unlaced

by LaFemmeProblematique

Summary:

The garment is as pretty as Edith is herself.

“I can do this myself,” protests Edith, but Lucille dismisses this claim as the stubborn optimism of an invalid and continues decanting her newest sister-in-law from her corset.

The garment is as pretty as Edith is herself, a cream satin structure of whalebone and ribbons, the purchase of a young woman with blushing hopes for a wedding night she will have pretended not to await with eager anticipation.

The poor girl has no idea what really awaits her and while Lucille has no plans to spare her that fate she is careful with the unlacing of the corset, never jolting Edith with sudden movements, standing close to share the heat of her body, which rises with each practiced tug and twitch of her fingers.

Edith is such a sweet little thing, pretty and delicate. Lucille would like to bite into her, swallow her whole, and she knows despite her hopes to the contrary that this is a Sharpe family trait.

If Thomas fucked Edith she would have to kill her. Or him. Or both of them. She herself would likely meet her end as well once she had destroyed the only things she cares for.

She almost sighs at the thought, because it is tragic yet beautiful, just as she is and just as her brother is as well. Edith too, though of course her pains and troubles cannot compare to things that have been done to Lucille; no one ever tried to rip Edith’s wings from her until the Sharpes came into her life, leaving her as an unfinished work to be completed by the siblings before she can be safely discarded as all the others have been.

Lucille pushes her fingers under the cord and pulls, a hand on Edith’s shoulder to keep her body still, thumb on the bare skin at the back of her neck, excited by the softness of the flesh and by how easily that long, lovely throat could be wrung.

A task can only take so long: soon Edith will be fully unlaced and Lucille will have to leave her to finish undressing alone, and soon the poison will finish its work as well and then Lucille will be left with no female company in the house yet again. That at least is familiar, a longing and a lack that she has long since grown accustomed to enduring.

Another wife could be found, of course, easily enough as past experience has repeatedly proved, but the risk attached is too great: there might come a night when it is not Lucille’s hands unlacing the latest Mrs Sharpe from her corset.

Edith gasps out a pained cry as angry fingers pinch at her flesh through the thin barrier of her chemise.

“Sorry,” says Lucille, insincere.

 

 

“You could do this yourself,” says Thomas, feigning irritation as his fingers tug at the lacing of his sister’s corset, far too skilled at the task for a man who is supposedly only recently wed and still making excuses to avoid his bride’s bed.

“It isn’t as much fun on my own,” says Lucille. “Nothing ever is.”

If she did agree to let Thomas deflower dear Edith she would insist on sharing her thereafter, but the crucial phrase is ‘if she did’ and she never will, no matter how deliciously ripe Edith looks or how perfectly tart she might taste on Lucille’s tongue.

Thomas’s work is too quick tonight, but his breathing remains regular and there are no whispered words of desire and or promises of debauching. Lucille refuses to worry about what that might mean or whose bed he would prefer to sleep if given the choice anew; she and Thomas are two parts of a whole and neither would survive for long without the other, a fact she has reminded him of repeatedly in recent weeks. Just in case. Just to be sure.

The corset loosens its embrace and she reaches for the busk to release herself. Lucille is always so very careful to remain in control, of herself and of the house they have inherited, and of who is and is not allowed to live inside its ever-weakening walls. She has to keep hold of every thread that binds her to her brother; sacrifices must be made for the good of the family, which cannot and must not be ripped apart again.

“We should make her tea a little stronger,” she decides aloud.

Behind her, a floorboard creaks under a hasty step back, away from her. It cannot be tolerated; she has allowed herself to be too soft on sweet Edith and the price of it is growing ever higher even as Lucille refuses to accept that fact.

It’s unfortunate for Edith that she must be removed from the equation, but Allerdale Hall is not, has never been, and never will be large enough for three.