They say that in order to become a proper English woman one must go through a cleansing process. One should cast off their crusty shell of incivility and instead take up all which is deemed proper in society, the beauty, impeccable manners which must coincide with the lady’s innocent demeanor. My mother says that these are the qualities desired if a woman is to be considered at all to be a true woman. A woman is required to have her hair neatly combed in place, affable personality, and dressed in the latest fashion, ready to entertain at any moment. Indeed, it is only a baptism a woman must participate in, a baptism where she is submersed in delicate lace covered silk, instead of water. I fear I never received such a baptism. Rather, I had a baptism of a very different kind, even perhaps a foreordination.
I was five years of age when I was branded by a complete lunatic in a forest and seventeen when I received a letter from my mother announcing that I would be "coming out into society" at the end of this year. If given the choice between the two, I would have much rather preferred to undergo the branding again. The burn eventually scarred. And despite how awful the mark looked, I had learned to cover up the blemish on my ivory skin. I feigned modesty, insisting on shawls, dresses that covered my shoulders, and insisted on putting on most of my underclothes myself. My mother approved of such demands, citing modesty as "one of a young lady's finest qualities". But after a snake mark was permanently branded onto my skin, I never again considered myself a lady. Instead of having the delicate skin of lady, I was branded like a farm-animal.
Yet, I am anything except modest and my mother did anything else except heal. She hated Isabella because people questioned her about my cousin's origins, she loathed how Uncle Charles loved me more than she could ever force herself to, and mostly my mother detested how Isabella could be viewed as "competition" for her only daughter and child. Indeed my mother, Lady Daphne, could delicately complete any feminine task as long as it did not involve forgiveness.
I received the letter on cold autumn day in October while I sat, attempting to cross-stitch. As soon as I could I hurried out of the drawing room. I paused to read the letter in the courtyard. Even the letter reflected my mother's cold, dainty demeanor as my mother detailed how wonderful my future would be once I would be eligible for marriage:
Felicity,
I am pleased to announce that soon you will be "coming out into society", a moment which may become one of the most memorable moments of your life as you attend parties and soon become a wife. As this will be your last year at Rosewood finishing school, I encourage you to take advantage of all your teachers' lessons, you will need the practice.
Affectionately yours,
Lady Daphne
I raced toward the trees with my mother’s letter in hand as Isabella chased after me.
“Felicity,” she whined, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I did not bother to turn around, I knew Isabella well enough to realize she would follow me wherever I went. I ran faster, half wanting to run fast enough to lose her, but still enjoying that while Isabella could beat me in everything else considered proper, she could not outrun me. Effortlessly, I graced over stones, ducked under tree branches, edged around the various foliage that stood in my way. My lungs burned and my legs hurt, but I had no desire to stop.
“Fe-li-ci-ty!” Isabella yowled. I could tell she was becoming increasingly frustrated by the way she was over pronouncing the syllables in my name. Complacently smiling at once again beating her, I stopped and waited for her to catch up.
“Felicity Gardner,” she said as she staggered up the hill, taking care not to step in any mud puddles, “what in heaven’s holy name has gotten into you?”
I did not have to say anything, I simply handed the letter to her. She took it from my hand, pushed her mass of blonde curls away from her face, and began to read.
“Felicity,” my cousin said enthusiastically gripping my arm, “this is wonderful—oh can you imagine? The parties, the dances, the men…”
My cousin continued talking, but I ceased to listen, wishing instead that I would have continued running. Yet I could hardly be cross with her; I could hardly expect Isabella to understand what such a letter meant. Isabella was too cheerful, too vain, and too naïve and could not comprehend the meaning of what “coming out into society” would mean for me. While Isabella envisioned the loud parties and pink-satin gowns, I saw the end result: marriage. To be married would mean relinquishing the human anatomy books I stashed behind my bed or the pistols my Uncles gave me for cross-stitching and home decorating. If it were not for the extraordinarily large dowry I would be privy to, the concept of marriage would hardly appeal to me.
“Well will you?” Isabella asked, her eager gray eyes shining up at me.
“Will I what?” I replied, suddenly realizing she was asking me a question.
“Let me be one of your bridesmaids,” Isabella said happily. “Of course I will,” I said.
“You will?” Isabella repeated excitedly.
“Yes, yes,” I replied turning back toward the school and leaning forward into a racing position, “now come on, we’re going to be late for evening prayer.” Without hesitation, I took off back toward the school, running as fast as my legs could push me.
###
I suppose I have never truly stopped running. Branded like a fine thoroughbred, I learned to act like one. I paraded around society, my head held high, while inwardly I grew tiresome of the charade, craving instead the freedom to run-free. Unlike my cousin I did not care for the parties, the gossip, or the ribbons. Inside of me a spot of black rebellion grew on what society considered a white soul, reflecting the black mark only I knew existed on my shoulder. And it was that night, the night after I received the letter from my mother where my little dark spot of rebellion grew. It was All Hallow’s Eve and like every year since coming to Rosewood at thirteen, my friends and I gathered in the forest to complete a task, we had come to call “The Hallowed Ritual.” Together, we planned to call back the ghost of Lusty Lizzie Kingsly.
After individually sneaking out of Rosewood, we met in the same place we had as girls, a small space hidden away from the school and below the safe but leafless tree branches. I, as usual, was the first to arrive. While I waited for my cousin and my best friend, Mary, to arrive I ventured deeper into the forest to gather dried branches for our fire.
The full moon’s light created a way to maneuver through the trees. As I trod looking for firewood, the fallen autumn leaves crunched underneath my boots. When I found the pieces of dried wood, I kneeled, picked them up, and placed them in my folded up petticoat. From behind me and owl, hooted and swooped low behind me. In a fright, I almost dropped the firewood I carried. Alone in the opaque forest, my consciousness could not help but drift back to the night so many years ago where I encountered a being that left me scarred. “It’s only an owl,” I thought. An owl, I could handle. I sighed, stabled myself as well as my nerves and continued my task.
When my petticoat felt full I returned to the meeting spot. In the dark I placed the sticks together to form a decent triangular shape. I pulled the match I had placed behind my ear before I left and stuck it on a nearby rock. The match lit, its light illuminating the shadowy forest around me. I moved quickly, not wanting to waste my only match, and leaned forward, catching the twigs I had found on fire. With my fire lit, I sat and waited for my friends to arrive.
Both Mary and Isabella arrived together. From a distance I could see Mary’s medusa curls bob and Isabella’s graceful, dainty stride.
“I can’t believe you convince me to participate in this every year,” Mary said as she forcefully pushed the item into my abdomen. “It is sacrilegious, you know, to use this.” I laughed as I pulled the Communion Wine from my lap to examine it in the firelight.
“I trust you did not just procure an empty bottle and fill it full of water, like you tried to last year,” I replied, biting my tongue to keep a serious face.
“No, it’s all there, the entire representative blood of Christ.” Mary put her hand on her forehead. “We are going to hell for using this.”
“It’s not the wine we’re going to hell for Mary,” Isabella chirped, “it’s the running naked through the forest that will condemn us.”
Mary’s amber eyes widened and her red coiled curls seemed to rise higher than they normally did. Like a cat, she seemed ready to pounce at any moment.
“Shall we begin?” I asked.
It seemed difficult to believe that only four years prior Isabella and I had come to Rosewood. We were young then, and as my mother said, “unaccustomed to the rules of society, nevertheless ready to learn.” In actuality, we, or rather I had taken it upon myself to torture every governess who made the misfortunate decision to take the position. My mother, at last, resolved to send Isabella and me to Rosewood Finishing School for Young Ladies, after I scattered my governess’ underclothing on our front yard while Isabella distracted her with questions. While my Uncle Warren thought my antics were comical, my mother was not amused. I received a whipping, the governess gathered the items not scattered on our front lawn then left, and Isabella and I were sent to finishing school. Nevertheless my little stunt proved victorious, Uncle Warren tells me that the Governess’ undergarments were found in the most obscure places months after my departure.
To start the ceremony I raised my arms up toward the night-sky. Against the fire’s light, I created a fearsome shadow. My curvy figure along with my long chestnut hair, gave my shadow a medusa-like ethereal appeal.
“Oh spirits of the heaven and hell,” I began, “hear us this hallowed night. Tonight, beseech us with thy presence and bring back Lusty Lizzie Kingsely. Come back to us Lizzie.” I finished and lowered my arms. To my left, Isabella stood to finish the rest of the speech.
“Lizzie Kingsely, we know your story. As a young girl you fell in love with a clergy, who could not love you back. Distraught and heartbroken you succumb to the advances of a persistent nobleman. But on your wedding night, you discovered too late that the clergyman had given up his vows for you. You were sharing a bed with the wrong man. Caught between two lovers, your hope gone, you were ruined. Distraught you threw yourself into a lake to hide your shame, vowing one day to return.” Isabella finished her part and looked to Mary to complete the last portion.
Still indignant Mary protested, “Really must we do this, it’s not right. God cannot approve of such...such riotous behavior.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Please, Mary” I said.
Mary sighed, “Very well.”
“Lizze Kinsely, tonight we come prepared to perform the profane ritual. Please accept these tokens as proof of our sincerity.”
Mary was speaking in a far too monotone voice for my liking, so I interrupted.
“The first item please,” I commanded as I raised my arms.
Isabella stepped forward and pulled out a pair of scissors. Adroitly her long pale finger slid into her mass of blonde curls and selected a perfectly formed spiral. Without hesitation she cut the piece of hair off, dropping the lock into the fire. The golden piece of hair shriveled as the flames engulfed it. Satisfied Isabella smiled.
“Next comes the blood,” I said. Isabella passed me the scissors. I went first. I bent my fingers backward with my other hand. I traced the scissors’ blade across the middle of my palms, leaving a clear line of trickling blood. While the blood dripped I held my hand over the fire. The blood oozed down into the orange flames. Mary followed my lead. Without wincing she took the scissors, running their blade across her hand. I could tell Isabella was not especially excited about this part, but she complied nonetheless. Isabella, squirmed, making a small mark across her hand. Once a bit of blood trickled down her hand, she too held it over the fire.
“Now for the wine,” I declared.
“May God forgive us,” Mary muttered.
Mary, evidently, would not be willing to assist in this part. I uncorked the bottle with my teeth. I poured the contents over the fire. The red wine drained out of the container quickly. As the alcohol splashed against the flames, the fire billowed and crackled. Within a matter of moments and in an explosion of orange flames the wine, the blood of Christ, was gone.
Add kindling to the fire.
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