Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization (12 page)

“Dear Lucille,” Thomas broke in happily. “It’s so good to see you!”

As he went to embrace her, she threw off her cape, preventing him. Then she regarded Edith with a cool eye.

“I see you made it, Edith,” she said, which was a rather strange thing to say. “How was London?”

“A blur. A dream,” Edith said, putting aside her concerns about the woman. Perhaps Lucille had engaged someone from the village to prepare the house for their homecoming. And truly, London
had
been a dream. Despite her father’s wealth and position, she had not traveled much. She and Thomas had seen many of the sights that had been in her book about England, just as depicted, and Thomas had seemed so happy revealing his country to her.

Thomas said happily, “We went to the Albert Hall, Lucille. A concert. So grand. So wonderful.”

Indeed, they had listened to a Chopin program, and Thomas had remarked that Lucille would have loved it. He had spoken often of his sister during their excursions, and Edith had been touched by his devotion to her. It had reminded her of Alan and Eunice, and she had felt a pang of homesickness. She occasionally caught herself talking about her father, and would cut herself short because she did not want Thomas to think she wasn’t happy. But Thomas had encouraged her to talk about him, reminding her that she was still grieving.

Lucille bristled a little. “I see. Well
I
went to the post office. Your machine parts are here from Birmingham. Two heavy crates. You’ll need Finlay to fetch them.” She spoke stiffly, clearly a bit jealous of their fine time. But one went on a honeymoon with one’s bride, not one’s sister. Surely Lucille understood that. Perhaps they could take a trip together, the two Sharpe sisters-in-law, while Thomas worked on his machine. It would be difficult to be parted from Thomas for even a few days, however.

Lucille cocked her head. “Edith? Is there something the matter with you?”

Thomas looked at Edith too. His warm glow dimmed a bit. “Give us a moment,” he told Lucille. “She’s a little shaken.”

Lucille hung up her winter things. “Goodness. Why is that?”

He shrugged. “She saw something. A shadow, a reflection. It frightened her.”

Lucille favored her with a condescending smile. “A shadow? Oh, darling, all that lives in this house are shadows and reflections and creaks and groans. So you’d better soothe that boundless imagination of yours from now on.”

Edith considered. She was tired and Allerdale Hall
was
filled with “shadows and reflections and creaks and groans.” After all, she had imagined that the woman had been having a cigarette, yet she smelled no smoke.

And as she turned her head, she caught her own reflection in another mirror, and she had to admit that despite presentable hair, she looked a sight: pallid complexion, dark circles beneath her eyes. She barely recognized herself.

She determined not to pursue it, at least not when they had just arrived home and she needed to create a bond with her new sister-in-law. However, the house was much more unsettling than she had expected, and she
would
have to rein in her imagination.

“I need a proper welcome, that is all,” she declared, embracing Lucille. “From this day forward, the house will contain nothing but friendship and love and warmth.”

From Lucille’s posture, Edith could tell that her new sister-in-law was looking over Edith’s shoulder at Thomas. Smiling at him, she hoped. Letting him know that she was pleased by Edith’s overture.

“Warmth would be an excellent start,” Lucille said. “Thomas, your bride is frozen.”

Lucille unhooked the key ring from her waist and turned to go. She seemed harried and a bit tired.

Thomas smiled at Edith. “I’ll take you upstairs, my darling. Start a fire at once. You can run a hot bath. You’ll need to let the water run. The pipes will carry some red clay at first but then the water will clear.”

Abashed that Lucille should perform housekeeping tasks while she bathed, Edith thought to reject the bath in favor of assisting her. But truthfully she
was
frozen, and so exhausted that she would be of no use to anyone. She vowed that she would lift the weight from Lucille’s shoulders, or, at the least, take on her fair share. She herself was not used to performing work customarily given to servants, but she was game to learn, and did know how to run a house.

“Lucille, whenever it’s convenient, may I have a copy of the house keys, please?”

“You don’t need one,” Lucille said quickly. Then, in a more measured tone, she added, “For now. There are parts of the house that are unsafe. It will take a few days for you to familiarize yourself. Then, should you still feel that you need them, I’ll have copies made.”

Edith let herself be satisfied with that answer, but she made a pledge to herself to be useful to Lucille. The other woman had carried the burden of maintaining this enormous house for too long, and it was clear to Edith that the house was winning.

We shall turn that tide together
, she vowed.

Then she followed her bridegroom toward the lift, anticipating a nice hot bath and then, perhaps then… the bridal chamber.

I
T WATCHED
.

The bride was in the bathroom, standing in her chemise and corset as she turned on the taps. Steam spilled from the faucet and the first few sputters were red as blood.

“Oh, God,” she cried.

There is no God here
, it thought.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

The recalcitrant heaters on both sides of the tub began to knock, the pipes vibrating like a death rattle, then growing louder, a horrible sound. Rude and demanding. Then the water ran clear and hot. Not everything was ruined and decaying. Not yet, anyway.

She removed her eyeglasses and placed them in the basin. She climbed into the tub. Quite a dainty thing. Blond hair, a distinction. American. A novelty.

Above her glasses, in the mirror, a handprint bloomed.

Busy tonight, then, inspecting the bride. What was she like?

* * *

Belowstairs, in the scullery, it made another observation:

“What is this?” the sister asked. Her voice was clenched with worry, a tinge of panic. “What is she playing at?”

“I have no idea,” the brother replied, graduating the flame in the copper heater. Ah ha: caring for the comfort of the innocent in the tub. Making sure her bath was hot, and the water for her tea as well. Laying the traps. These two, these dark two. How it loved them. Wind them up—

“The dog.” The sister was agitated. There were beads of perspiration on her forehead. “You said you’d killed the dog.”

His face tensed. Was it with apology, or excuse? “I left it on its own,” he confessed. “I thought…”

“How has that thing survived? All this time?” she wondered aloud. “On scraps, I suppose. As we all do.”

Then his face softened, and the love he bore his sister came through. “We won’t have to do that anymore.” His voice held promise, certainty.

“Won’t we?” She scowled. “The money is not here, is it?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

She stomped to the stove and readied a kettle of boiling water. Then she selected a red tin of tea and poured the water through the leaves into the pot. Next she inspected the cups and rejected the one with a chip in it, placing perfect cup and saucer together. The tea service was
cloisonné
, a family heirloom. Beautiful. There were so few treasures left.

Lucille moved close to her brother, perhaps as close as his bride would stand, and he did not move aside. Distracted, perhaps, as she prepared a tea tray for him to take upstairs to Edith. Perhaps… guilty.

Haunted.

“Once she signs the final papers, she will be gone,” Lucille said. “In the meantime, don’t make another mistake.”

Looking troubled, yet saying nothing, he put away the red tea tin and picked up the tray.

* * *

Edith would never have thought it possible, but she was beginning to warm up as she soaked in the claw-foot tub. It had been lovingly cleaned and she had added a few handfuls of the fine bath salts she had packed in her trousseau. The scent of roses brought vague memories of their wedding. She had moved through the ceremony like a sleepwalker, and she wished she remembered more of it. She had still been in shock.

The wind blew past the windows, howling; the panes rattled in the round leaded window above her. Edith sank a little deeper into her bath.

Then she thought she heard a noise: a whisper, perhaps, or someone… crying? She tried to hear over the sudden triphammer of her heart. Lucille had been right about the need to rein in her active imagination. She leaned back and allowed the steam to relax her. Yet she found herself replaying the episode with the elevator. It
was
an enormous house, and Lucille had not been there when they’d arrived. Someone could have slipped into the house while Finlay was unloading Edith’s trunks from the carriage. True, there were no other homes for miles around, and the village was far away, but a disgruntled servant, perhaps, or some other person… Thomas and Lucille hadn’t shown the slightest bit of curiosity about the possibility of an intruder.

They’ve lived here all their lives
, she reminded herself.

There was a rustling in the bedroom. She jerked, listening.

“Thomas?” she called. He had promised to bring her some tea.

Then the little dog trotted up to the edge of the tub with the red rubber ball in its mouth.

“No, not now,” Edith murmured.

But the winsome pup whined and wagged its tail, insistent. She smiled; she could see how the plucky little thing had survived out on the heath.

“Oh, all right.” She reached out—the air was bracing—and took up the ball. “Fetch!” She threw it and the dog took off like a shot, flying out of the bathroom into the gloom.

Edith thought she heard the rustling again. But still no Thomas. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her call. They had yet to be…
familiar
with one another. He had never even seen her in her nightdress. The mysteries of the marriage bed remained such. But now, in their home… perhaps he was laying a hot water bottle between the sheets and stoking the fire. It moved her that a baronet should perform such menial duties. This would not stand. As soon as she could transfer her funds, the Sharpes would live as they once had.

The dog returned victorious, miniature jaw champed down on the ball, and it dropped the prize at the base of the tub once more.

“Shh, quiet now,” she told it, still listening for Thomas. She wondered what she should do; she had not brought all her nightwear in the bathroom, assuming she could slip into the bedroom to make herself more presentable. Or not, if Thomas was of a mind…

The dog yipped and tapped its nails on the tile, impatient.

“Oh, all right, fetch,” she said again. And she threw the ball once more. It ran off; in a flash, the furry creature reappeared, ball in mouth, barking, even more excited.

She threw the ball yet again and the pup ran after it
again.
She waited, one ear pricked for the sounds in the bedroom. She could still hear someone in there. Dear Lord, could it be Finlay? If he was the only servant, he might even be unpacking her clothing. The thought embarrassed her. She would have to do something. But first, she’d gather up the dog and keep it with her. There was no telling which parts of the house were unsafe, as Lucille put it, and she wouldn’t want the pup to crash through a weak section of the floor or lose itself in a warren of cluttered rooms.

Seconds ticked by, and the dog did not return. Perhaps a full minute. Her anxiety began to rise. She half-rose from the water, absolutely certain that someone was in the bedroom. Someone who by now should have made their presence known.

This is off
, she thought.
This is strange.

She thought again of the woman in the elevator, and gooseflesh broke out all over her body, even the parts submerged in the steaming water. Then the dog trotted back into the bathroom. But this time it did not have its toy. It sat proudly, awaiting praise.

“Doggie? Come on, silly. Where is the ball?” she prompted it. It just stared at her in its merry way.

She heard a
thump
.

And the ball came bouncing back.

By itself.

* * *

It watched.

Blurred by shadow, a slender figure moved in the bedroom. Dark, ghostly, lurching awkwardly, long scrawny arms groping the air like a blind beggar, movements spectral and disjointed. Staggering, unnaturally stooped, as if this time and place were not its time and place.

The bride, so innocent, rose like Venus from the tub and reached for her spectacles. Her trembling made her clumsy and she only succeeded in dropping them. They clattered on the hard tile but did not break.

In the bedroom, the figure jerked. Then, drawn by the sound, it peeked around the corner, almost timidly, and pulled the sliding door open.

Would they see one another?

The bride finally succeeded in retrieving her foggy, wet glasses and she looped them around her ears. As the condensation cleared, she stepped from the tub and wrapped herself in a robe.