Free Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization by Nancy Holder

further tonight. I just can’t.” Weariness overcame her. “Good night.”
    He was sorrowful as she closed her door, shutting him out.
    For now, anyway.
    * * *
    “My love is like a red, red rose…”
    The next morning, the sweet old tune that had been his love song to his wife played on the phonograph. Cushing stood in the locker room of the gentlemen’s club in his robe, pensive and triumphant. Edith had been prevented from making the mistake of a lifetime. If Sir Thomas Sharpe had managed to pull off his loathsome scheme, Edith would not have
had
a life. The scandal would have ruined her.
    That morning, Cushing felt especially close to his dear departed wife. When he gazed into the mirror at his gentlemen’s club, he could almost see her beautiful face. Not the horror that they had buried, but the sweet girl she had been when they’d wed.
    I’ve kept our daughter safe all these years
, he silently told her.
She is still safe.
    Edith was an heiress, and he supposed there would be other Sir Thomas Sharpes who would come sniffing after her money. He would do whatever it took to protect her. But he hoped he would never again plunge her into such pain and suffering.
    Morosely, he prepared to shave. The attendant arrived with clean towels, making all ready for Cushing with a twist of the washroom basin’s hot water faucet.
    “How’s the water today, Benton?” he asked with forced cheerfulness.
    “Piping hot. Just the way you like it, sir,” Benton replied as he turned on one of the showers as well. The room began to steam up.
    “Very well, then,” Cushing said. “Be kind enough to order me some ham and eggs. I’ll start with coffee, if it’s hot. And a sip of port.”
    “Right away, sir. And the
Times
?”
    “If you’d be so kind.” Perhaps there would be a short squib about the departure of Sir Thomas Sharpe, baronet, from the fair shores of America. And good riddance.
    Mist clouded his vision as he prepared to disrobe. Then a shadow flitted behind him, startling him, and he turned to see if Benton had returned.
    There was no one there.
    But there had been someone. And he had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t alone. Any member would announce himself. It was curious and rather off-putting that they had not.
    Perhaps it was his imagination.
    And still…
    Feeling rather silly, he checked the lockers. Of course they were empty.
    Hot water was spilling over the basin; in his distraction he had let it run too long. His flat razor fell, the soap brick too. With a grunt, he bent to pick them up, nicking his finger. Clay-red blood swirled down the drain.
    There it was, the shadow again. Then someone grabbed him by the cuff of his robe and the back of his head. Before he could react, his head was slammed down against the basin’s corner. There was no pain, only shock. He staggered, went down. The figure loomed over him, grabbed his head, and smashed it again and again against the porcelain. He heard his bones crush as his nose shattered.
    Edith.
    As his forehead fractured.
    Again.
    Edi
—
    As gouts of scarlet blood gushed out of the ruin of his skull.
    Again.
    E
—
    As he did not move, and the blood plumed into the clear, boiling water.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    H OW SHE HAD managed to doze off, Edith had no idea. But she woke slowly to awareness sprawled on top of her sheets in her bedroom, still fully dressed. What a trite cliché; she had cried herself to sleep.
    Annie was in her room, and she was holding a sheaf of papers that Edith recognized at once: the most recent chapter of her now-hated manuscript. Thomas had made good on his promise to return it, and the sight rekindled every bad feeling that had haunted her that night.
    “What is it, Annie?” Edith murmured.
    “This was delivered this morning, miss. But I didn’t want to wake you up any earlier.”
    “It’s all the same, Annie, thank you.” She indicated the wastebasket, but the maid hesitated.
    “The letter, too?” Annie asked.
    “The