Mercy Davis
New Member
I have never been impervious to making mistakes, nor have I some extraordinary sense of when I may be being played for a fool. Still, I was first and foremost a businessman. I have been called many other things, over the course of my career, but it was nothing but a shrewd head that drove my successes, and I prided myself on it. I was a clever, well educated young man. I, for most of my life, prefered to stay in relative isolation-- and two months back I would never have dreamed of marriage. Lavinia, however, caught my eye almost immediately. She was the young lady that others must aspire to become. I had noted her first for her beauty, and then for her wit. She had a tongue in her mouth, to be sure, but her words were so disarmingly clever and enchanting that I didn’t particularly mind. Perhaps it would have been different if I had known that hidden under her skirts and modest demeanor was something most unusual and repulsive.
Not many days had passed since I had signed the matrimonial paperwork that legally linked Lavinia and I. The spiritual binding had been that bright morning in May of 1864. The wedding itself was a white, lacy sort of ceremony, held in the courtyard of the lovely abbey in our little home town of Bath.
The abbey itself was a mediaeval building, built tall and imposing with soaring grey stone. Like something out of a fairy tale, Lavinia had said. The buttresses and high spires did lend that effect, I couldn’t help but agree.
And that morning in the Abbey courtyard, I was practically enthralled as Lavina swept down the aisle in her wide white skirts of weightless seeming material. Her dark curls had been sprinkled with white blossoms, her warm brown eyes cowed and sentimental. As she drew nearer, I observed the delicate curves of her corseted waist, how gently her hands folded themselves around the bouquet of sweet flowers she held, and I felt as if nothing could burst the sense of pride and peace which filled me.
That evening, she had begun the process of settling into my house. The house was well back from the epicenter of the town, a good long walk from the pump rooms and the baths. It had been built at the turn of the century, in just about 1799. The house had been updated with many modern facilities, the best in gas heating and lighting, but I had never been much of a homemaker. Lavinia’s promises to change all of that were sweet and intoxicatingly charming.
The night was quickly creeping upon us, and soon it was time for the final rite of our wedding. I lay stretched out on my large bed, waiting for sweet Lavinia to undress.
When she made her way into the room from the large boudoir she had been in, I at first thought that she had neglected to take off her crinoline. Upon a second glance, the truth of the matter became apparent. Instead of the beautiful, shapely legs of a normal young lady, protruding from her delicate hips were the eight hairy appendages of a monstrous spider. In my horror, I sat up quickly and recoiled.
Her warm brown eyes grew sad, as if I was confirming some deep seated fear within her. I could barely bring myself to meet them, as I was staring in rapt fascination at her legs.
“Theodore…” Her voice was quiet as she tried to catch my eye. “I wanted to tell you, I tried to tell you…”
“Well,” I sputtered, “obviously you were not quite plain enough--”
“I told you that my maternal family had ties to the Aranae. I thought you had made the connection… When you kept courting me nonetheless, I made the assumption that--” She shook her head and turned away.
“You made the assumption?” said I, “what, that I would know from an offhanded mention that you were some monstrosity?” I watched as her head bowed and her spine bent with the weight of my words. “Are all women like this?” I asked her, dreading the answer.
“I don’t know,” she said meekly. “I was never told about what may lay under other women’s skirts.”
That lack of knowledge was one thing we shared. I was a good and morally upstanding gentleman. I had never given the very concept more than a passing thought, and I definitely had not sought prior education. I lay back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Not many days had passed since I had signed the matrimonial paperwork that legally linked Lavinia and I. The spiritual binding had been that bright morning in May of 1864. The wedding itself was a white, lacy sort of ceremony, held in the courtyard of the lovely abbey in our little home town of Bath.
The abbey itself was a mediaeval building, built tall and imposing with soaring grey stone. Like something out of a fairy tale, Lavinia had said. The buttresses and high spires did lend that effect, I couldn’t help but agree.
And that morning in the Abbey courtyard, I was practically enthralled as Lavina swept down the aisle in her wide white skirts of weightless seeming material. Her dark curls had been sprinkled with white blossoms, her warm brown eyes cowed and sentimental. As she drew nearer, I observed the delicate curves of her corseted waist, how gently her hands folded themselves around the bouquet of sweet flowers she held, and I felt as if nothing could burst the sense of pride and peace which filled me.
That evening, she had begun the process of settling into my house. The house was well back from the epicenter of the town, a good long walk from the pump rooms and the baths. It had been built at the turn of the century, in just about 1799. The house had been updated with many modern facilities, the best in gas heating and lighting, but I had never been much of a homemaker. Lavinia’s promises to change all of that were sweet and intoxicatingly charming.
The night was quickly creeping upon us, and soon it was time for the final rite of our wedding. I lay stretched out on my large bed, waiting for sweet Lavinia to undress.
When she made her way into the room from the large boudoir she had been in, I at first thought that she had neglected to take off her crinoline. Upon a second glance, the truth of the matter became apparent. Instead of the beautiful, shapely legs of a normal young lady, protruding from her delicate hips were the eight hairy appendages of a monstrous spider. In my horror, I sat up quickly and recoiled.
Her warm brown eyes grew sad, as if I was confirming some deep seated fear within her. I could barely bring myself to meet them, as I was staring in rapt fascination at her legs.
“Theodore…” Her voice was quiet as she tried to catch my eye. “I wanted to tell you, I tried to tell you…”
“Well,” I sputtered, “obviously you were not quite plain enough--”
“I told you that my maternal family had ties to the Aranae. I thought you had made the connection… When you kept courting me nonetheless, I made the assumption that--” She shook her head and turned away.
“You made the assumption?” said I, “what, that I would know from an offhanded mention that you were some monstrosity?” I watched as her head bowed and her spine bent with the weight of my words. “Are all women like this?” I asked her, dreading the answer.
“I don’t know,” she said meekly. “I was never told about what may lay under other women’s skirts.”
That lack of knowledge was one thing we shared. I was a good and morally upstanding gentleman. I had never given the very concept more than a passing thought, and I definitely had not sought prior education. I lay back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
