The Aftermath

Chapter eight

Returning home after seeing her daughter dance with Elijah, Edith tried to calm down from the tragic memories of Thomas. And their waltz. Their beautiful, elegant European waltz.

Throwing her Thomas' coat over the hanger, she quickly ran up the stairs, avoiding Alan if he was in. Locking her door, she quickly rummaged through her wardrobe searching frantically for his shirt. There.

Holding it up in front of her, she hugged it, breathing in his scent. He smelled of coal, from the machine he passionately loved and she was proud of for him. Tragically she could never see how the mining would succeed because he was...

"No," Edith spoke out loud. Edith immediately got dressed, throwing her frock away without folding it or giving it to one of the maids. Wearing nothing but her undergarments, she put on Thomas' white loose shirt, fastening the ties above her collarbone. It was long enough to reach just above her knees.

Edith crept into bed like a child escaping a scolding parent, maybe she was, metaphorically. Maybe she was somehow escaping the scolding, harsh world. In her room she had Thomas, not personally, but mentally. She had her books, specifically Crimson Peak, where she would read late at night if she couldn't sleep. Re-reading the chapters describing him. Her beautiful Thomas.

Pulling the duvet over her, she curled into a ball and closed her eyes and dreamt of Thomas, and the life they could've lived. Away from Allerdale Hall, away from Alan McMichael, away from Lucille Sharpe. Away from everyone. Together they wouldn't need anyone.

"Good morning, miss," said a voice. Male, English.

She looked up.

The bluest eyes she had ever seen were focuses on her she blinked, riveted. The visitor's face was chiseled, his dark hair neatly arranged, yet some curls had refused to be tamed. Her writer's brain conjured words to describe him: astonishing, elegant, winning. He was dressed in a blue velvet suit that had at one time been resplendent-yes, another good word-perfectly cut to mood his slim build, but was now nearly threadbare at the cuffs. His ensemble did not speak poverty, precisely, but he was certainly well off. Yet he acknowledged her look with a sort of courtly grace that did speak of good manners and a cultivating upbringing.

Other words sprang to mind: uncommonly handsome.

Edith shot up from bed, screaming from the top of her lungs: "Thomas!" Suddenly a pair of warm arms wrapped themselves around her. Edith looked around her shoulder, and gaped. "You're here..."

Thomas beamed down at her, his perfect set of teeth showing, "of course, my darling, I will always be here." He tightened his hold on her, kissing her neck.

Edith rested her head on his chest as they both lay down together, listening to each other's breathing. "It's been so long," Edith whispered.

"It has, but you're strong, so strong, and you've raised our daughter perfectly, she's a beautiful young woman, just like you were." Thomas answered, rubbing his hands over Edith's arms, calming her.

"I wish you were here, she's just like you, an inventors mind, always wanting to make certain things," Edith smiled.

This made Thomas chuckle, Edith could feel it vibrate from her back. "You'll be here, in the morning?" Edith asked, although she knew the answer. Edith turned around fully, kneeling opposite Thomas.

Thomas tilted his head to the side, observing her, "you're so beautiful," he murmered, stroking her cheek and pushing her hair away from her. With his other hand he wrapped his fingers behind her neck, pushing her forward to him. Edith closed her eyes and waited.

Feeling his lips on hers was such a relief, everything felt calm again, like she was at the hotel believing he had left, but he was there, and he kissed her.

Then Edith woke up, and Thomas was gone.