Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization by Nancy Holder Page B

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