Read Online Crimson Peak: The Official Movie Novelization by Nancy Holder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Holder
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loved…
Devastated, she murmured her excuses and escaped.
She did not know he had followed her until he spoke her name.
“Edith.”
She swallowed down her pain as she had on another snowy day, as true a death as this one visiting upon her breaking heart. She had thought… she had hoped…
“You are leaving us.” Each syllable was a struggle, but she betrayed nothing. Her voice was as steady as his gaze had been seconds before he delivered the killing blow.
“We must go back immediately, tend to our interests,” Thomas said. “The pit digging must commence before the depth of the winter.” There was another beat. “And with nothing to hold us in America…”
Could he be any crueler? Did he know that he was?
“I see.”
She had reached the stairs; she caught sight of her father hovering in the background. Her dear father, perhaps aware that this decision would cause her pain, was standing sentry in case he was needed. She was not unloved.
“Your novel,” Thomas said. “I read the new chapters. I will have them delivered in the morning.”
“That’s good of you.” Her mind spun back in time to their first encounter, his admiration of the as-yet-unknown author of her novel. There had been a connection between them, there
had.
The pain in her heart ratcheted up to agony.
“Would you still like to know what my thoughts are?” he asked.
She nodded, and he reacted with a bit of a start, and then took a breath, as if the entire conversation had become nothing more than an odious and perfunctory task.
“Very well. It is absurdly sentimental. The aches that you describe with such earnestness… the pain, the loss. But you have not lived at all. In fact, you seem to know only what other writers tell you.”
She could not have been more mortified than if he had spat in her face. What was he saying? How
could
he say such things in public? Humiliate her in her own house?
“I thank you for your frankness, sir,” she said tightly.
He took a step toward her, an act of aggression. “I am not done, child. You insist on describing the torments of love when you clearly know
nothing
about them.”
Why must he be so awful to her? Had her gestures of familiarity… of hope… embarrassed him? Was she… did he see her like Eunice, all misplaced presumption, beneath serious consideration for his affection?
“You’ve made yourself more than plain.” Was that her voice? Were those her words? She sounded like an ice princess, cold and hard and angry.
The guests were wandering in, attracted by the quarrel and now witnesses to her humiliation. He was relentless, approaching her, mocking her:
“…I advise you to return to your ghosts and fancies. The sooner the better, Edith. You know precious little of the human heart or the pains that come with it. You are nothing but a spoiled child playing with—”
That was as much as she could take.
She
knew nothing? At least she had a heart.
She slapped him hard; he flinched but took it.
She turned and fled.
* * *
Darkness. Her room. Tears.
The door handle moved, and Edith, lying in her bed, tensed.
Then it opened, and there stood her father. She longed to be comforted, but her feminine pride lay in tatters already. He had called her a child, and so had Thomas. But she was a grown woman who had endured an excruciating rejection, and her father was not the person to offer proper comfort at such a time. If there was anyone who could, which she doubted.
“I am not blind, Edith,” he said delicately. “I know you had feelings for him. But give it time. Perhaps you and I… we could go to the West Coast. You could write and I…” He trailed off, and she saw a future in which he was a widower and she was a spinster, and they kept each other company, and she could not bear it.
“I love you, Father. But can’t you see? The more you hold me, the more I am afraid.” She didn’t want to speak the words she was thinking. “I just don’t want to talk any
Devastated, she murmured her excuses and escaped.
She did not know he had followed her until he spoke her name.
“Edith.”
She swallowed down her pain as she had on another snowy day, as true a death as this one visiting upon her breaking heart. She had thought… she had hoped…
“You are leaving us.” Each syllable was a struggle, but she betrayed nothing. Her voice was as steady as his gaze had been seconds before he delivered the killing blow.
“We must go back immediately, tend to our interests,” Thomas said. “The pit digging must commence before the depth of the winter.” There was another beat. “And with nothing to hold us in America…”
Could he be any crueler? Did he know that he was?
“I see.”
She had reached the stairs; she caught sight of her father hovering in the background. Her dear father, perhaps aware that this decision would cause her pain, was standing sentry in case he was needed. She was not unloved.
“Your novel,” Thomas said. “I read the new chapters. I will have them delivered in the morning.”
“That’s good of you.” Her mind spun back in time to their first encounter, his admiration of the as-yet-unknown author of her novel. There had been a connection between them, there
had.
The pain in her heart ratcheted up to agony.
“Would you still like to know what my thoughts are?” he asked.
She nodded, and he reacted with a bit of a start, and then took a breath, as if the entire conversation had become nothing more than an odious and perfunctory task.
“Very well. It is absurdly sentimental. The aches that you describe with such earnestness… the pain, the loss. But you have not lived at all. In fact, you seem to know only what other writers tell you.”
She could not have been more mortified than if he had spat in her face. What was he saying? How
could
he say such things in public? Humiliate her in her own house?
“I thank you for your frankness, sir,” she said tightly.
He took a step toward her, an act of aggression. “I am not done, child. You insist on describing the torments of love when you clearly know
nothing
about them.”
Why must he be so awful to her? Had her gestures of familiarity… of hope… embarrassed him? Was she… did he see her like Eunice, all misplaced presumption, beneath serious consideration for his affection?
“You’ve made yourself more than plain.” Was that her voice? Were those her words? She sounded like an ice princess, cold and hard and angry.
The guests were wandering in, attracted by the quarrel and now witnesses to her humiliation. He was relentless, approaching her, mocking her:
“…I advise you to return to your ghosts and fancies. The sooner the better, Edith. You know precious little of the human heart or the pains that come with it. You are nothing but a spoiled child playing with—”
That was as much as she could take.
She
knew nothing? At least she had a heart.
She slapped him hard; he flinched but took it.
She turned and fled.
* * *
Darkness. Her room. Tears.
The door handle moved, and Edith, lying in her bed, tensed.
Then it opened, and there stood her father. She longed to be comforted, but her feminine pride lay in tatters already. He had called her a child, and so had Thomas. But she was a grown woman who had endured an excruciating rejection, and her father was not the person to offer proper comfort at such a time. If there was anyone who could, which she doubted.
“I am not blind, Edith,” he said delicately. “I know you had feelings for him. But give it time. Perhaps you and I… we could go to the West Coast. You could write and I…” He trailed off, and she saw a future in which he was a widower and she was a spinster, and they kept each other company, and she could not bear it.
“I love you, Father. But can’t you see? The more you hold me, the more I am afraid.” She didn’t want to speak the words she was thinking. “I just don’t want to talk any
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