinking of ourselves. And she's right. We didn't look past the end of our noses. So I'm sorry for my part in it. Your brother's given us all a tongue lashing we won't soon forget. I hope you'll forgive me."
Thomas takes in a long breath and slowly lets it out, "In time. But you broke something last night. Especially Mal. I thought you trusted me. I thought you knew me for who I was, not for who my father was. I can't forget that. I've spent plenty of nights worrying about the same, hating that I carry his name. Hating that I see his mannerisms in the way I cut bread and even the odd way I sometimes hold a fork- little manners I picked up and some I learned out of terror. And you confirmed the worst fears I have with your accusation that perhaps I would hurt Lizzie because I am his son."
Thaddeus nods, "You've every right to be angry. Furious, in fact. I wouldn't put it past you to never want a thing to do with us."
Lizzie pushes her notebook forward; she's been writing, "Thaddeus Doyle, you know so much better than what I heard of you last night. I understand that Mal was scared I would be a madwoman like my mother. But it deeply offends me that you do not think Thomas can care for me, that you think I would not myself feel it creeping on and make it known. And that you would seek to protect me from the man who rode into that storm to find me, who has been the steady presence beside me through my father's death and remembrance...who has learned to care for me through coughing fits and long dark nights contemplating my own mortality...that was not something I can easily overlook. Thomas has proven his honour time and time again. He built my home. He turned his skills with steam to power this village and bring warmth in the dark of winter. He cared for my father in his dying days without complaint. And he took over the work of the jail when I could not. How can you even accuse him of being like the elder Lord Sharpe?"
Thaddeus sits, "Lizzie, it was fear, pure and simple. You ran off-"
"My father is dead! Yesterday was too much..." she coughs a few times, trying to hold it back, and Thomas slips his hand on her back. Rebecca pours hot water and grabs the honey from the larder, placing the steaming mug in front of Lizzie while she still works to control the cough.
"Lizzie, love. It has been a long road and yesterday ripped the scab from the wound you had only just started to heal. I don't think they considered what the memorial would do to you."
"Honestly, we didn't," Thaddeus remarks, "Mal only thought of your mother. And he convinced us to do the same. Except for Nathaniel. Boy's got a better head on his shoulders than the lot of us."
She sips her honeyed water and sighs, leaning against Thomas, writing, "I hate not being able to speak on my own. I'm so tired of only being a part of things in writing. Of not being able to properly express myself. Rage. Sadness. Love. And it makes me sad that I may not be able to even vow to be yours with my own voice." She shows this note only to him, then adds, "And I so do want to swear like the devil's own handmaiden at Thad, Mal, and Rog. It loses so much in the writing."
He pulls her close and kisses her forehead without saying a word, resting his cheek against her hair. She rests into him.
Thomas takes a moment of contentment; Rebecca silently sweeping away teacups to give them their time before Thomas speaks, voice gentle, to Lizzie, "I think I'd best get you home, my love. It's getting dark, and you really ought not be out in the cold. You'll wind up ill." She nods, a bit sleepy, and lets him stand and help her up, her notebook tucked safely back in her clothing as she drapes her winter coat over her shoulders. "You'll excuse us. And Rebecca, thank you, for your help today. It was most appreciated."
"Of course. Any time, my friends."
Thomas bundles up and they venture out into the early grey night, back to the house and the steam shed, where Thomas stokes up a fire so they will have light and the heat from the radiators as they cook supper together, eat together, and curl under the blankets.
At the now nearly empty table, Thaddeus taps on his mug while Rebecca tidies the kitchen, "I meant it, Becca. We really weren't thinking. And we were wrong."
"And you had the courage to tell them so yourself. I'm grateful you found it."
"Had to. You wouldn't have let me come home if I didn't. What were they here for all day, anyway? I thought you'd have that girl on bedrest."
"It's none of your business, Thaddeus Doyle. And I told you she's not my patient."
He laughs, "You're right, it's not. See here, I'd better get to bed. I'm taking a shift at the jail tomorrow, right and early. Calum's doing some fine work, but he still needs a hand now and again. I'll see you when you come up?"
She nods and retreats to her workshop. Thomas needs peace and she has herbs and prayers she believes might help.
In the cottage, Lizzie puts water over the fire and goes to her workshop, gathering herbs from the jars and tins in the shelves. She drops them on the workbench, an accident of tired hands. Thomas slips in and offers help, righting the tipped containers. He pulls down her mortar and pestle. She measures and chooses leaves, adding to it while he crushes. She checks the mixture and adds a pinch of various things. Then he hands her a little cotton drawstring bag and gives him a little scoop. She holds up two fingers. He puts two scoops in the bag and she hands him a cobalt blue glass jar for the rest. She leaves for the kitchen. There are two mugs on the table when he gets there. One is full of honey. The other waits. She takes his hand and guides him to put the teabag in the empty cup. Then she takes the kettle off the fire and pours water in the teapot. She pushes it towards him and then comes to stand beside him.
He stares at the teapot, "Lizzie..."
She takes his hand and rests it against the china. He hesitates, pulling away, but she lays her hand over his and keeps it there a moment before picking up the teapot with her other hand and pouring clear hot water over the herbs and into her honey. She sets the teapot aside and swirls the teabag, transferring it to her cup, letting the water turn an olive green before bringing it back to his cup, dripping honey. She dips the teabag and his water changes as well. She places the teabag on a saucer and hands him his cup.
He does not take it. Not until she picks up his hand and and rests the teacup in it, her own hands around his.
"Smell it."
"I know it is different. But..."
"Plants can heal as well as they can harm." She brings his cup to her lips and sips before lifting it to his own. He takes a few deep breaths and then sips, his eyes squeezed closed. She sets the cup on the table and slips in front of him. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, "My dear, sweet, brave Thomas." He snuggles against her, face buried in her hair.
He takes a few moments to calm and then straightens just enough that he can meet her eyes, "Not so brave, my love. I fear tea."
She kisses him again and then whispers, "Bravery is doing while afraid." She leans against the table, sitting on its edge, and picks up his cup, "Please?" He takes it and she gets her own. She touches the edge of her teacup to his, a tiny clink, before sipping her own honeyed drink. She smiles, letting the chamomile, lavender, honey, and other herbs soothe her throat. He hesitates, then takes another sip. They stand like this, close together, teacups in hand, slowly sipping, until Thomas has drained his cup. She leaves the dishes on the table and takes him to bed.