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I just wanna set you on fire so I won't have to burn alone
Then you, then you'll know where I'm coming from
Mr. T. surely was a creature of habit. Maybe it was all that time in prison; he'd gotten used to routine and mundanity over the years. Or maybe it was the opposite, and he was making a point to do everything just as he used to, before he was sent away, as if nothing had changed. Of course, a lot had changed, what with Lucy and Johanna being gone and their new business together and Toby being around, but he had just fallen into their new life together as natural as you please. And Mrs. Lovett couldn't help but think it was because it was always meant to be like this; their little family, their work. It all just made sense, really.
It was a right cozy little routine they had. Every day he'd open his shop promptly at 8:00 and "accept" customers all day, and she would flit between the shop and the basement, selling pies and running the grinder and keeping an eye on Toby. And every night at 6:00 she'd go up to the shop and tell him that his supper was ready and to come downstairs. Sometimes he had a late customer and would be finishing him off when she came in, but even when he didn't, he still made sure to take care of his razors before he finished for the day. He'd polish them, every one, one at a time, tenderly, making sure every speck of lather and blood and whatever-all else was gone and they were shining clear as the day they was made. She couldn't help but watch, standing in the doorway, as he turned them over and over in his slim fingers, making sure they were perfect. Then he'd lay them carefully in their box, put the box in the drawer of the table, and then, and only then, come downstairs with her, tramping silently down the stairs into the kitchen. The same thing every night. And she had a feeling it wasn't because he was trying to hide anything—leaving his tools all messy around the place mightn't look too good if the constable came calling, after all—but he didn't seem to care about that. It was something more than that, some connection, some odd form of love that he couldn't really manage for any living thing anymore. He cared for them like they breathed, like their warmth in his hand was their life and not just his own. He put them in that box like he was tucking them in for the night. He'd never leave them lying on the table, or stick them back under the floorboards where she'd kept them all that time, because they deserved better than that. And that was handy, really, she thought, because if he went snooping about under the floor he might not like what he found.
She hadn't planned on it; it had started by accident. The first letter arrived a month or so after he was sent off: it had been addressed to the shop upstairs, of course, but the postman, apparently too knackered to make the trip up the steps, had bundled it in with her own post. She'd known where it was from right away, of course; it was tattered and a bit water-wavy, as though it had been sitting against the damp floor of the ship it had come over on. And she wasn't sure what made her do it, but in the next moment she was slitting the envelope open with a knife, dusty with flour, and pulling out the slightly wrinkled page within. There was nothing too surprising in there, exactly, just my darling Lucy, I think of you every minute. I still do not know why I have been thus incriminated, but I swear that I will never stop trying to get back to you and Johanna. You must remain stout of heart for our daughter and please write to me as often as you can; I can't bear to be away from you and just seeing words in your hand will cheer my spirits and all that sort of thing; nothing more than one would expect from a man imprisoned far away, although his words were a mite fancier than most of them prisoners, she figured; he had always talked like one of those characters in those books he read. But she couldn't help feeling a stab of jealousy—Mr. Lovett had never written to her like that, not once. She was lucky if she got so much as a gone to the pub, back late on the table at night. Every woman deserves a little romance, she thought, and Lucy had had him all to herself all that time. And besides, he had only just gone. She hadn't had any time to adjust; hearing from him so soon would only upset her, really. So she'd folded the letter back up, replaced it in its envelope and stuck it in her apron, and she hadn't thought about it for weeks. But then another one had come, delivered to her shop just the same, and she'd opened that one too, and it was more of the same, more of his desperate declarations of love. Some of the men say they send love tokens to their sweethearts back home with messages of devotion. I will send you one as soon as I can; I think of you always. And that one too went in her pocket, and then in her jewelry box in her bedroom, and so did the next one, and the next.
It wasn't always as simple as all that, though: a few days after the fourth letter came, Lucy came rushing into the shop all in tears. She never came in otherwise; she could barely stand to look at Mrs. Lovett's pies, let alone eat one. Bit too hearty for her delicate frame, it seemed. "Please, Mrs. Lovett, have there been any letters for me?" she'd asked, her golden hair falling out of its elegant twist. "Any at all?"
She had looked up from the mound of dough she'd been flattening, into Lucy’s desperate, tear-streaked face, and then back down. "'Fraid not, love," she said, trying to make her voice gentle. "I've not had a thing but me rent notice." There was no point now in letting her have them; he was gone and he was never coming back. Wasn't it crueler to give her false hope?
"But surely he's written to me," Lucy continued desperately, her hands clutching unconsciously on the edge of her preparation table. "He promised that he would. I know he has. Perhaps they're not letting him send anything? The—the jailers?"
"Can't say as I know for sure," Mrs. Lovett replied carefully, concentrating hard on the rolling pin. "I don't imagine they're the friendliest of creatures, though," she added. "Maybe some prisoners ain't allowed to send anything out."
"I've written him so many letters myself, but I haven't sent them; I don't know where they should go," she said, her voice breaking. "And I'm sure the Judge could tell me, but I—I can't...I don't..." She trailed off with a small sob, and Mrs. Lovett knew just what she meant. She'd seen the way that man watched her, standing outside her window, eying her in the market. He wouldn't have been too likely to help her reach her husband, after all.
"I'm sorry, dear" was all Mrs. Lovett could think to say. "I'll tell you straightaway if I hear anything. Perhaps there's someone else in town who's been sent off and come back and can tell you a bit more, eh?"
"Benjamin will be back," she said distractedly, as if she'd only half-heard her words. "I know it. He must be. He'll always come back to me." Mrs. Lovett could only sigh, and Lucy was out the door before she could think of anything else to say. There was no point in telling lies to the poor dear; there was no way he was coming back if Judge Turpin was behind things. She was sure he'd made a point of having him locked away for life. Poor thing just couldn't accept it. And she couldn't quite blame her; he'd been a lovely man, so talented with his blade and so caring of their little one. She'd watched them strolling past her shop with him carrying the babe in one arm, making her laugh, tickling her round cheeks. Why remind her that she had no father? Why remind Lucy that she was as good as a widow? It was easier to just stash them all in her jewelry box and sometimes—but not always—pull them out again at night and read them, pretending they were addressed to her, pretending all those sweet words and promises of love were for her, from the man who adored her from far away and wanted nothing more than to find a way back to her. No one would ever know.
And then, of course, the Judge had finally found a way to Lucy and it had ruined her for good, and she'd run off to the chemist's and taken that poison. She'd been rushed off somewhere and Mrs. Lovett thought for sure she was in hospital or dead and all her sadness was finally over. But then she'd come back—mad as a hatter, pacing around Fleet Street as if she knew she belonged somewhere around there but didn't know where precisely, muttering to herself. And everyone said what a sad thing it was that this lovely young flower had fallen into such a state, and it was terrible that little Johanna had now lost both parents, but fortunately that Judge Turpin had taken pity on her, and it was all for the best. And Mrs. Lovett privately agreed; she had been right all along. The fragile lass couldn't handle being without her husband, and having his letters swearing his love and promising his impossible return would only have made things worse for her. It was too much, but now it was over and soon everyone forgot; she was just another madwoman of London roaming the streets, and he was just another faint memory, that nice young barber who was sent away. She'd found Lucy's unsent letters in the shop upstairs and stored them with the ones he'd sent, bundling them all together under the floorboards along with his razors—no one else ever went up there, anyway. No one could know.
So all things considered, it had really been rather a shock for her when he'd come slouching back into her shop one day. At first she'd been sure she was seeing things, that she'd finally gone round the twist after all those days sitting alone in her shop with only the greasy pies and bugs for company, but she'd watched the look on his face when she'd told the story of the barber and his wife, and she'd known in that moment; it couldn't have been anyone else. When she'd asked how on Earth he had escaped, he'd just muttered that he'd "bartered a place on a ship" and didn't elaborate. He wasn't much for words these days, and she had a job figuring out what was on his mind. For a little while she'd been worried that he would go after Turpin right away, that he'd run to save Johanna immediately, that he'd tear around town demanding to know everything about Lucy's death, which wouldn't have suited her very well at all, what with one thing and another.
But to her great delight, he hadn't. He was a different man now, as he said, and yet he was still the same, somehow—still beautiful, still an artist with his razors. It was like he was the same model, but another version, and this one loved her, not Lucy; she had had Benjamin Barker, but Mrs. Lovett got Todd, the man who wanted her and worked alongside her in their perfect little family. Oh, he planned to kill Turpin and save Johanna and all that, but she could tell his heart wasn't really in it. He knew he belonged with her and was content in his new life; his old one was finally fading from his mind now that he knew for sure it was gone, and he was falling right into their life together as though it had always been.
It had only seemed right, therefore, when one night after he'd finished cleaning his razors and had replaced them in their drawer, that instead of going down the stairs to the pie shop, he'd grabbed her around the waist and pulled him towards her, his mouth crushing against hers in a violent kiss. He'd said nothing at all as he pulled her across the room, shoving her against the windowsill and lifting her dress with one hand. "What's all this, now?" she'd exclaimed happily as he fumbled with her petticoats, reaching for her knickers. "Why, Mr. T., what's come over you?" she asked when he said nothing, pretending to be taken by surprise, as if she hadn't been expecting this, waiting for it for weeks. He didn't answer, just silenced her with another rough kiss as she reached eagerly for his trousers. They'd done it standing up, with the edge of the sill pressing hard into her lower back, one of his hands pressed flat against the window. "Oh, yes," she murmured once he was inside of her, his hips grinding against hers. "Yes, darling, finally." She couldn't tell if he'd heard; he still said nothing. After a few minutes he just let out a groan that was half a growl into her neck and gripped her upper arm hard, and then fell away from her as she panted, doing up his clothes again and leaving the room without comment.
It was only later that she realized they had been standing barely a meter from where the pile of letters lay under their feet, dusty and quiet. It was rather perfect: that life was over now and hidden away, buried, and their new love together was built right on top of it. There was no need for her to move them; he would never find them because he would never think to look. And what meaning would they have now anyway, full of words from a woman who was gone and a man who was—well, he was hers now, and nothing else from before mattered. His old life had been nice, in its way, as had hers, but they were over, and they were right where they belonged, working together in their funny little business. She hadn't believed he would ever return, but he'd found a way to come home to her, and she was his new habit and everything was just right.