We Could Get By

iii.

Nelllie's own face, proud and lovely, watched her from the confines of the silver frame. Sweeney's hand rested on her shoulder, and her newly-manicured hands sat demurely on Toby's shoulders. The photograph became her favorite thing in their house the instant she saw it. Of course, mere seconds after she had torn into the surprisingly festive wrapping paper that bleak Christmas morning, she knew exactly what Sweeney had gotten her. The photograph had been all her idea, but he had gotten it framed, rimmed in filigree silver permanence. He had watched her open it, as if somewhere behind his dark eyes' expectant stare, he was the slightest bit afraid that she might not like it. 

Of course, his fears were entirely unfounded, and the shiny new frame that surrounded her little family earned Sweeney a generous peppering of grateful kisses. Nellie had promptly cleared space for it above their sofa, the wallpaper welcoming the photograph with open arms. 

He had gone from unpredictable and intimidating to calm and cornered, a watered-down version of the explosive man that had come skulking into her shop that dreary afternoon. There was a placid sort of tenderness to him that had bloomed since they had left London. He was still looming and frightening-looking (though someone that tall could hardly seem anything but), but he let her kiss him and hold his hand and be close to him. That alone was something to be grateful for; only a year before, he hadn't even allowed her company unless it was convenient for him. He was softer, she thought, even with the dark rings around his sunken eyes.

Nellie wondered, sometimes, how different things may have been if she had married Benjamin Barker, the bright man who'd taken up residence above her pie shop, rather than his hunching shadow. Not too different. He could change his name all he wanted, wrap vengeance around his shoulders like armor, but he was still himself. At the end of the day when he stole into bed like a thief, he shed his weariness, let it drop to the floor without a sound. The man who slept in a disheveled heap beside her was still that same man she had met all those lifetimes ago. Older and wearier, yes, but he was Benjamin all the same. The silvery moonlight lapped gently at his form while he slept, washing away the things that had taken hold of him like barnacles to the pier.

He must have seen something lovely in her. Even if it was just the fact that he was safe with her, that was something. Nellie knew she had been an attractive young woman, knew that years ago, a lot of the younger lads had come into her shop to gawk at her while they ate their pies. And Nellie knew that she was still attractive, even if she had grown dark and morose since Albert's leg had given out. She just hoped that Sweeney thought so, too. He had married her, after all, and before that had made a habit of creeping routinely into her bed when they still lived on Fleet Street. There was a certain hunger in his eyes for her still, though she had no way of knowing whether it was love that possessed him or lust. The two go hand-in-hand, though, don't they? They weren't like the young couples who walked, all gooey-eyed and arm-in-arm, past her shop window. Too old to call themselves lovers, but she knew they were in love in their own way.

-

The gentle breeze blowing in off the sea stirred Nellie's striped skirt. Their after-supper walks through town and out to the beach had quickly become her favorite part of the day. The sand sprawled out warm and white as snow around them, empty save for a few lone people dotting the landscape like ants. She hoisted herself up onto one of the big black rocks gathered around the base of the lighthouse, arms outstretched to keep her balance. Sweeney tilted his head back to eye her uncertainly. She closed her eyes, leaned her face into the gentle caress of the salty air. It's like flying. The idea of flying, however, hardly appealed to her now as much as it once had.