Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization (18 page)

“What is she doing?” the sister whispered fiercely. “How could she possibly know?”

“I didn’t tell her a thing,” the brother vowed.

That scared the sister even more. “What is she trying to do, Thomas?” As if asking the question repeatedly would yield a different answer.

“I don’t know,” the brother said. “She is in quite a state. Tomorrow I’ll go to the depot, pick up the machine parts. I’ll take her with me. Let her get some fresh air.”

“Yes,” the sister agreed. “Get her out of here.” She glared at him. “And soon as we get the final papers signed, I want this over with.”

Things moved around them,
through
them, but they did not see them. But as the bride had observed, just because they couldn’t see them, didn’t mean that they weren’t there.

Through a glass, darkly; once upon a time…

M
ORNING IN
C
UMBERLAND
was so different from Buffalo. The snowy mud was rutted from wagon wheels and the residences were nothing more than hovels. Thatched roofs were not uncommon, and the air between the snowflakes was a murky brown and gray. A few brick buildings stood staunchly upright but their walls were dotted with moss and smeared with smoke. There was a pub called the Red Hand; the windows were steamed up and as their wagon bumped past the door, Edith inhaled the greasy odor of boiled meat and cabbage.

“It’s much more pleasant in the spring,” Thomas said; then his brow furrowed and he returned his attention to some schematic drawings in a notebook across his lap. He hadn’t spoken much on the trip, and she had been unable to engage him in a serious discussion of the horror of his mother’s butchered corpse ordering her to leave Allerdale Hall. Like Lucille, he had patronizingly suggested that it was nothing more than a bad dream. Then he told her some ridiculous theory held by some that spoiled rye bread could bring on hallucinations. They had been eating rye bread of late, had they not? She had used some to make his sandwiches.

“Yes, and
you
have not had any hallucinations,” she’d countered.

“Well, perhaps I’m used to it,” he said. Then he’d given her a look. “Have you been working on your novel?”

He knew she had. He’d read bits of it aloud mere days ago and found it quite wonderful. So now he was trotting out the “it’s just your vivid imagination” rationalization, was that it? That perhaps she had
not
seen a grotesque corpse shrieking her name. Rye bread, nerves, that huge, decaying house…

That woman in the elevator. He and Lucille were so entirely unconcerned. Perhaps they’ve both seen things they could not explain and don’t want to frighten me with the truth. But if they
can
see them, and know now that I can too, wouldn’t it be more reasonable for them to admit as much to me?

But Thomas would discuss it no longer and she finally gave up.
None so deaf as those that will not hear; none so blind as those that will not see
, she told herself. On the subject of hauntings in their stately home, Thomas could not be persuaded to entertain any other idea than that she had frightened herself.

Then I will prove it to him
, she vowed.

The snow was falling thicker and faster, and the postal depot bustled with horse-drawn farm wagons loading and unloading parcels and crates in advance of the impending storm. Finlay attended Thomas as he pointed Edith toward the back of the depot, where a small postal office stood. She had a reply to Ferguson’s most recent update to send.

As she counted out some coins to pay for the stamps, the postal clerk noted her name and address.

“You’re Lady Sharpe, then?” he said. “Forgive me, madam, but there’s a few letters for you. One came in just this morning.”

He disappeared for a moment, then returned with some envelopes. As he handed them to her, he said, “Two of them are legal—certified letters from your solicitor—and another one comes all the way from Italy.”

Edith frowned quizzically, examining the postmark on the Italian letter: Milan.

“It’s not mine,” she informed the man.

“You are Lady Sharpe, are you not?” He pointed to the handwritten name and address on the envelope. “Lady E. Sharpe?”

She nodded. “But I don’t know anyone in Italy.”

“Respectfully, Your Ladyship, it’s quite apparent that you do. Open it and find out.”

He seemed a bit too inquisitive, and so she simply took the letters without opening them. Outside, the promised storm had arrived, and as she looked for Thomas, the prospect of returning to Allerdale Hall was even more disconcerting than before. She never wanted to set foot in that terrible place again, and to travel through this deluge to get there was more than she could stomach.

She found Thomas and Finlay at the loading dock. Thomas proudly showed Edith the contents of several wooden crates as Finlay diligently carried them and put them on their wagon.

“This is a valve controller,” Thomas said, showing her a shiny part. Her father’s daughter, she recognized its function. “I had it fabricated separately in Glasgow. This could make all the difference. Think lucky thoughts, Edith. The Sharpe Mines might reopen if this thing cooperates.”

He laughed and embraced her, and she held her mail tight. He was so excited about his machined parts that she didn’t want to change the subject by showing him the strange letter from Italy.

At least, that was what she told herself. Because he did not believe her, a rift was growing between them. She had thought he would be sympathetic, but he had gently mocked her. Marriage decreed that two halves became one whole, but she felt separated from him now. She didn’t feel that she could bring her fears to him with the hope of obtaining relief. She must arm herself against them, then, in any way she could.

“Look at the storm,” he said breathlessly. “Do you see? Just in time. In a few days we won’t be able to leave the house.”

The thought appalled her. There was nothing in this world that she wanted less.

The shipping agent overheard him and deferentially approached. “The storm is getting worse. I suggest you stay the night, Your Lordship. We have a small room downstairs, if you’d like.”

Thomas looked to Edith, who happily nodded her consent. She would do anything to stay out of the storm.

And away from that house.

* * *

It
was
a small room, just as the man had warned, but warm and cozy, with a humble quilt on the bed and a fire in the grate. To Edith, it was the most wonderful room she had ever been in, never mind the elegant hotels they had stayed at in London.

Now they were propped up in bed, still in their clothes, and she felt a bit shy at the prospect of readying for sleep in a more intimate manner. They had still not been
together
.

The depot manager had brought them tea and some broth and bread, and Edith devoured it, famished. Assuming that she would have to occupy herself on the return trip home once Thomas had his new valves and gears to examine, she had brought along her manuscript. Thomas had spotted it and asked to read it, and she was both flattered and a bit abashed. The ghostly subject matter would only serve to reinforce his belief that she had imagined the horrendous visitation of his mother’s ghost. But he seemed most insistent upon reading her new pages, and began to read it aloud:

“‘A house as old as this one becomes, in time, a living thing. It may have timbers for bones and windows for eyes and sitting here, all alone, it can go slowly mad. It starts holding on to things, keeping them alive when they shouldn’t be, inside its walls. Things like memories, emotions, people.’”

He paused, then went on. “‘Some of them good, some are bad… and some… some should never be spoken about again.’”

He kissed her on the forehead.

“This is rather good. I am so glad to see you’re still at it. And this fellow ‘Cavendish’—your hero—has he no fears? No doubts?”

Edith looked straight at him. “Of course he does. He’s a haunted man.”

“Well, I like him. There’s a darkness to him. But does he make it all the way through?”

She shrugged. “It’s entirely up to him.”

“What do you mean?” He smiled quizzically at her.

“Characters talk to you. Transform. Make choices,” she replied.

“Choices,” he echoed.

“Of who they become.”

He grew quiet. And then he gestured to their room. “This is quite dismal, I’m sorry to say. But at least it is warm.”

She moved closer to him, hoping then, to close the rift. “I like it much better.”

“Better than?” he asked.

Surely he must know what she meant. “The house.”

He thought a moment, and then he laughed. He looked almost boyish, his cares lifting from him. “It
is
much better, isn’t it? I love being away too.”

“Away from Allerdale Hall?” she persisted. She wanted him to say it. To realize that it was a real possibility. It would mean the world to her.

“Yes. I do.” He exhaled. “I feel as if I can breathe.”

They embraced and she laid her head on his chest. His heart thumped, then quickened. Perhaps her nearness was affecting him.

“You could sell the house.” She mentally crossed her fingers, willing him to consider the possibility that would free them both. To emerge from that dank, terrifying place and live in the wide sunny world.

“Sell it? Impossible.” Then he went silent for a moment, as if reconsidering. “As it is, it would be worthless.”

Hope grew in her. He
was
actually pondering it.

“Just leave it then.” Close it up and walk away. Why not? All the money that they had planned to use to restore it could be put into the mine operations. Or traveling the world. Thomas could hire managers the same as her father did for projects that were too far away for him to oversee himself.

“That, too, is impossible, I’m afraid,” Thomas replied. “It is all we have: our name, our heritage, our pride.”

“I left everything
I
had,” she riposted, though her tone was very gentle. She wanted to bring him around to her point of view. This was a very serious discussion. “Everything I was. Behind.” She let that sink in, and then she went on. “We could live elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” He sounded genuinely puzzled, as if the thought had never dawned on him before.

“London, Paris,” she tempted him.

His face softened and he took on a daydream expression, seeing their future in a different way. “Paris. Paris is delightful, yes.”

“Anywhere you want.” And then she thought of the letter and added leadingly, “Milan…”

He jerked. “Why would you say Milan?”

“Or Rome,” she covered, but she knew then that Milan was significant. What
was
in that letter? “Have you been to Italy?”

“Yes. Once.” Then his mood shifted. Darkened. As if he was burdened by Allerdale Hall again. “But I can’t leave Lucille. And the house. The house is all we are. Our heritage, our name.”

He was saying the same thing over and over.

“The past, Thomas. You’re always looking to the past,” she murmured. “You won’t find me there. I’m here.”

He said softly, “I’m here too.”

Yes, Thomas. Yes.

Willing her love for him to make him listen, she daringly moved on top of him. Her gown clung to her body and her desire for him emboldened her as she kissed him and moved sinuously against him. True, she was chaste, but she was also this man’s wife. So she kissed him passionately, and put her arms around him; and she felt his response. He wanted her as much.

No, more.

As in his workroom, their passion ignited. Seemingly oblivious to his scorched and bandaged hand, he pushed her onto her back and undid his trousers, snaking them down to avail himself of her body; she opened herself to him and then he was thrusting into her—
finally, finally
—and the pleasure was indescribable.

Oh, my Thomas, my love—

They were one. Finally making love. And as bliss lifted her up to the stars, she believed that all would be well. They would love, and they would live.

Far away from Allerdale Hall.

* * *

In the morning, the world was new. There was more kissing and lovemaking, and Chinese tea and fresh bread still warm from the oven. Sunlight gave the village a charming luster; the snow, though falling, was gentle.

Edith didn’t mind the ride back so much; she and Thomas talked the entire time. They were together now, all barriers down, and things would be different. They
would
leave. They
would
travel.

He kissed her when he helped her down in front of the house, drinking in the sight of her, reluctantly parting from her to assist Finlay with the crates. Gliding into the house, she gazed up at the opening in the ceiling and watched the snowflakes sparkle as they floated down, soft as feathers. She removed her bonnet.

“Lucille!” she greeted her sister-in-law. “Lucille!”

There was no answer, but she could hear a clattering in the kitchen. They had eaten their bread and tea hours ago, and something more substantial would be nice. And something to take the chill off the long drive through the countryside. Even that bitter tea.