Lizzie's Song

Chapter 11- A Prelude

The night before they are to travel to Carlisle, Lizzie delivers supper and stays to eat with Thomas. He does not know what to say, so he says nothing. It is only after she has loaded the dishes onto the cart that he speaks.

"Can you stay just a little longer tonight? I may not have the company of friends ever again."

She sits beside him on the cot and he offers to share the quilt across his lap. She tugs it over to her own and slides closer to him, their arms touching. He angles a little so she has space, but she shakes her head and gently turns him back, sliding her arm around his shoulders, giving him a little hug.

"Lizzie, is this...proper?"

She leans into him and shakes her head before sitting up and taking her notebook out of her apron pocket, "It is your last night with friends. Nothing has to be proper. Tomorrow, to Carlisle, where you will await trial in a cell alone. And then you will stand in the cage in the court and listen to your condemnation. I do not think 'proper' matters- if there are things to be said, this is the only chance to say them."

He reads, "It will be over soon."

She turns his chin towards her and leans her forehead against his. His eyes close, as do hers. She rests one hand against his neck, her thumb gently tracing his jaw.

"Lizzie...please. Don't." He leans into her hand in spite of his protest.

His eyes still closed, he feels her lips lightly brush his before he knows the kiss is coming. She hesitates and he waits, still, unwilling to break the spell, but also unwilling to advance it. She presses her lips against his and then starts to stand, ready to leave quickly.

He catches her arm, "No. Don't go. Not yet."

She stops and writes, "I'm sorry, but there are some things better left to actions than words. I should go. You do not need to try to come up with a response or reciprocation."

"Lizzie, I want to make a clean break with this world. I don't want to leave any broken hearts behind. I will respectfully maintain distance, no matter what might have been in another life.

"And what of your own heart? I will do what is right by my own. If I did nothing , I would never have the chance."

"I will not put you through the hell of losing someone you care dearly for, nor will I allow myself to regret that I must hang. It will be too hard, Lizzie."

She sits and pauses before writing furiously fast, "Hard? Death is not hard. Death is easy. You know where someone is when they are dead, and there can be final goodbyes, even after they have gone. You never have to wonder if someone wanders, if they still think of you, or if they have found someone else to take to bed. Death is just...death. Hard is knowing your mother tried to kill you and slit her belly on the moor (but also never letting your father know you know- and he shan't know, understand?) without ever being able to ask why she did what she did. Hard is losing your voice at fifteen. Hard is having to learn other ways to speak. Hard is having every young man who has ever had interest in you (and who you have felt something for in return) want you only because you would be a silent wife- having half a dozen courtships end when they made a comment that revealed their true nature. Hard is knowing you are valued not because you are inventive. Not because you think. Not because you can play the piano better than your cousin, though no one asks you to because you cannot also lead the singing. Hard is composing music in your head that no one will ever hear except perhaps your father. Hard is knowing the few young men you have yearned for want one thing and one thing only, and you would be a casualty of that lust. Hard is when they don't take no for an answer and Ezra and Nathaniel pry him off you, thankfully while you are yet unharmed, and drag him out to beat him close to death, stopping only because Malachi arrives to drag him to jail, every ounce of his self control employed in order to not pull the trigger and leave him in a shallow grave. Hard is bringing three meals a day to a prisoner who threatens to do unspeakable things to you before nailing you, cruciform, the door of the church, naked, because he assumes all girls are little whores. Hard is never telling your father because you fear he would never let you take care of another prisoner again after. Hard is knowing that wicked people walk among the free, unremarkable people who will land in this jail for horrifying reasons. Hard is giving up on finding love because of all this by the time you are twenty-two. Hard is keeping your emotions completely hidden so no one can use them against you. It is also knowing you must say something when you finally do feel something because there is an end date on your opportunity to do so. Everything in my life is, in one way or another, hard. Bless the boys, Ezra and Nathaniel, they try to make it easier and treat me as their younger sister. And my father, who sees what I allow him to see and trusts that I can choose my own life. And my dear aunt Helga, who is fearless and brash and a mother when I have had none, even if her daughter and I rarely get along. And Thaddeus and Rebecca, who have taken me into their home on more than one occasion when I have needed to leave my father to his work and learn something new. Her witching is also my trade, though not one I make well known. And bless Richard and Malachi, who have always been uncles, in that they are protective and trusting and have both taught me the rifleman's art, even if I am an impatient student with imprecise aim.

"So yes, Sir Thomas, I delight in your company and I crave more of it. Yes, I kissed you and meant it- I would do so again if you would permit it, with the hopes you would reciprocate. And because of that, there is one less hard thing in my life. You know. And I can ride with Father to possibly deliver you to your death with a clear head and no questions as to whether or not I did right by my heart."

She hands him the notebook and he reads every word, then reads it again, aghast at what she has experienced and deeply moved by her perspective and admiration. He asks for her pencil and she hands it to him.

He writes after her entry, "Dearest Lizzie. You are so very strong. Your resilience to all you have written above is stunning. You are a bright and caring young woman and any man would be lucky to have you by his side. But it will not be me, not even as your dear friend. I cannot go to the gallows believing that I am leaving someone. I want to leave this world with no one who will bother to remember me. I am just another prisoner, just another man who has led a worthless life and thrown away anything I could have done. So please, do not take this as a reflection on you. You are a remarkable woman. Your cooking is delightful, your company exactly what I have needed in these few days. And your kindness is an inspiration- I do not deserve it and yet you give it freely, knowing what I have done. You have responded to adversity with grace and strength, the opposite to how Lucille and I responded to our lives. You will do great things in this world.

"To have received your kindness and company as often as I have, I consider myself blessed.

"In any other life, I would have kissed you back and made it clear that I, too, would happily let this blossom so that we could see if it would sustain us or fade."

He closes the notebook and hands her the pencil, "Don't read it until after they have taken me to the gallows." She bows her head and he takes her hand, "Thank you, Miss Lizzie. For every moment of your time. Now please, go. I do not wish to upset you further."

She gathers his dishes and pushes the cart away, her notepad tucked under her arm. She busies herself with washing dishes and laundry to keep from thinking about the morning. And when she is done with her work, she props the door to the jail open and sits down at the piano to play the songs she hears in her head until it is dark. When it is, she closes the door and goes to bed.

Thomas lays in bed, listening to the piano, it's music strong and driven, yet overlayed with a light layer of higher melody that seems inspired, perhaps, by the ragtime music he briefly heard in America. They had passed a theatre on the way from the Buffalo docks. His sister had dragged him along, disgusted at what was being done to such an elegant instrument. He had been fascinated by the new sound. And here it appeared in Lizzie's composition. He wonders how she has heard it.

Mr York spends his evening readying the carriage. It is no short ride to Carlisle and the trip will take most of the day. When he returns from the stable, he notices the house is spotless. He checks the bedroom as he passes- Lizzie is asleep early. He knows conversation with Thomas probably upset her, but he trusts that she will tell him if there is anything they need to discuss. Lizzie has always been private, even as a child. Even before she lost her voice. She will come to him when she needs to. He tucks in early as well.

In the jail after dark, Thomas finishes his coffee and curls up under the quilt. He decides that it will stay here where it can be cared for. There is no sense in risking someone damaging, or worse, destroying it, after he is dead. He drapes an arm over his eyes to block out the last little bits of flickering lamplight and falls asleep.