by SincereJester

[Well, dear readers, we have reached the moment where Lucille and Thomas encounter their biggest fear…and where you can choose whether this fic continues. Read on and let me know; there’s certainly more story for me to record, if wanted. ]

Part 9

Rain did fall that night, but it was light, and the morning
sun shone bright on the funeral procession. It was lavish, befitting a
noblewoman, although Lucille thought it a waste of their newly regained
finances. She took some comfort that their mother would be buried in that
crimson clay next to her tyrant of a husband forever, but it was a small
comfort.

She played her part of the mourning daughter so well. She
had stolen away her own now well-hidden mementos, but asking for the lock of
Mother’s hair had seemed so sentimental a gesture, one they had indulged her in
so readily. She ran her fingertips over the silver-white hank of hair in her
pocket as the funeral carriage rolled along.

The church was a distance from the town, and the roads were
soft from the rainfall. The going was slow and difficult, even as the sun rose
higher in the sky. By the time they arrived it was near midday, the heat even
more humid and oppressive than the day before. The dark procession filed into
the welcome cool of the stone and brick chapel, fanning themselves as the vicar
droned on with his memorial service, pausing every once and awhile to mop his
brow. Reluctantly they trudged out at the conclusion of his words, the Sharpe
children clad in their black mourning garments, pale faces properly sad and
eyes downcast as they followed the mahogany coffin to the family mausoleum.
They stood, hand and hand, as the pall bearers descended through the iron gates
and elaborate carved archway to the dark depths of the crypt. The pall bearers
soon re-emerged, their boots and cuffs stained with red clay. The flowers
Lucille laid at the gate wilted in heat.

They were the only children in the group that assembled in
the parlor of the boarding house. The heat made the room close and stuffy, and
the seemingly unrelenting parade of unfamiliar faces began to tire them. It was
unfortunate that they could not have held the visitations at Allerdale Hall,
but that was simply out of the question. Word had been sent to Aunt Florence,
but of course she would not have been able to arrive in time.

The Sharpe children found themselves sitting stiffly on a
parlor sofa while the undertaker, the vicar, the inspector, Sir Harold, Mr.
McFarlane, and various underlings milling around gathered in small groups
discussing in hushed tones what were no doubt important matters. Lucille had
overheard the undertaker’s angry exclamation of the intrusion of disreputable
reporters circulating lurid rumors of Lady Beatrice’s grisly demise, how
disrespectful and outright scandalous that any word had gotten out to the
press…He had been arguing with Inspector Foot, who answered him with a terse
reminder that they were still searching for suspects, criminals who had done
the deed. They had gone completely silent when they noticed Lucille’s presence
of course, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard them. Not that they would ever
know the truth. Lucille had repeated her lies so many times that she
half-believed them herself. Occasionally they would glance over at them: Thomas
fixed his gaze on the carpet pattern, while Lucille stared unblinking back at
them as if daring them to ignore her presence.  

They weren’t
overlooked for long. Despite the circumstances of the day, there were matters
that needed  attention, and as these
matters directly affected them, well, there was no reason to delay. Lady
Beatrice’s solicitor Mr. McFarlane stood up as if he was holding court, and
declared that he had recently been apprised of Lady Beatrice’s wishes and the
current status of the Sharpe estate. Although this had been done in the
presence of the children, he was required by law to make those details known to
those in the room.  Clearing his throat
importantly, he shuffled several documents and began to read.

Lucille didn’t blink, didn’t react outwardly at all, in
fact, but Thomas could sense her growing agitation as McFarlane droned on about
Thomas’ wardship in Surrey, of the allowance to be given to Aunt Florence for
his expenses, of the arrangements for his attendance at boarding school
there…and of his departure immediately concluding these proceedings. Thomas
started, looking around in a daze. Immediately? He stared at the emissary from
Surrey as the graceful man stepped forward, gesturing that Thomas should join
him.

Hesitantly Thomas stood. “What of my sister?” he asked,
reaching back for her. She grasped his hand, and he could feel her trembling.
His own heart was pounding; the sick flutter of butterfly wings careening in
his belly. He was the lord of Allerdale Hall now, the last male heir, and he
would protect her. They were free now; they could do as they pleased.

Mr. McFarlane frowned at the interruption. “Lady Beatrice
was quite insistent on Miss Lucille’s arrangement,” he replied. “However there
are some complications on the details of its implementation, given
her….unexpected demise. Although milady indicated that she had already selected
a specific location for Miss Lucille’s advancement, she did not reveal it to
us, either literally or verbally.  In
addition I’ve been informed that there are other matters that require your
sister’s presence here for now.”

Thomas drew himself up to his tallest, which was significant
even for his young age. “Then we will remain here until those matters are
concluded, and she will accompany us to Surrey to continue our period of
mourning with our aunt,” he said commandingly. Lucille gave his hand an
approving squeeze, a small smile flitting across her lips.

“I fear you have been delayed long enough, Master Thomas,”
Inspector Foot interjected. “Your aunt has not been granted the stewardship of
your sister, and it was made quite clear that Miss Lucille is not to join you
in Surrey. Now, if you please, accompany Professor Stackhurst to gather your
luggage and proceed. ”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Thomas burst out, “It does not
please me to do so! I will not leave my sister, regardless of our mother’s
wishes. In truth, I will not leave her even for a moment.”

“As executor of your mother’s will,” Mr. McFarlane
responded,” and thus the legal guardian of both your persons and the Sharpe
estate until you come of age, I can and should compel you to obey the officer.”

“Thomas,” Lucille suddenly broken in, turning toward her
brother. “Let’s not make a fuss now.” She stood, dropping his hand with a final
squeeze. “Be a good lad and go with him for the moment. I’m certain that these
gentlemen will have pity on us and I will join you momentarily, once these
little issues are resolved.” She threw her arms around him suddenly. “Be brave,
brother mine,” she whispered in his ear. “It is just until we are finished. “

“But we cannot be parted,” Thomas sobbed, not caring who
witnessed it. “I cannot leave you, my dearest sister, not even for a moment!”

The pain Lucille felt in her heart was worse than any that
had ever been inflicted on her body. Thomas rarely displayed emotion to anyone
else but her, and his very public expression of his attachment was moving.  Despite her words, she clung to him, unable to
let go of the only one that mattered in her whole existence.

With great difficulty, she released him and Thomas led from
the room. Lucille dug her nails into her palms, resisting the urge to rush
after him, take him up in her arms and escape these horrid men, the town, all
of this dreadful business. She forced herself to sit back down and, with a calm
that she didn’t feel, speak to those remaining. “Now, kind sirs, I would ask
that you be brief in addressing what matters require my further attention, as
it has been a most sorrowful day. I am tired, and upset by this abrupt and
unnecessary separation from my brother, a decision which I desire to reverse as
soon as possible.”

Mr. McFarlane and Inspector Foot exchanged a pointed look
before dismissing the others, claiming they needed to discuss matters that
required some privacy. After the door shut, the detective abruptly asked
Lucille, “How did you come by those scratches on your face, miss?”

Startled, Lucille reached up to trace the wounds. “A silly
accident,” she explained. “Cat scratches…there was a cat in the garden and I
foolishly tried to embrace her.” She gave them a steely look. “Certainly that
is of no great concern; it is hardly a reason for retaining me here, nor would
that warrant such discretion.”

“Miss Sharpe, I strongly suggest that you be completely
truthful with us. Who was in the house on the night of your mother’s murder?”

“Only my brother and I, so far as I know,” she answered. “We
had been sent to bed in nursery, in the attic, and she had ordered us to remain
there until she called the next day. It was not unusual for her to do so.”

“Lady Beatrice was not in the best of health, was she?” Foot
continued.

“She never had been,” Lucille countered. “She had been ill
since I was born, and she suffered from several injuries. She had a great deal
of pain, and took medications to ease it. I even assisted her as well as I was
able.”

Mr. McFarlane interjected. “I must inform you, miss, that I
had some conversation with your mother prior to our meeting the other day,
during which she imparted some very disturbing information. She believed you to
be harboring some intent to do her harm.”

“Why on Earth would I wish to harm her?” Lucille exclaimed.

“Why, indeed.” Foot commented.

Mr. McFarlane cleared his throat. “She also claimed that you
had formed an unnatural attachment to your brother, and that you had been
willful and disobedient. She warned me that you would defy her command and
attempt to remain with your brother, and that I was to go to all lengths to
assure that you never see him again.”

Lucille leapt to her feet with a sudden surge of fury. “You
wouldn’t dare!” she hissed. “My mother was ill, and half-mad with pain—she was
imagining things! I was a loyal, doting daughter to her; I cared for her,
helped her do everything! It was I who cooked and cleaned and fetched and
scrubbed, not better than the lowest scullery maid! It was I who was nurse to
her! Would you favor the words of a madwoman over mine?  I, who has endured so much for her sake and
the sake of my brother? You cannot allow it! You cannot take him from me!” With
a sudden dreadful realization, Lucille darted for the door and pried it open. Like
a storm gale she raced out, dashing down the hall and bursting through the
entry door.

Thomas’ frantic cries were just audible as the carriage sped
away down the street. Lucille caught a single glance of his pale face and hands
as the coach raced away toward the horizon. Panicked, she screamed, trying to follow
after it as hands restrained her and hauled her back inside. She fought wildly,
all sense of propriety gone, kicking, shrieking, clawing at them. The villains!
They had tricked her: they had stolen him, and she had sent him away! She had
lost him! Oh, Thomas, her sweet, perfect brother, gone from her forever!

Exhausted by her outburst, she collapsed in their arms and
was set on a chair. Her head hurt in the pervasive damp heat of the room, there
was a grey mist in front of her eyes. She barely heard the solicitor and
inspector talking to each other, the words sounding as if they were in the
bottom of a well. “It is obvious that it wasn’t the boy; he’s not strong enough
to have swung the cleaver with such force–”

“We were in the nursery…she sent us to bed….” Lucille
protested.

“–There’s no proof that anyone else entered the house—“

“Robbers…the silver…her jewels…gone…” she stammered.  

“—you would assist her, wouldn’t you? Administer her
medicines? Help her into the bath?”

“What are you saying?” The room swam, her vision seeing red,
crimson red, spatters on the tiles. Mother’s accusing finger pointing at her,
the water red as wine, red as the clay beneath the house, and she was sinking
into it, sucked down into the muddy depths, buried in its pain and secrets.
“Stop it! I’ve told you everything already! I want to go home! I want my
brother and I want to go home now!”

“You’re not going home, Miss Sharpe; you cannot be left
alone, not in your state. You are given into the custody of Mr. McFarlane, who
will escort you to Glasgow. You are to be placed in an appropriate institution
there.”

“I will not submit to being placed in a convent! You cannot
do this!”

“Not a convent, I should think,” Mr. McFarlane
observed.  Lucille stared at him,
confused. “Your state of hysteria indicates you require the attention of a
physician. There are several places in Scotland that can help you, give you
proper rest and care.”

Terrified, Lucille again jumped up, wailing. “Villain!” she
cried. “Oh, cruel villain! Here is the thief you seek! You have stolen away my
brother from me, and you would have our inheritance for your own! Will no-one
help me?”

“Miss Sharpe,” Inspector Foot barked sternly, ”I shall
disregard that slanderous accusation in light of your situation, but it is
obvious that you are in a state of nervous agitation and require medical
attention.” He stepped to the door and ushered in two officers, ordering them
to escort her out. “Take example from your brother, miss, and come along
quietly.”

Captive between the two policemen, Lucille quivered like a
butterfly trapped in a spider’s web. She fell silent, withdrawing into her
thoughts. She would wait. She would follow their orders, act meek and obedient,
and wait. She had endured worse, she thought. She would survive this as she had
survived her parents. And when she had endured whatever fate these vulgar men
had planned, she would find her brother and return to claim their home and
title…and God help anyone who would try to stop them. ‘Be brave, my dearest Thomas,’
she prayed silently as she was led away. ‘We will return to Crimson Peak, I
swear it.’