Chapter 30- Something Borrowed, Something Blue
Lizzie tells Helga of her news and earns a smile from her aunt, the first she has seen in some months. But it is soon met with a sadness and the bequeathing of a trunk that Lizzie is not to open until Helga is dead. She does not have to wait long. Her aunt dies in her sleep that night. As her only living relation, Lizzie arranges for the funeral and burial. It is small, just the few village men who knew her best, Rebecca, Nathaniel, Thomas, and herself. There are no friends from afar or condolences sent from high posts of government. Just a silent graveyard on a drizzling grey day.
Thomas keeps close to Lizzie throughout, his hand often resting between her shoulders or in the small of her back. She handles this grief with silence and numbness. In bed the night after Helga's memorial and burial, Thomas massages Lizzie's back while she cries, easing tension from her muscles. And then he finishes and kisses her neck. She turns onto her back and finds his lips, her cheeks damp with tears.
He wipes her face and eases himself over her, "I want to know what you're feeling, Lizzie. What you are thinking. Gift me a few words."
"I'm tired, Thomas."
"Tired in body, heart, or head?" He kisses cheek.
"All."
"Oh, Lizzie...I'm so sorry. This has been a difficult winter. What can I do for you tonight?"
She shakes her head and gently pushes him. He takes the hint and rolls off her. She curls against his chest, tucking her legs around his.
"May I make love to you, Lizzie York? Gentle, slow, and patient?"
She nods and he pulls her leg up to his hip. She closes her eyes and helps him enter her. Their movements stay small; she is tucked close to his chest, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The rhythm calms her and she lets her thoughts go, fully present in this intensely intimate moment. They rarely climax together, but this time they do and she falls asleep still pressed to his chest shortly after. Thomas gently withdraws and shifts to a more comfortable position beside her before joining her in a deep, dreamless sleep.
It is March by the time Lizzie thinks about the trunk. She has kept herself busy with sewing, her blue silk from Carlisle, delivered in mid February. Not only blue silk, but fine black velvet scavenged from Lucille's gown. She has lived though so many different fashions and periods, but her dress is firmly planted in the long elegant lines of the earliest years of the century, an off the shoulder piece with a bodice made to go over the new corset she has ordered. She knows it is over a decade out of date and clothes are now more loose, relaxed, and draping, but she loves the shape of this time and so she has built her gown from it.
They have decided that their wedding will take place in Carlisle, Nathaniel, Rebecca, and Brother Morton travelling with them. The monk has connections to a church there, and they will let him use their space without charge. So she stitches and dreams of a beautiful sunny spring day with Rebecca's silk flowers in her bouquet, Thomas by her side.
She has also been writing vows, practising what she wants over and over again in a battered old notebook, whispering the words to herself late at night after he is asleep. Thomas has bought her a slim volume bound in dark blue leather, their names pressed in silver on the front. Thomas and Lizzie York. It sits in a box with her slippers and the shawl she is sure will upset Thomas. It was her mother's, made of tartan cloth. Lizzie knows his second wife wore tartan cloth to their Edinburgh wedding. But it is one of the only things she has of her mother's, tucked in her cradle when she was inconsolable after her death. She doesn't know when to talk to him about it, though, so instead, she simply takes it from her box and sets it on the foot of the bed while she works on stitching lace in place with tiny delicate threads, lace she found in Helga's estate.
Thomas walks in to tell her he has cooked supper, "Lizzie, I've made a bit of a stew. Potato leek and a few other things I found in the cupboards. Would you care for a break?"
She nods and he turns to leave, but his eye catches on the shawl and he steps back into the room, walking to the bed, "Lizzie...what is this?"
She wraps it around her shoulders.
"I understand it's a shawl. I meant more than that." He sits on the bed beside her and hands her a notebook.
"It belonged to my mother and her mother before her. It is one of the finest weaves of tartan I've ever seen and the only thing of hers I have that I can take with me to be wed. I'd like to wear it. It matches the dress quite nicely."
"That it does."
"You look thoughtful. Lost in it, actually. Speak."
"My second wife wore a similar cloth."
"But not the same. This means a lot to me, Thomas. I won't do it if it will make things too difficult for you." She hesitates writing her last sentence and hands the notebook to him, crestfallen. She doesn't bother to hide that it will disappoint her not to be able to.
Thomas reads and sets the notebook aside, "Come here." She doesn't. He slides closer to her, "It is a beautiful shawl. And I have asked so much of you throughout this. I haven't left much room for your own dreams." She has gone back to stitching the lace, her concentration allowing her to avoid looking at him while she works, "Please meet my gaze." She does and he realizes she's holding back tears, "My sweet, darling Lizzie...I didn't know it meant quite this much." He smiles and puts an arm around her shoulder, "Wear it. It will be stunning with the gown."
"Really? You won't flee the wedding when you see your dear Lizzie, now nearly 50, beside you in plaid?"
"No. I will not. I will remember that it is my dear Lizzie beside me, no other woman and I love her dearly- every single bit of her, including this."
She sets her sewing aside and smiles, leaning against him, her arms around his waist. He kisses her temple and then asks, "So, my darling, would you care to come to supper? I made soup. And I managed not to make too much of an ungodly mess doing it."
She laughs and nods. He offers her his hand and they head to the kitchen table.
After supper, they return to the bedroom. Thomas reads beside Lizzie as she sews lace onto her dress. It is almost finished. When her hands are stiff from sewing all day and she can take no more, she carefully tucks her project away and comes back to the bed. As she walks, she trips over the edge of a trunk. She stops and stares at it.
Thomas looks up from his book, "What are you looking at, love?"
She points to the trunk.
"Is that the one from your aunt?"
She nods.
"Do you want to look into it?"
Another nod. Thomas sets down his book while she kneels on the floor. He joins her and waits. She hesitates before opening the hasp and lifting the lid. It smells of cedar inside. Everything is folded neatly. She lifts out the first layer. A christening gown. Small boots. Little infant dresses. Below that, a wedding dress that has never been worn and the long delicate veil made to match. Wedding shoes in white satin. And a jewellery box. She lifts it and opens it to find a few faded tintypes. One is of Helga, her father, and Victoria. Another shows Helga, her father, Helga with Victoria in her arms a few years old, and a woman with wild hair pinned up in a messy bun beside her with a newborn in her arms. Her eyes are tired and a little sad.
Lizzie stares at the picture, "My mother."
Thomas rests his chin on her shoulder, peering over to see the picture, "She was beautiful. Just like her daughter."
"I don't remember her."
Thomas sets the notebook on her lap, "Please."
Lizzie nods and picks up her pencil, "I don't remember her at all. Not even her madness. Nor her voice. There is one smell I associate with her, but I don't know if that is because she wore it or no. But I seem to remember honeysuckle and heather."
"You were so very small when she died. I am surprised you remember anything at all of her."
"As am I. But it always comes back. I once asked Father about it. He wasn't sure."
"He looks proud of his family in this picture."
"And proud of Helga in the other. I miss her already."
"I know. She was a lively woman. And one of the first people I spoke to who knew of my crimes and thought little of them. It made a big impression to have her fold me into the family on Christmas without reservations."
She sets the photographs aside and looks into the rest of the box, carefully lifting the cotton cloth that separated its contents from the tintypes, "Oh...oh my..."
Thomas stares at the glittering pieces, "Those are her wedding jewellery."
Lizzie lifts out the necklace, pearl and marcasite that would sit close to the neck, a pendent dangling from in which a pearl suspends in a ring set with stones, elaborate metalwork making it look rimmed in lace. Long dangling earrings match, as does a bracelet. There are hairpins tipped in marcasite and pearls, and Victoria and Ezra's rings, engraved with their names. She sets them back in the box.
Thomas takes the necklace from her hands and gently places it around her neck, "Your aunt wanted you to have these. Might I suggest you wear them on our own wedding day?"
Lizzie brushes her fingertips over the pearls and nods as he pushes back her hair and holds the earring up to her ears, "You're going to leave me speechless when I see you first on our wedding day. You know that, do you not?"
She blushes and nods, putting pencil to paper as Thomas gently sets the earrings and bracelet aside, "Yes, I will. And you would I, had I speech to give. What will you be wearing? Not your velvet suit from Allerdale Hall. It has far too many memories attached to it, and so few of them are good."
"Nathaniel recommended a tailor in Carlisle. I've sent measurements up to have a suit made. Velvet, still, yes, but in the more modern cut. A blue contrasting vest to match your silk. I stole a swatch from your scraps pile. A crisp white shirt. And I have requested it be held until our arrival. The new fashion is for a gentleman to cut his hair, but that is not something I will consider. I like my locks this length."
She smiles and tousles his curls, "I do, too."
"I should probably tell you that I also wrote to a jeweller in Carlisle recommended by the tailor. I stole your little gold ring and traced it's interior and exterior for a size. and I measured my own with a paper band."
She picks up her notebook, "You've had rings made?"
"Yes, love. I have. Nothing too ostentatious, but a precious jewel for the woman who has been the shining gem in my life seems appropriate."
She blushes, "Oh stop, Thomas. You're such a lovely flirt."
"I speak only truth." She carefully packs the photographs back in the box and tucks it in the trunk. She unfolds the wedding dress and brushes her fingers over the pearls.
"Helga spent hours on this." She folds it back into the trunk picks up the veil. There is a wide comb at the top for pinning it over up-done hair set in the same marcasite and pearls of the rest of the jewellery, "Keep this out." She coughs. Thomas gathers the gems and places them on her folded shawl, the veil beside, before helping her up.
He wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her, "Are you nearly ready, love? Shall we travel to Carlisle on the next perfect day?"
She points to her notebook and he hands it to her, "Let me finish the dress, dear Thomas. I've worked this hard on it, you simply must let me wear it, even if you insist that it not be on me for long after."
He laughs, "Of course, dear girl. But until then, I will be allowing the softness of silk and the sight of glittering stones at your neck be enough to fuel my fantasies late into the night."
She sighs and kisses his chin, gently sucking at the soft skin under his jaw. He shudders and she grins, teasing him to come for her as she nips at his ear and backs toward the bed.