I saw the movie Crimson Peak last weekend with my boyfriend, and after seeing the movie, I had to pick up the book. I honestly thought I was going to be disappointed because the first few chapters were verbatim to the film. Later on, however, is where I noticed the little details that weren't in the film. I highly recommend the book. I loved the character of Thomas Sharpe and loved him even more in the novel. This is just a piece on his thoughts and emotions throughout Crimson Peak, and his feelings especially in regards to Lucille and Edith. I hope you all enjoy!

Change was a funny thing. In one moment you were one person, and in the next, you were someone completely different. Changes were occurring all the time, and Thomas Sharpe was no exception to that. Blinded he was, for so long, confined to the sinful walls of Allerdale Hall. Between the legs of his blood, hiding behind the only love he had ever known, Thomas Sharpe knew only sin for the first quarter of his life.

She had taken his beatings, bore his scars and bruises. He scared easily and cowered from his towering and lumbering father. Lucille had been the only person to love him, the only figure to keep him dreaming. He was a child of imagination and curiosity and without Lucille, he never would have aspired for greater. Thomas never knew the love of his parents, he felt the real taboo were his two parental figures ever expressing anything but warmth and love. Oh, it was always so cold in their home.

But, mother had caught them. Mother had scolded and claimed they were products of the devil. Mother never did smile, nor did she ever encourage, or offer security. Her children, in return, offered her an end to her misery. Their first taste of blood, the hinge unlocked to their freedom to be together. Lucille was the happiest Thomas had ever seen and he wanted to see her that way, always. Lucille had a way to keep happiness between them, and that was a vow to never let anyone come between them and to always be together. Thomas adhered to that vow.

The first few times were easy. Lucille had devised all the plans and assembled them accordingly. Court the women to gain infatuation, marry them and gain their trust, slowly introduce the poison, watch them weaken, leave them to die. In the midst of all that, Lucille had become swollen with child, much to Thomas' surprise. A child, the product of their sick love, but it was a love Thomas only ever knew and he would love his child all the same.

Although, something strung and tightened inside of Thomas. He watched Lucille swell and watched her glow a sickly glow; pale and creamy her skin was supple and she radiated motherhood beautifully. Thomas had never seen anything like it, but, he believed for the first time in his life, that this was wrong. He spent many nights away from Enola and at Lucille's bedside. Enola caught on, but his wife had insisted everything would be alright. Thomas was grateful to the Italian woman, though their marriage was a one-sided love; it was the beginnings of a mutual companionship.

The delivery was Lucille appearing as though she had been possessed. It was a pain unlike she had ever had to bear before. It was worse than belt lashings, although it felt like knives protruded her uterus. Enola did not leave Lucille. Sickly as she was, Enola attempted to comfort her, for the sake of Thomas and watched their child come into the world. It was born wrong. As scared, yet delighted as Thomas was, he could not help but peer down at his deformed and sickly babe, wrapped up in blankets and nurse at Lucille's breast. Enola promised she could fix and heal the baby in her thick Italian heart. Thomas felt an ounce of warmth for this woman, compassion had never thought he could possess. It was a theater act from the beginning, but now, Thomas was feeling newness. He was like a caterpillar in a chrysalis.

But, Enola could not fix the baby. The baby died shortly after and in his caregiver's arms. Lucille shook her head, however, expressed little emotion. Something had changed within her, warmth that had been iced over with the loss of their baby. She looked at her lover with pained eyes and he could do nothing to soothe her. The child was product of a sick love, although he could see that Lucille wanted to be better than their mother; the mother they never had. All of her opportunity had been stripped and he knew she blamed their mother. Even in death, the old woman cursed them. There would be no such happiness for the Sharpe siblings.

Eunice McMichael was next on their list, an American woman with a dowry to fund Thomas' machine. Thomas had begun to give up hope on it, although in order to support Lucille, he knew he could not. Personally, to Thomas, Eunice was a rather unattractive woman and Lucille highly approved. The elder sister could not afford for Thomas to fall in love with another woman. Edith Cushing was a threat and Lucille had smelled the pheromones. A rage sparked within her to see Thomas light up with her, a light she used to see when he looked at her. But, since the passing of the baby, the light had begun to fizzle.

Edith Cushing was beautiful, hopeful, full of adventure, and had an eye for creativity. A novelist and an inventor, what could have been a better match for Thomas? Never mind her money, the Sharpe heir found himself following her, waiting in the rain for Edith. He was acting in ways he never would have acted in regards to the other Sharpe wives. Edith was different and Thomas couldn't place his finger on it. She was innocent and light; she was light to his darkened world. A blackened spirit, speckled with the glimmer of light that was Edith Cushing. Thomas could not get enough of her and felt himself torn, because something was happening that would make his sister seethe with hatred.

Lucille treated Edith like she was a slow child. She was the reason Thomas was falling off track with Eunice, and the plan was askew. Eunice was heartbroken and the Sharpe mistress was certain any chance of her brother making amends would be bleak. Her brother would challenge Thomas and it would be a mess. It was a mess she wouldn't want to have to fix.

Thomas was determined for Edith to be his, even if it meant crushing her spirit. Damaging souls was nothing new to him, although Lucille committed the dirty work of deforming her father and splitting his skull open. He was certain she reveled in watching his blood swirl down the drain and bathe the room red, a dark as her dresses, as dark as her heart. He comforted Edith, remained devoted and at her side, as he should. Sharpe promised her the world as her husband and Edith, with little light left in her eyes, accepted his proposal and watched the funeral procession wearing the Sharpe ring.

The administration of the poison was nothing new for Thomas, watching Lucille serve her special cup after cup, the blood dribbling off the side of her mouth. Thomas' innards twisted, as he was certain Edith's were. Sympathy pains were a stranger to him, watching his blond beauty waste away. Was money worth this? Of course it was no different with the other wives, which he exiled from his life with no issues, no guilt of conscience. He didn't want to see Edith in pain. Her smile lit up the damp and dank rooms that encumbered the old house. And every night he would visit Lucille, while Edith bled from the inside, and murmured empty professions of love into his sister's ear.

The chrysalis began to crack. The sexual tension was not hard to read, in fact, it could be sliced with a kitchen bread knife. It was thick, heady, heavy, and exactly how a husband should feel towards his wife. He desired every inch of Edith. A turn on in the attic, propping her up on the dusty table, husband and wife consummating their marriage; that was until their keeper arrived with tea and again a special toxic brew for Edith. His stomach churned, eyes wild with the idea of being caught, as though he were committing a crime. Edith, flushed, still smiled and accepted her cup without issue. She was growing frustrated and Thomas could not blame her.

There was no need to feel guilt over wanting his wife. From a societal standpoint, Thomas was going through the wanton lust every man should have towards a woman that wasn't his sister. Edith was new, she was refreshing, and exactly what he needed. He was a broken man that Edith was willing to nurture and repair. Thomas felt no fear with her, he felt normal and masculine. Thomas decided then that he would be every bit of the husband Edith needed him to be.

And he proved that the night they truly consummated their marriage. The feelings surging through him felt right, the woman beneath him felt right, even when she was on top of him, he had to chuckle. She had spirit, fire in her and he loved that. He hoped that fire would never extinguish. She was a rarity and he would preserve her in every way imaginable. Come morning, he had her again, unable to get enough of her. Thomas held her as she sat in his lap, connected, he gazed into her eyes. That's when he knew he was falling in love and he had broken his vow to Lucille. He sealed it with a kiss, devouring his blond beauty.

The tea had to stop. No more poison would be administered to Edith. She was the future and Thomas allowed his mind to play. He needed to reason with Lucille, although he knew this was far greater a challenge than staving off father's beatings. He would entertain Lucille for a little longer, wean her off of him and force her to accept what was.

He denied Edith the tea cups, placing his hand over the mouth to avoid his bride swallowing another poisonous gulp. It wouldn't warm her, nothing in that decrepit house could. However, there was no seeing reason with Lucille. Her mind was too far gone and Thomas realized it when it became too late. She was crazed with the idea of killing Edith, now that his bride knew the truth of his former wives and his dealings. Edith knew of their love affair, their child, and she felt helpless. Thomas was determined still to save her. He wanted her to thrive and live. As her husband, he would sacrifice what he needed to in order to ensure that. Even if that meant he would die. Yes, he would perish so his bride could enjoy her days. He would rather see her with McMichael and salvage her years in bliss. Yes, he had to stop Lucille.

Lucille had grown as mad as mother, slashing and projecting the blade deeper and deeper into Thomas for admitting his love for Edith. He had betrayed her; he went back on everything he ever said, had ever promised her. He wasn't the least bit sorry for it, either. He loved Edith, it had happened; the thing Lucille feared the most. There were risks in everything; losing Thomas' heart was the greatest one.

With each jab, Thomas felt links snapping as he was slowly unraveling. Cracks and peels gave way to billows of smoke, like wings that freed him from Lucille's madness. Being a Sharpe was a curse and Thomas had broken free of it. Lucille had lost every ounce of her sanity and her brother mourned her pain. Lucille truly was the sickest of them all. He could not allow her to destroy Edith's chances of living. She was special, and he would honor his own vow of preserving her.

He could not feel the bitter air and the way it reddened Edith's pale cheeks. He was certain it was biting her and proving an obstacle against the lack of strength in her upper body. It was a struggle to lift the shovel, but she had and Thomas was proud. He watched, transformed, and hovering over his dearest women. But, he was there, and he would protect her. He distracted Lucille and enabled Edith a moment to catch herself before hoisting the shovel overhead and down on Lucille, and again once more. However, Lucille hadn't unfurled from her binds like Thomas had. No, she was forever bound to the house.

Edith looked at him, exhausted, overwhelmed, pained, and worn. She reached out to touch him and it pained him that he could not feel her warm touch. However, he would watch over her for as long as he was able, for as long as something bound him to her. And there was. Edith carried the fruit of their short lived marriage. Although Thomas was confident that this child would be everything its father wasn't. His child would surpass him and for that, Thomas Sharpe couldn't have been prouder.