I didn’t get any feedback on which fic to publish first, so we’re going with the Sharpes backstory as a starter. Enjoy and, as always, any feedback is appreciated. 

CRIMSON PEAK REVISITED

CHAPTER 1

Lady Beatrice Alexandra Sharpe of Allerdale Hall was a
bitter husk of a woman. Long resigned to being a spinster, she had astonished
society and disappointed her younger sister, Florence, by accepting the
proposal of the young and charming James William Sharpe, baronet, and joining
him in his newly inherited estate in the hills of Cumberland. Even though the
match was a good one, both families being involved in the lucrative mining
trade and of the same social status, the fact that Sir James was five years the
junior of his wife and she was entering her first marriage in her third decade
fueled the local Whitehaven gossip for many months. Neither were their
temperaments complimentary: Sir James was an imposing, handsome gentleman who
relished his status and the life it allowed him, while both Beatrice and
Florence were aloof and austere ladies who had chosen a more quiet lonesome
existence to the glamour and gaiety their family station enjoyed. As the only
offspring of their noble line, the sisters didn’t appear to care that there was
no male descendant to continue their father’s legacy. Beatrice, who in
childhood had been crowned with a silky cascade of deep auburn hair, had once
housed a fiery temper to match, but had been persuaded by her more retiring
sister to a less visible company. Perhaps it was to spite her that she chose to
marry late in life; it certainly wasn’t for love.

Nor was it for beauty: the severe angles of Beatrice’s face matched
her aloof demeanor and disapproving expression; her height and stiff carriage
making her all the more unappealing. Her ruddy hair had begun to bleach to a
stark white before she had reached adulthood; lines carving themselves into her
wan face like shriveled fruit. Next to her youthful husband, with his full
lips, waves of dark hair and well-maintained moustache, she looked at least a
decade older than her true age. Rumor had it that the baronet had married her
more to gain her inheritance than any other, while others remarked unkindly
that it was well-known that madness was common to the Sharpe men.

Despite the remote location, Sir James and Lady Beatrice
never failed to host extravagant parties at Allerdale Hall. Balls and dinners
and shooting parties were all events with sought-after invitations, never
failing to disappoint. Lady Beatrice would even grace the attendees with her
piano concertos on occasion, in addition to keeping a fine house in London for
the season. Allerdale Hall was filled with fine and rare objects imported from
all over the empire, and the library was well-stocked with volumes on many
subjects, scientific and otherwise. They employed a sizable staff and a great
many locals for the mines, and Sir James was always keen on acquisitions and
investments; the gentleman was expected to go far in his ambitions.

It may be that the baronet’s dogged determination to strive
above his station, to increase his family fortunes and reputation, could
explain his profound disappointment at the birth of his first child being a
daughter. The more jaded among society proclaimed Sir James’ disgust was due to
the thought that he would have to continue his martial obligations with his
sour-faced wife in hopes of siring an heir. Both of the Sharpes were quick to
return to their more public roles, eschewing parenthood and domesticity; the
baby, Lucille, was confined to the nursery and tended to by nursemaids
instructed to keep the infant quiet and unseen.

Lucille was a lovely
child whose looks favored her father’s, with wide eyes and thick, dark hair. A
willful child, she was quick to grow and clever, weaned early and soon became quite
the handful for the staff. Lucille was not provided with a nanny after her
early weaning; rather she was left to a rotation of the maids’ care. Both of
her parents refused to have anything to do with her, not even allowing an
audience with their offspring, and Lucille soon showed signs of having the
worst of her parents’ temperaments. Her tantrums when she misbehaved were
catastrophic, and the staff was instructed to beat the child if needed to keep
her in line. Not able to devote any full attention to the little girl, Lucille
was often locked into the nursery with nothing other than her picture books,
dolls and toys to occupy her, her lonesome existence only broken with solitary meals
and the occasional walks in the gardens. She would stare out of the windows for
hours, and sit silently listening to the noises of the house, from the
scurrying of the servants to the loud arguments of her parents to the rare
treat of her mother’s piano playing.

Blankets of snow still hugged the manor house when Lucille
woke to an unfamiliar sound echoing in the dim light of dawn one morning in
February. There was an unusual amount of activity happening below; filled with
curiosity, Lucille crept to the landing and peered from the shadows of the
hallway.

There were unfamiliar people in the foyer, and Lucille
shrank back as Sir James strode into view. He was uncharacteristically jolly,
his loud voice booming out as he called for the servants to assemble before
him. He returned to the master bedroom, reappearing with a tiny bundle in his
arms. “I present to you my son, the heir of Allerdale Hall!” he declared
proudly. The newborn baby let out a mighty wail, squirming. Sir James beamed.
“Listen to the lad! Strong lungs on this one!” he laughed. A maid nervously
retrieved the baby and vanished back into the bedchamber as the staff
applauded. Lucille caught snatches of the continued conversation as he gave
orders to the butler: “…says the lady is well; she’s done her duty, so she’s
earned her rest…Instruct the housekeeper on the arrangements for the nurse,
won’t you?…We’ll have to have the christening as soon as possible, I
suppose…”

Lucille slipped back to her bed and pulled up the quilts.
The full moon was still in the sky even as the sunlight began to creep in, and
she only pretended to sleep. A baby! There was a new little baby boy in the
house, just as loud as her father. She wondered if all boys and men were like
that. Still listening, she watched the sky begin to glow and grow brighter, the
moon sinking beneath the windowsill. Lucille considered that she had been forgotten,
alone up in the attic. After all, she was almost three years old—and a little
girl was hardly as exciting as a new baby boy.

Lucille was not forgotten—one of the maids came up to build
a new fire in the nursery stove, dress her and leave her breakfast. She was
informed that there was a new baby in the house, her new little brother, and
there was no time for the entertainment of little girls. Now more than ever
Lucille was expected to occupy her time alone and above all, behave. There was
far too much work for the servants to do.

It was only after she was measured for a new frock that
Lucille was told there was going to be a party at Allerdale Hall, one she was
expected to attend: a christening for her brother. The nursery was unexpectedly
invaded by a horde of tradesmen: walls were plastered, floors were sanded and
polished; plumbing was installed.  New
furniture arrived; everything was cleaned and shone brightly. Lucille was
filled with wonder and delight, a princess in her shining castle tower. She
soon learned the reason for the embellishments: her brother was to join her in
the nursery, together with his wet nurse, right after the party.

Temporarily displaced, Lucille slunk around the halls,
observing the unusual activity the heir of Allerdale Hall provoked. She didn’t
see the baby at all during those weeks nor had she been introduced, but she
heard him—the baby cried incessantly, day and night. She grew to detest that
noise, worrying that he would continue that racket when he moved in. Eventually
she escaped the confines of the house to spend her time in the stables and the
barn. Lucille spied mice and rats scurrying along on the woodwork; occasionally
the hounds would give them chase. Fascinated, she watched chicks peck their way
out of their confining shells and sprawl out gasping on the straw as they dried
to a fluffy down. There was a litter of autumn piglets grunting and squealing
in their pen, and the horses, cows and goats, even the geese, were all eager to
be let out into the thawing pastureland. Pale green shoots began to poke up in
the ruddy soil of the gardens. Lucille was always scolded for getting muddy,
dirty and disheveled, but she enjoyed the vibrancy of the season around her.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays Lucille was tolerated in the kitchen,
set in a corner with some bits of dough with which to make buns and cakes. It
was too early to search the brambles for berries, but there were still a good
stock of jams put up in the larder. She was allowed plenty of jam and cream for
tea, even if she ate them in solitude for a time, for she was quite pleased
with her new surroundings.

The nursery had become a tidy, cheerful cluster of chambers:
a central sitting room, a bedroom with its cast-iron stove tucked in a far
corner, her narrow brass bed nearby and tall windows hung with thick drapes.
Chests of linens and clothes lined the walls, and the window seats had plump
cushions on them. There was a cradle and bassinet set across from her bed, a
rocking chair and footstool nearby. A water closet was built in the passage
between the children’s sleeping quarters and the nurse’s room; Lucille took a
great deal of delight in twisting the shiny knob on the sink and watching the
water gush out of the faucet. She was not allowed in the nurse’s room, of
course: since it belonged to a servant, it was forbidden, but there was enough
to hold Lucille’s attention in her own updated domain.

At the christening the crowd of aristocrats that filled the
stately front hall, salon and great room fluttered around the elaborately
carved panels of Allerdale Hall like glistening, brightly colored butterflies. Lucille
had been washed and scrubbed until her skin hurt, her dark hair brushed and
plaited into long ebony ropes fastened with silk ribbon bows, her new blue dress
rustling around her in layers of ruffles, but she felt plain surrounded by so
many finely dressed ladies. Lucille did her best to behave, standing still and
staring at the Persian rug when presented to her parents in their bedchamber.
She rarely had been summoned to this mysterious room, and was almost afraid to
raise her eyes.  

There was some compliment of her appearance and demeanor,
and she glanced up, catching sight of two skirt hems. There were two women
seated in front of her—her mother, Lady Beatrice, and another stern-faced
woman, almost identical to her, who was introduced as her aunt Florence. Her
father was facing the fireplace, glancing at his pocket watch. An unfamiliar
woman sat on the wide settee, holding a little bundle draped in snowy white.
“Hullo, Miss Lucille. Come and meet your brother,” she said, and her voice was
soft and gentle.

Lucille looked around hesitantly, unsure if this was
permitted. Unable to resist, she stepped forward to peer at her sibling. He was
so little, perfect, with a crown of wispy dark locks and a rosebud mouth,
sleeping and quiet for once. “Hullo,” Lucille murmured. She had never seen
anything so angelic, not even in picture books.

Sir James snapped his pocket watch closed. “It’s time,” he
declared. “Let us proceed.” He turned and offered his arm to Lady Beatrice, who
took it but walked stiffly beside her husband. The nurse stood with the baby
and was ushered forward. “You go along with Lady Florence, miss,” she said as
she passed into the hall, “We’ll take you both up to the nursery after the
ceremony.”  

The Sharpes descended the staircase like a royal procession.
The crowd in the salon parted like waves of a multi-colored sea as they paraded
down this impromptu aisle to stand before the minister. Lucille knew to keep
quiet and still, watching everything with an owlish intensity as the baby was
passed along to Lady Florence, who was given the honor of godmother, and handed
on to the clergyman, who announced the name of Thomas for the infant and
sprinkled holy water on him, concluding with a prayer and a reversal of the
baby passing. Thomas woke when he felt the water droplets on his head,
whimpering and squirming; his public exhibition was brief before the siblings
were whisked away, up the staircase to the remote quiet of the nursery.  

The nurse smiled brightly at the sight of the comfortable
nursery as they ascended the staircase. A tray of delicacies and covered dishes
had been set up in the little sitting area, making Lucille’s eyes widen in
happy surprise. The nurse moved on to their bedroom, however. She set the still
agitated Thomas down and deftly removed his christening gown, changed his
nappy, dressed him in simpler garments and swaddled him with a practiced
efficiency. “I need to nurse master Thomas,” she remarked, gathering up her protesting
charge. “Do take something from the tray, Miss Lucille. We’ll have a proper
meal after I get him settled.”

Lucille raced to the tray and snatched up a currant bun,
skipping back and climbing up onto her bed. Although she should have eaten in
the parlour, she couldn’t resist the novelty of her new brother and nurse, and
didn’t want to miss a moment.

The nurse had settled into the rocker, with her blouse
unbuttoned and Thomas pressed to her pale, round breast. Eyes open and bright,
the little one suckled enthusiastically, waving his tiny fist in the air. The
woman sighed contentedly, rocking at gentle pace. Lucille was enraptured; it
was almost spiritual to witness, like the icons painted in the frescos at the
very top of the grand entryway. Lucille didn’t recall feeling so comfortable
with her own wet-nurse; an overpowering love rushed through her, both for her
brother and his nurse. They truly were a blessing, a miraculous gift that
brought a long-needed hope to her life and their home.

After a time Thomas drifted off to sleep and was placed in
his cradle. Properly buttoned up, the nurse held out her hand to Lucille, silently
leading her to the parlor and setting her on the sofa. “Now we shall have a
little party of our own, miss,” she declared. Lucille nodded, not daring to
even smile. Perhaps she was dreaming.

“How dour you look! Well, we need to be properly introduced.
My name is Theresa, and I’m going to tend to you and Master Thomas for a time.
Is that agreeable to you, Miss Lucille?” She smiled and offered her hand to the
little girl, who had never had such kind attention before. Lucille stared for a
moment before placing her hand in Theresa’s. “Poor child! Have you a voice? You
needn’t be shy here with me.”

Lucille slowly nodded, remembering her manners. She gave a
small curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Theresa. It is agreeable to me, thank
you.”

Theresa patted her hand. “Ah, now I can hear you! Such a
polite lady you are! You did quite well at the ceremony; I’m certain your
parents are pleased. You must be quite hungry by now. Shall I serve us some of
these lovely delights?” The woman took up a plate and set it in front of
Lucille, followed with a saucer and teacup, spoon and serviette. She piled a
large amount onto Lucille’s plate and filled her cup from the still warm pot.
The liquid inside was thicker than tea—chocolate! Lucille could barely contain
her excitement: she could recall only having had hot chocolate once before.
“There are those that might say all these riches will spoil a child’s appetite;
nonsense! Nothing wrong with having treats for such an occasion. Sweets for the
sweet, say I! Never seen a child yet that wouldn’t benefit from them, and I’ve
had eight of my own!”

“You’ve a family?” Lucille queried, surprised.

“Yes, my dear, I’ve a family of my own away in the North,
but I’m here to tend to you and your brother now. You must have been very
lonely up here, without a nanny to look after you, but never mind that. We shall
have lots of fun together.” Serving herself, Theresa laid a cloth over her
dress and nibbled at the edge of a biscuit.

Piano music began to waft up from below, over the murmurs of
the crowd. Lucille thought Theresa was far prettier than Mother, and the
kindest person she had ever known. “What sort of fun?” she asked, curious.

“What sort do you like?” Theresa replied. Lucille shrugged.
She hadn’t any idea of fun, other than her own occupation of the long, solitary
hours of the day. “Well, I can tell you stories—I know lots of them—and perhaps
we can sing. I can show you how to sew and sketch, and perhaps teach you your
letters. When the weather improves, we can go for strolls in the garden. You
can have tea parties with your dolls, and you can play with your brother when
he’s old enough. Would you like that?”

Lucille nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, please, I would
like that very much!” she exclaimed. A baby brother was a blessing indeed, if
he brought such gifts with him. Lucille could hardly wait to see what new
adventure awaited her, now that she had company.