Lizzie's Song

Chapter 25- Endings

It is 25 years to the day when Thomas left Allerdale Hall that Mr York dies. There are no grand rites, no fancy funeral, but a simple internment with words beside the grave from Brother Morton and Rebecca, draped in her greenery. There will be a gathering after Christmas at his home, his friends invited to share their memories. Thomas stays close to Lizzie, his arm around her waist. She is still as a stone. Her father's health faltered and failed quickly, his death only a week after the first signs of trouble. After he is in the ground, Thomas walks Lizzie back to her cottage and tucks her into bed. She turns away from him. He sits on the edge of the bed and rests his hand on her shoulder.

"Lizzie...what can I do for you, love?"

She shakes her head.

"Do you want me to rest beside you?"

Another no.

He sighs, not sure what else to offer, "I love you. Please, if there's anything at all you can think of, do tell me. I'm going to go make some supper. I hope you'll take some." She does not answer, so he leaves the room. He isn't the best cook, and there are moments of blatant terror standing over the stove hoping he hasn't accidentally poisoned the food when he drops something from cupboard too near the pot, but he has at least learned to cook potatoes. He cubes them small and tosses them in butter in the pan, letting them sizzle. He glances at the spice tins. He knows he can't actually poison anyone from the kitchen herbs. Anything that could harm anyone is kept in a locked cupboard in her workshop. She has always been incredibly careful with her witching tools.

He goes out to the henhouse in the yard and retrieves the day's eggs. Only a few in the cold season, but enough for them to eat. He thanks the hens before returning to the house. It is a habit he has learned from her. He finds her sitting on the edge of the open fireplace, teasing the flames to fuller health.

"Lizzie? Is something wrong?"

She shakes her head and sighs, "Everything."

He nods and hangs a kettle in the fire, "Coffee. It will help." He stands beside her, an arm on her shoulder. She rests against his leg, "What do you need from me in the coming days?"

She finds her notebook, "There will have to be someone to look after the jail. Thaddeus is rubbish at it. It will fall to me. But someone has to be there in the evenings and through the night in case of emergencies."

"What of Calum? Your father was training him."

"He isn't ready. Perhaps in a few years.""

"I'm not leaving you to it alone. I'll help. Please, Lizzie. Don't shut me out of this. Your father was family to me, too. You, Nathaniel, and he were all I had for how long? I may not grieve the same as you, but...don't think this isn't hard for me, too. I just want to know what I can do to help." He kneels on the floor beside her, his head resting against her side, "I aspire far more to be a York than a Sharpe. Your father was an honourable and kind man."

She strokes his hair, now more grey than black, "Thank you, Thomas. Would you like to be?" She clears her throat, a half-cough she's trying to hide.

"Use your notedbook, love. Please."

"Not for this."

It dawns on him what she has asked, "Are you...speaking of marriage?"

She nods.

He pauses, "I...I'm honoured. Deeply. But...I'm wary of it. You can understand why." He sees her expression shift subtly and quickly adds, "This isn't a 'no'- please don't think it is. But I've had four weddings. The first in a London parish church, another in a register's office in Edinburgh, and another in a fine estate garden in Milan. Then the last in beautiful Boston's courthouse in front of a judge. And I don't know if I can do it again." He gazes up at her, turning so he is on his knees facing her, "Please, forgive me this, Miss York. I love you. I act as your friend and husband in our own home, even though I am only one of those things. And I wish I had an easy answer for you. I want only to give you a 'yes' with absolutely no reservations."

She pulls out her notebook and flips to page past all her conversations where there is an old page pasted beside a letter in her own hand. He recognizes the page pasted in- it is the letter he wrote in case of his death.

He reads the other, "Miss Elizabeth York and Mr Thomas Sharpe, united in marriage at an indeterminate date in the future by Mrs Rebecca Doyle, witch and Brother Morton, solitary wandering monk. Banns, if possible, in honour of mother's traditions. Location: the village rose gardens when they are in full bloom- June or July? Dress: of her own making. His: yet to be determined. Flowers: Rebecca's fragrant herbs in a crown- no veil, no bouquet. Rings: from the family jewelery box. Attendees: those of our friends and family yet living. Entrance: holding hands, a choice, not someone being given away. Music: guitar, Mal. Witnesses: Father, Richard, Mal, Thad, Nate, Ezra, Victoria, Helga. After, a picnic on the square full of laughter and music."

Thomas brushes his fingers over the words, "When did you envision this?"

She takes the notebook from his hands and flips back to the page on which she has been writing, "Not long after I nearly lost you. I realized then how dear you were to me, even if neither of us were ready to admit it. You see the names of the dead on the list."

"It sounds like a beautiful dream. But...it scares me, Lizzie. I'm so sorry...I just...I can't." He drops back from kneeling to sit on his feet, his head hanging, shoulders slumped. She has put her father in the ground and he has failed her. But she doesn't seem to see it that way. She shifts to sit beside him and lifts his chin, peeking under to try to meet his eyes.

"Thomas, please look." He sighs and raises his eyes as she writes, "Love is more important than a ceremony. I know. I'm asking a lot of you. We don't have to do any of this. But I wanted to show you I've been thinking about marriage for a long time. Years. And I never asked because I knew how difficult it would be. I didn't know Father's death would hurt this much. And I didn't know how much it would make me think about my own life. I want to commit to you under the laws of this nation- and I would consider it an even more precious gift, given what you have been through.

"If you absolutely cannot, I understand. But please consider it. I will not ask again, not because I do not want to, but because I want you to be the one who makes the decision, not me by pressuring you."

He reads it twice, sets her notebook on the hearth, and takes her hands, "I love you. I would be lost without you. I wish-" She kisses him and stops his words. He only ends it when he remembers there are potatoes on the stove and eggs waiting. He pulls away and tells her, "Just one moment. I forgot I was cooking supper." She waits while he scrambles eggs and seasons the potatoes. They eat at the hearth and he pours coffee. He still can't bear to drink tea. They sip slowly, warding off the evening chill cuddled close by the fire.

Lizzie grieves quietly for the loss of her father, wanting very much to fall asleep and wake up to it all having been a nightmare. But she knows it isn't. She starts crying, clutching her mug, unable to hide this heartbreak or the realization that she may never marry Thomas, something that did not bother her nearly so much a few weeks ago.

He slips the mug from her hand and sets it on the hearth, "Come here." He opens his arms and she cuddles against him. He lets her cry, wondering how many of her tears are for her father and how many are for his failure to be her husband. She cries herself to sleep. He carries her to the bed, tucks her in, washes the dishes, and stokes the fire. Then he joins her.

It is a cold night. The wind pushes under windows and doors. He cuddles close to Lizzie, remembering the winds that would shudder through Allerdale Hall and the flares of the fireplace. 25 years he has been away from it, and yet it still haunts him. He squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms around Lizzie, and holds tight, hoping the memories disappear quickly. But there are faces in the darkness, some he recognizes, and others that are distorted and covered in red clay. He opens his eyes, horrified, but there is nothing in the dark.

Thomas whispers a prayer to the night, "Please, whatever is listening- don't let my ghosts hurt Lizzie."

As he drifts off to sleep, he swears he can hear Enola's voice whisper, "She is safe, darling Thomas. We watch over you both."