Archive of Our Own

The solicitor lingered after Vincent left the room.

“A moment of your time?” he prompted.

It had been a difficult afternoon; the Thorpe estate was not doing well and Vincent had spent a majority of the meeting negotiating debts, pushing assets around, and slyly implying that his adult son was a drain on his finances.

Xavier sank back into his seat, nodding politely. He had no grudge against Alford.

“It’s about a marriage prospect,” the older man said warmly.

It was a good thing Vincent had left the room. Some of the underhanded comments had suggested that a sizeable dowry would fix their problems. Xavier’s jaw ached from clamping his mouth shut; his father was eligible enough but he was also a notorious rake. He would never take a second wife, but he had a superfluous confidence in their family name, boasting his son as a worthy catch. Xavier was more sensible. He knew that their social standing had suffered considerably in the past year, around the time the debts started to pile up.

Interest had always been embarrassingly sparse. Alford hadn’t brought him any dossier in over a month, further proof that they were being slowly pushed into exile by the peerage.

“Who is she?” he asked, not hopeful. This was surely the start of decline in quality, though Xavier could feel his lip curling at the immediately reflexive thought. Vincent was particularly sore about his son’s gauntlet of rejections based on lack of romantic interest. Romance is for the poor, he’d chided more than once, though he regularly confessed in his cups – to be forgotten in sobriety – that Xavier’s mother had been the only woman he’d ever loved. The last time they’d spoken about the possibility of him marrying, Vincent had even suggested that a dowry wasn’t strictly necessary, provided the bride’s family could provide for him in some way.

“A Miss Wednesday Addams.”

“Addams.”

“Yes.” Alford couldn’t seem to conceal his excitement and personal interest, clasping his hands together as though to keep from bursting into applause.

“They are a very prominent family. Did they approve of this?” Of him?

“It’s a very unusual situation. The young lady herself is in charge of her prospects.” Alford’s feathered eyebrows quirked. “She is seeking a husband in name only.”

Despite Xavier’s secret wish to marry for love, he was intrigued. Given his stiffness in public and his general awkwardness, he doubted himself a fitting match for the type of young lady his father preferred for him. He was more of a recluse. He couldn’t manage conversation for more than a few minutes. He found most of his peerage dull and narrow-minded. He was terrible with money, but specifically, because he squandered what he had on canvases and paints imported from overseas, barely remembering to update his wardrobe and he hadn’t inherited any of his father’s charm or confidence. In short – a glaring contrast to his frame – Xavier had never considered that such a union might be the best he could expect for his future, but here it was.

“Do you know anything else?”

“Her parents have arranged a very handsome living for her, but she is unable to access it unless she marries.” Were it not for her family’s station, the absence of a dowry would have been suspicious. The Addams owned a vast, enviable parcel of land in the country and held a number of residents in town and in the city, as well.

“Is that all?” He’d never heard of the daughter; she had to be very young. If she had such a command of her own future, she might be a spoilt debutante.

“It is rumored that Miss Addams is rather… peculiar.”

“How so?” Peculiar was not unattractive to him. Peculiar to others was sometimes charming to him.

Alford shrugged.

“Do you have a picture of her?” He had a stack of photographs of placidly smiling brides-to-be in a desk drawer somewhere. They all posed the same, looking just off to the left of the frame.

“None. I was merely asked to relay the message if I thought you a suitor worth her consideration.” He began to pace nervously, wary that a servant might be listening at the door. “You stand to inherit something from your late mother’s estate, as you know, contingent on marriage, preferably into a family of good standing. The Addams are among the most respected families in the area.” He put a heavy hand on Xavier’s shoulder. “This opportunity should not be taken lightly.”

Xavier nodded. Summer had come to an end, taking with it the whirlwind and height of the marriage season. “You may pass along my interest.”

Alford relaxed. “Yes, good. Is your dossier acceptable? Shall we send a photograph?”

Xavier shook his head. “Miss Addams did not send one. She wishes to be mysterious. I’ll send her something in kind.”

The package arrived on a bleak morning.

The sky was cold and silver, a storm to herald the end of summer. Wednesday had been in high spirits all day. She’d performed a perfect autopsy and documented her results on the brand-new typewriter her parents had shipped from Wisconsin. Seeing the report neatly organized in rows and columns almost made her proud. She was making amazing discoveries in the field of the science of death. If only anyone cared. Her father had suggested more than once that she could use a pseudonym, but the thought made her sick. She wanted to be respected as herself.

Being a woman was a tedious curse.

Her parents, at least, didn’t coddle or patronize her. Unfortunately, even their hands were tied where their finances were concerned. No matter how they phrased it, Wednesday would never be in control of her own money unless she was married. She was too selfish – though could she really be accused of such a vice if she had the right to it? –  to funnel the funds into a dowry. It would have greatly improved her chances at making a match, but she learned very quickly in her first years out in society that men saw women as chattel. Her father was a rare exception. Were she to accept the hand of any man now, he would consider that money his. No one would stand behind her were she to make a complaint. The only man she’d ever seen the faintest glimmer of decency in had laughed in her face when she’d coolly explained her plans for the funds.

“There’s a package for you,” Grandmamma coaxed, waiting for Wednesday when she returned from her lab, shedding her thick gloves. It was large and rectangular, roughly half her height and about as thick as her arm. She took a sharp pair of scissors from her chatelaine and tore into it, unaware of what to expect. “It comes from Thorpe House,” Grandmamma added, plucking the little card from the tray Lurch held out.

Thorpe.

Wednesday hesitated. The name was one their solicitor had mentioned when she launched her search for a suitable husband. She had very strict qualifications and had cautioned the man that unless the suitor met each one, her name was not to be dropped carelessly. She was not surprised when the list was cut down to less than half a dozen. The one matchmaker her mother had brought in for consultation had cautioned her that even her good family name wasn’t enough to secure her what she wanted. Wednesday did not mind being thought of as shallow or particular. Her main qualification was that the young man had his own money or means of supporting himself. Many suitors balked at such a request, even though the prospect of marrying into her family was tempting.

She pulled the paper back, expecting and ready to be disappointed if Mr. Thorpe had sent a self-portrait of this size; the last serious suitor had sent a standard photograph.

The painting made her heart stutter.

It was done in dark oils, thick and raw strokes. The frame was sturdy, not ornate. It almost felt as though she could fall into it, like a nightmare. The dark street gleamed, blood and grime immiscible.

“I want it hung in my room,” she decided. The butler grunted his understanding and carried it up.

Mr. Thorpe,

Thank you for your gift. It hangs over my mantle now. Are all of your works so macabre? My own proclivities lean towards the haunting secrets of life your piece whispers to me.

Your Mr. Alford has hopefully communicated my desire for a marriage of convenience, a union in legal terms only. If you are agreeable, I am willing to meet you.

Wednesday Addams

“Miss Addams is one and twenty years of age and in good health,” Alford said. “She has been out since she came of age, but she does not frequent society unless the hosts are her family.” Xavier had only been to one Addams soiree, but it must have been before Miss Addams was allowed to mingle in public. Only three years her senior, his invitation had been extended as a courtesy and a stroke of luck. At that time, Vincent had no debt and a larger circle of friends.

He wondered at her proclivities. Her handwriting was elegant, restrained. It gave the impression that she was intelligent and not prone to empty words.

He remembered being introduced to Mrs. Addams at that ball. If the daughter had inherited any of her beauty, Miss Addams was far above his station in every way. It was a miracle that she had taken the time to write him at all, let alone request an audience. He would not be so rude as to refuse, though he fully expected to be rejected. She came from exceptional breeding. It would be genteel. He would only feel the sting of insult much later.

*

He couldn’t avoid telling Vincent about it, as he expected the journey to take the better part of a day.

“There must be some mistake,” Vincent scoffed.

The confirmation of his anxiety made Xavier’s stomach turn though it was humbling to note that even his father’s over-inflated confidence had its limits. “Alford says Miss Addams has been very selective. It’s an honor to even be considered respectable enough to be able to offer her my hand.”

His father was silent throughout the rest of their meal and disappeared into his study afterward, calling for him when the hour was very late. Surprisingly, he was sober; a whiskey glass still full sat on the desk alongside an open ledger.

“Tomorrow, you’ll go into town. You’ll need a new suit.” He paced in front of the fireplace. “You need to put aside your fantasy of a love match. The bequest your mother left you is generous, but it’s a pitiable thing compared to how the Addams live. Alford has shown me a draft of the prenuptial agreement. There is no dowry, but you would be provided for if you became their daughter’s husband. You might even find a patron among your new family and be able to make your own wealth from your art.” He gripped Xavier by the shoulders. “This meeting is the most important interview you will have in your life. If you fail, we may be doomed to a life on the cusp of destitution. If not us, then surely you when I am gone.”

The meeting would take place in the greenhouse.

A fortnight had passed since Wednesday received word that Mr. Thorpe would visit. Since then, she’d learned a few things about him. He had no siblings. He had graduated from a decent college in a small class. His father had been a well-respected occultist at one time but had recently made a fatal faux pas in high society, losing some credibility. It had merely been a fallout initiated by snobbishness, nothing scandalous. He’d rejected other marriage prospects for reasons unknown, maintaining his reputation as a gentleman. Like her, he didn’t care for large social functions, preferring to frequent lectures or gallery openings when compelled to entertain the company of others.

Wednesday was half in love with him already.

It was incredible to admit, which was why she had kept it firmly bottled. She frequently awoke in the middle of the night to lightly caress the strokes of his brush on canvas, wondering and inventing in her heart the sort of man he was, allowing torrents of blood to pump and propel her hopes as she never had before.

Gomez and Morticia had fallen in love at first sight, at a funeral. They’d had to wait almost a year to be introduced at a more appropriate function, but they swore that in the time since they grew to love and know each other and in one dance they’d already lived their whole life together, the sort of life only written about in poems and songs. As a child, Wednesday had expected that such a romance would be hers, but eventually, she knew herself a realist.

Xavier Thorpe had reached past the aching bitter void of her heart, as clear and penetrating as a scalpel, reviving that childhood desire as though through autopsy of his own reawakening that part of her soul.

*

She kept her face and tone as neutral as possible when she announced to her parents that she would be interviewing a suitor. They, of course, were excited. It had always been their dream for her to marry, to have the kind of love they did. Wednesday feared very little in life, but her parents’ enthusiasm birthed a gnarled, vile terror in her breast. Suppose Mr. Thorpe was exactly like every other potential husband she’d ever met? Worse, suppose he was exactly what she wanted, but he only intended to meet with her out of a sense of obligation, only to reject her? Suppose – worst of all – she had none of her parents’ talent for seduction or romance?

She’d grown tired of disappointing them after every eligible man she met treated her as an ornament, as a prize or a decoration. Not one man cared for her, for her intellect of her interests. A few – all nearly as old as her father – spoke to her as if she was already promised to them. “Have you been taught how to serve and cater to your husband?” “What witticisms do you process to entertain your husband’s guests?” “How often would you be willing to perform your wifely duties?” The latter had earned the man in question a drop of buckthorn in his drink.

Her plan had festered all summer; neither Gomez nor Morticia had pried. Normally, she would have been able to find gratitude for that. Instead, she’d felt as though she was slowly being suffocated. The looming date of this meeting was both a breath of breath air and a toe at the edge of a precipice.

*

She was pruning her mother’s roses when Mr. Thorpe’s arrival was announced. Lurch led him in and lumbered out to wait just outside, as planned.

“Miss Addams,” he greeted, inclining the upper half of his body.

Wednesday held her breath, blinked. She snapped the pruning shears. “Mr. Thorpe. Thank you for coming.” When she had imagined him, she had only ever gone as far as to construct his hands, and they were a perfect match. She almost wished the meeting over already, if only to have him take hers in his to kiss.

He was tall, much taller than her. His face was almost skeletal, a high, smooth brow over sad eyes. His gaze was curious; he shot a glance over his shoulder, perhaps uneasy about being left so alone with her. She snapped the shears again, pleased. It felt good to have that element of power over him, to display her own ownership of herself.

“You must have questions for me,” she promoted.

“You mentioned, in your letter, an interest in the morbid?”

She blinked again. “Yes. Before I answer, may I ask a question of my own, for context?”

He gave a slight nod, a dimple flashing. “Of course.”

“Why did you send that painting?”

Any other young lady would have sent it back. A picture of a gentleman sprawled dead on the street while his equals stepped over him was hardly a romantic gesture.

“My art naturally displays only what I find most interesting and disgusting. I do not wish to hide my inner thoughts from anyone who I might share a life with.”

She nodded, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart beating wildly. Never had she even thought that her equal could exist. Even now she had to snuff the thought before it lit her on fire. “Your portrayal of blunt force trauma is spectacular. I have seen it up close.”

“You have an interest in murder?” She scanned his face for any trace of disgust, relieved to find none. If anything, his brow furrowed softly in deeper curiosity.

“I am a student of medicine and human biology,” she clarified. “My chief hobby is studying and conducting autopsies.”

“I did not know women’s colleges offered such courses. How progressive.” He was not mocking her, he was impressed.

“I was educated privately.” She clipped a single rose from the bush and put the shears aside. “I am of the radical belief that a sound and brilliant mind has the right to thrive, no matter the sex it is attached to.”

His posture relaxed and she could tell what he was thinking; he’d surmised why there would be no dowry.

“I believe my questions have been answered, Miss Addams. Do you have any for me?” She detected a note of anxiety in his voice.

There was one, but she found herself reluctant to ask it, so she threaded it through another. “Do you normally send your artwork to future prospects?”

He smiled genuinely then. “No, Miss Addams. Just you.”

Xavier had heard of love at first sight.

For most of his life he’d longed for it. Truth be told, he fell a little in love with Miss Addams before meeting her, through her writing. He’d lost count of how many times he’d reread the words My own proclivities lean towards the haunting secrets of life your piece whispers to me. imagining the flourish of her pen. And now he knew what those interests were, why she was considered peculiar. He found her more than charming. She was an enigma.

Seeing her in the flesh only amplified the feeling. She was without question the most beautiful young lady he’d ever met. Before her, he wouldn’t have been able to admit a liking for any specific features in a woman. Her dark hair framed a heart-shaped face, crafted as fine as porcelain. Her stature was diminutive, but there was nothing delicate about her. She was perfect.

His father’s scoff resurfaced in his mind. There had to be a mistake. A miscommunication? She was waiting in the greenhouse, carefully trimming a rose plant. Xavier never painted such pretty scenes, but he suddenly itched for his paints. And to be left alone with her! Her bearing and posture, every graceful movement, spoke volumes of her intelligence and self-actualization. Even before she spoke had he rarely felt so intimidated, and she was his junior in age.

He'd made up his mind not to ask her about her parents’ financial arrangements for her. As for as he was concerned, it was hers to do with as she pleased. He dared conclude that like him, she delighted in investing in the best quality instruments to aid her hobbies.

“Do you normally send your artwork to future prospects?”

He felt a genuine smile stretch over his face, knowing the answer would please her. “No, Miss Addams. Just you.”

His other meetings had been both more and less formal, usually conducted in small, mixed company, supervised heavily by mothers or matchmakers. He’d exchange a few words, trying to gauge the young lady’s passions, always cut over to have her many fine qualities listed, her domestic talents highlighted. He didn’t care if Miss Addams could sew or if she could put together an afternoon tea.

She did not smile in return, but her eyes shone, and she informed him that if he had no qualms about her proposal, he should speak to her father. “Though the choice is my own, my family’s opinion and blessing are important to me.”

Feeling bold, he spoke freely. “I would be honored to meet with him and have him approve of me offering my hand to you. Nothing would make me happier.”

*

The butler led him to a beautiful study with vaulted ceilings. Mr. Addams was sitting at his desk, but he practically jumped up when they entered the room.

“Here is my son-in-law at last!” He shook Xavier’s hand enthusiastically.

“I do hope for your blessing, Mr. Addams.”

“You have it! My boy, no other man has captured my Wednesday’s attention as you have.”

“Sir?” Xavier fought to pull his heart back down from his throat.

“She had your gift placed in her room. Her mother and Grandmamma note that she spends hours looking at it.” Xavier found himself speechless. “Let’s get the tedious business out of the way,” Mr. Addams continued, sorting through a few papers on the desk. “This is the marriage contract. Your Mr. Alford has a copy already.”

Xavier took it with trembling hands, incredulous that at least for him, his dream was coming true. He was going to marry for love. He only hoped that he was enough to give Miss Addams what she wanted and deserved. He would be a loyal husband and respect her wishes.

It was a simple, iron-clad document. He found no issue with it. They would be given a slightly smaller parcel of land and its country home less than an hour’s journey from the family mansion, near town. The income from the estate was enough to hire and retain a full staff. They would also have apartments in both Berlin and Paris and a townhome in the city. Two residents and apartments in Europe. He could just picture Vincent salivating. There would be no capital in it for him, but the association could be enough to prevent him from becoming a complete social pariah.

“I’ll want a full-time housekeeper,” he ventured. “Miss Addams need not worry herself over the particulars of the household, what with her studies and research.”

Mr. Addams beamed. “And you will spend most of your time in the studio. I do hope I can persuade you to make a portrait of our family at some point.”

“I would be honored,” he said breathlessly.

*

When he came down for dinner, the rose that Miss Addams had picked earlier was on his plate. The meal was delicious, the meat of a cut far superior than would have been served to a normal guest. He made sure to thank his hosts and send compliments to their cook.

After dinner, he and Mr. Addams, along with the young Addams son, went back to the study. While the boy – only a few years younger than his sister – put together a series of wires and breakers on the rug before the fire, he and Mr. Addams reviewed the floor plans of their future residences. Mr. Addams made suggestions for furniture galleries he could visit to update the houses stateside. “The Paris and Berlin apartments are frequently modernized to taste and trend,” Mrs. Addams had assured him.

Xavier planned on using most of his own funds to set up a bigger art studio, but with the Addams’ connections, he would no problem budgeting for furnishings, especially since Miss Addams had made it clear over dinner that she didn’t want her marital home to be tasteless and overflowing with useless ornaments. “I prefer sturdy and practical.” He agreed readily. “We in fact have a few heirloom pieces in storage I’d prefer over anything new.”

In his study, Mr. Addams showed him a manifest of the items before sending it off to her.

At night, they gathered as a family. With the children grown, it was unexpected to have a family hour, but Xavier thought it was sweet. Mr. Addams played cards with his son and darts with his daughter. Xavier was persuaded to join, though he wasn’t as capable as either of them. He could tell by Miss Addams’ smug expression that she liked besting him. When Mr. Addams took to the sofa with his wife, he approached Miss Addams and asked for a moment in private.

Mr. Addams’ aged mother followed them at a respectable distance, lingering farther and farther back until she was just a shadow behind them. They stopped in the back garden, where a large stone fountain had gone quiet for the night.

Xavier withdrew his mother’s ring from his pocket. “I am aware that you wish only for a convenient arrangement, Miss Addams. I have my own benefits to gain.” The ring itself was technically part of the inheritance. It was expected that he sell it. “Given the circumstances, perhaps it is unnecessary of me to suggest a courting period.”

She stared fixedly at his chest until he grew embarrassed. It was evident that she only saw marriage as a duty and a means to her own independence. He swallowed and tried to keep the disappointment from reaching his face.

“It is unnecessary,” she echoed. “Nor do I want elaborate nuptials. It should be done as soon as possible.”

He nodded. “Then,” he lowered himself on one knee and took her hand, “You’ll do me the honor of accepting my hand?”

“I will,” she whispered.

Wednesday had no experience with courting. She preferred a knife on hand to a fan. She was painfully aware that she lacked the womanly, coquettish wiles she witnessed when she was out in society. Mr. Thorpe didn’t seem to care about such displays. He was a perfect gentleman, businesslike. She had been surprised to hear from the solicitor that his mother had been allowed to leave him a trust on her death. She did wonder at his reluctance to marry in light of it. A man of lesser integrity would have sought to accept the first proposal presented to him when he came of age.

It gave her some hope that he felt something for her. Surely there had been better prospects than her. Perhaps he had never been offered the real estate that came with a union to her, but there were a few families just as well respected as hers whose daughters boasted ample dowries, the young ladies far more beautiful than she.

The ring was just as unnecessary as a courting period, but she couldn’t help but gasp when he slid it onto her finger. It was a haunting white gold, a simple but clear diamond crowning it. There was no need for a jeweler to appraise the value; it was a treasure. The fact that it had been his mother’s added to the value.

She’d heard of the fashion for men to take a knee when asking their future bride to accept them. She’d thought it overly sentimental, but with moonlight falling over his brow, Mr. Thorpe almost looked sincere. He was, she decided, respectful and kind enough to treat her as if she deserved it. He was too genteel to ask after the obvious implications of her initial request that he be her husband in name only but seemed determined to favor her with a façade of actual romance, perhaps judging by her age that she would be enchanted. She was embarrassed to find herself enjoying it, locking those precious moments away in her memory.

For all of her life – aside from when the bank chose to intervene – Wednesday had been given everything she’d ever wanted. She saw the cruel irony in this now, that the one thing she wanted most – that love couldn’t just be given.

There were certain attentions a young lady was expected to give when being courted, gestures and platitudes she was unfamiliar with and felt disingenuous about. Besides, it would have been embarrassing to watch her intended stumble over the same procedures when he didn’t mean them.

*

That night, he slept in the guest room one floor below her bed. Wednesday could not sleep for thinking of it.

In the morning, Xavier left after breakfast, kissing the fingertips of his intended’s left hand. They’d agreed to have the wedding in a month, but most of that time would be spent in preparation for the engagement ball her parents insisted on throwing, since the ceremony would be intimate, just her family and his father. Fortunately, he’d been able to have three new suits tailored. One for the interview and proposal, one for the engagement party, and one for the wedding. The wedding outfit was naturally the most expensive. It was a rich black – he noticed that Miss Addams favored darker colors – with pitch trim and silk lining. He’d gone to a tailor recommended by Alford due to their familial connection; he suspected that he’d been dealt a significant discount.

His other duties until the date were to file the marriage contract, inspect the home in the country and the townhouse, and hire staff. It was very overwhelming. Vincent made himself useful by leading him through the inspections.

The home in the country was not as big as the Addams’ mansion, but it was bigger than Vincent’s, with seven suites, a full floor of servants’ quarters, a ballroom and a basement. Xavier tactfully avoided his father’s question about what would be done with such a space. The ballroom was big enough for a small party of at least fifty people, but with both his and his future wife’s aversion to hosting and the large windows that let in a wealth of natural light, he immediately marked it for his studio. It took three days to transport his things, but his future wife’s equipment took even longer; the housekeeper reported that it had taken a full week to receive everything and place it in the configuration Miss Addams had indicated through schematics.

*

The day before their engagement party they both walked the house. She approved of most of the placements of her family’s heirlooms, only requesting a few things be moved. Mrs. Addams had sent a set of dark grey drapes and a beautiful rug as a gift for their main parlor. They watched silently as Weems, the housekeeper, orchestrated the hanging of the drapes and arranging of the settee and chairs over the rug.

“Weems will take care of everything the house needs,” he assured his future wife. “You’re free to spend your time as lady of the house however you see fit. She is here whenever you need her.” She would occupy the smallest full suite in the house on the second floor.

Xavier had chosen a bedroom on the third floor for himself, across the hall from the biggest master suite and its adjoining sitting room. “These will be your rooms,” he held the door open for her, anticipating her reaction. He’d had his first painting for her hung over the new mantle. “Is it to your liking?”

“Where is your room?”

“Across the hall. Here,” he opened an ornate panel over her nightstand. “This bell,” he pulled the chord. “Connects to my room. The other is for staff.” She walked solemnly around the room.

“I’d like to see the basement now.”

She was pleased with the arrangement of her devices and eagerly began explaining to him about the last autopsy she’d done, setting out her tools by muscle memory and lovingly touching each one as she recounted the story. “Forgive me,” she said. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all.” Before they parted, he gathered his courage. “Will you dance with me tomorrow night, Miss Addams?” They were expected to open the party, but he wanted to ask. There was no harm, he reasoned, in acting on his affections where he could, fortifying his heart with the illusion of love.

“I will.”

The dress her mother had selected for the engagement ball was the same silvery grey the sky had been on the day the painting had arrived. Her hair was put up and she only wore a simple diamond necklace that suited her ring. Her fiancé wore a dark navy suit. All night she received congratulations and compliments. Everyone who watched them dance could see how well they were matched. As much as she’d wanted to, Wednesday couldn’t enjoy the waltz, surrounded by her entire family as well as all of Vincent Thorpe’s distant cousins and his many friends, all restored to him with the success of his son’s marriage.

They sat together at a banquet table for the rest of the night, but with the music, drinks and her many relatives’ interruptions, she grew more and more agitated and overstimulated. Thankfully the actual wedding vows wouldn’t take place until the next day at dusk, in front of the fountain in the garden. She was able to get a full night’s sleep and deny audience with anyone until well after breakfast.

She wore a pure white dress and veil, a stark contrast to her husband’s suit. Her cousins had declared him a beautiful man, and in this suit, he cut a striking figure.

They held hands for the vows but were otherwise chaste. Once the ink was dry on the marriage license, they all toasted with a fine, pure champagne in the dining room. Her new father-in-law was especially jubilant, Wednesday noted. As the night wore on, he became somewhat sentimental, mentioning how happy his late wife would have been.

After the night deepened, she changed into clothes for traveling. Her husband was already in the carriage. It was cool out for September. As they set off, he spread a thick knitted shawl over her, tucking it around her. Wednesday felt her face heat in the darkness of the carriage at his touch on her thighs. She bit her lip. There had been a moment, during their vows, just as during the proposal, where she thought he might feel something for her.

And now it was their wedding night.

The ride felt much shorter than it actually was. Weems and the staff were waiting for them outside, lining the drive. Most of their things were already there; the footmen only had to carry down some wedding gifts. Wednesday took her husband’s hand when he offered it, letting him lead her up to her room. The staff stayed behind, carrying packages to the study on the main floor and starting to close up the house. Wednesday tightened her grip on her husband’s arm.

“If you need assistance, do not hesitate to call on the staff. Weems herself hired two maids and they have all been cautioned to be discreet.” They stopped on the landing that separated their rooms. Wednesday froze. “I shall keep my vows. I will honor you and respect your wishes, always,” he promised. “Goodnight, Mrs. Thorpe-Addams.”

She watched him walk away, his dark suit melting into the darkness of the hallway. It wasn’t until she was in her own room with the door behind her that she realized her eyes were wet with tears.

*

Wednesday undressed herself and turned down her own bed. She washed her face in a beautiful basin set on the counter in her bathing room. A vase of white roses had been set on her writing desk. It should have been what she wanted. She had specifically taken charge of her future for this outcome. She had been told by several family members that it was impossible. Now that she had it, she felt bitter. She opened the panel and put her hand on the chord to the bell that would ring his room, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull it. What would she say? What would her husband think of her, going back on her word?

She shut the panel and got into bed, laying herself flat and willing sleep to break through the sting of rejection.

“Your wife is taking her breakfast in the solar this morning. She is not opposed to you joining her,” the butler said, setting down the coffee that had been sent for on the stool. Xavier put his palette aside. He’d been up for hours, unable to sleep. He’d been in his studio when the sun rose and had been at work. Anxious to see his wife, he went back to his room and put on a clean shirt and waistcoat.

The solar had been plunged into partial darkness by the heavy drapes. Wednesday sat at one end of the short table, stirring her oatmeal. She was dressed in a silk dress the color of a raven’s wing, her hair braided and circling her head like a crown.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thorpe-Addams. Did you sleep well?”

“Wednesday,” she corrected. Right. Last night in the carriage she’d asked him to use her name. It had felt like a dream.

“Did you sleep well, Wednesday?”

“I slept.” They took their breakfast in silence. Wednesday didn’t finish her meal, barely picking at the fresh fruit that had been served. “Am I to presume you’ll be in your studio all day?” she asked dryly as she crossed the room, doubtless intending to retreat to the basement.

“I’m working on the family portrait I promised your father.”

She paused in the doorway. “Do you need me to sit for you?”

The suggestion was tempting. He could have easily lied. “Your mother was kind enough to supply me with several photographs.”

She left the room without another word.

*

Had he done something wrong? Had he insulted his wife in some way?

Xavier refused his afternoon tea when it was brought to him. Before dinner, he went down to the basement. He’d learned within the past month that whenever there was a death in town, the body was sent to her if there was no family to object. He was prepared to see her working on someone when he came down, but it was still a shock to see her thick gloves stained with blood and fluids, her fine dress covered in a rough work apron. Rather than a whole body, she was peeling the skin off an amputated leg.

He watched with interest until she covered the subject and came over to him, removing the cotton mask that protected half of her face.

“This was sent by a farmer who is on good terms with my father. The local surgeon had to amputate this and they were concerned about the infection. Unfortunately, the worry is solid. Their crops are experiencing an infestation which may be from a kind of insect.”

Her cheeks were slightly pink. It was strange to find her so lovely while talking about such things.

“Dinner will be served in an hour.”

“I am going to process the remains and disinfect.”

“Is it catching?”

“There is very little risk, but I always take precautions. I will require a scalding hot bath.”

And so, the days passed. Wednesday spent most of her time at her studies. It took her a whole day to type up the report on the amputated leg. The next morning, she found a detailed and accurate drawing of the leg alongside it. “Mr. Thorpe asked me to put it there,” the maid confessed, seeing her confused look.

“I thought it might help,” he explained when she thanked him for it.

“It does,” she admitted. Having photographs taken was always an option, but the process of developing was not one she was patient enough for. Her reports had to be very thorough in order to communicate what she was seeing before the subjects could decompose.

“It was worthwhile for my own study,” he added. “I am not in the habit of painting the kind of portraiture that your father expects. I do not want to disappoint him. Studying anatomy up close has helped remind me of how I should be translating the organic into my art.”

*

From that day forward, if there was a body or something to study, Xavier made time to come down and spend a few minutes with his sketchbook. At times, she invited him to watch up close as she examined organs, pulled back layers of muscle to show him. To his credit, he never showed any signs of squeamishness, though he sometimes walked away looking considerably paler.

A few days past what would have been the last days of their honeymoon, Wednesday had Weems escort her to Xavier’s studio. She had only seen it once, that day they’d walked through before their engagement party. At that time, it had been sparse, but now there were stacks of paint in corners, rows of canvases, framing supplies. Weems muttered under her breath what a pain it was to convince the man of the house to allow cleaning staff in. The family portrait was almost done.

“I had an idea.” He put his brushes down and sat on the stool, gesturing for her to continue. His clothes were splattered with paint and his hair was coming loose from the style he normally wore it in, pulled back tight to the back of his head. “I want to publish a book of my findings.”

He smiled that genuine smile. “You should.”

“I would like to use your illustrations.”

“Please use them.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d felt like kissing him, but it was the first time that the thought made her so happy.

Her report on the amputated leg eventually led to changes across the county, saving crops. The unfortunate part was that she always had to publish them anonymously. It made her less uneasy than assuming a name. When she first started, her father had put the reports forward, acting as her patron. She longed to be able to take credit and be a force within the medical world.

*

When the family portrait was done, they invited her parents and brother to dine with them. Xavier had framed it himself and swiped a gloss over to seal the image. Gomez declared it perfect and promised it would be hung in their main parlor. Her mother had found him a patron who was interested in Xavier’s usual style, an exciting opportunity. Her father-in-law had been unwilling to promote his son’s talents. The Addams were much more progressive in supporting the arts. She had overheard the conversation between her husband and her mother at the engagement banquet; Xavier was a true artist. He did not think himself talented.

“I may never reach notoriety, but I would like to be able to support myself and be as worthy as my wife.” The praise had warmed her well into the night and she had once again opened the panel and put her hand to the chord that would summon him to her, but did not ring it.

She regretted for a moment not asking her mother’s advice.

The patron was a widow who held Morticia’s taste in high regard. Xavier was eager to begin his first piece for her. For the next week, he did not come down to the basement at all. A young seamstress from town had passed, and when Wednesday opened her up, she found a fetus in her womb. She called the butler to help slide the top of the table into the custom-made ice box and practically ran up the stairs.

She pushed the studio door open with some difficulty, knocking over packing materials wedged against it. Xavier was startled, caught. The butler had confessed to her that he hadn’t slept normally for days, sometimes taking naps there in the studio. His eyes were sunken and his hair completely loose. He was wearing a shirt that was more like a smock; its collar drooped low and hung off his shoulder. Wednesday stared.

“Wednesday.”

“There’s something,” she blurted. “In the basement. I think you should see it. Draw it.”

“Of course,” he nodded, distractedly pulling at his shirt. “Forgive me. This is indecent.”

She cast her gaze away, suddenly fixated on the canvas behind him. It was enormous. She could tell that he was obsessive about it. On other easels he’d pinned several studies and a few broken canvases in the corner proved that he hadn’t been pleased with the initial attempts.

“Do you like it?” There was a note of hope in his voice, something she itched to decipher.

“It’s very accurate,” she praised.

*

Wednesday had a hard time focusing, watching her husband’s fingers carefully form the gruesome, tragic arrested bead of life. Earlier, she’d been excited about the possibilities of this investigation. The girl might not have known she was pregnant. The womb was deformed, clearly unsuitable for fortifying life. It would be a breakthrough report if she could back her findings. She was grateful for the custom icebox, unsure of weather she’d be able to focus.

He went back to his own bed after spending the last few nights on cushions set up on the platform that was usually reserved for a quartet in the ballroom. He still woke up earlier than the staff and had to make his own way to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. When he returned to his studio later, he found a sheet of typewriter paper on his stool.

Many times, I have thought to call on him. Mentally, I put aside my pride like layers of silk and cotton…

“Is this yours?” he asked at breakfast.

Outside, autumn had richly colored the landscape. Wednesday’s dress was a warm, steady grey. Half of her hair fell over her shoulder in waves.

She did not take the paper. “I wrote it.”

“I did not know you enjoyed writing prose as well. It’s beautiful.”

His honest opinion brought the soft shine to her eyes. It penetrated down to his soul. “You may keep it.”

Over the next few days, he found other pages. One in his boot, another tucked into the book he read after dinner, and more.

From my wrist bound to yours, I’ll open our wrists and marry the blood. 

He lovingly tucked each one into a box he kept in the top drawer of his bureau with the long-dried rose that she’d set on his dinner plate the day they’d met. Her letter was there, too. He didn’t dare think the prose was for him. Had she written it in her own hand he would have ventured to believe that some of his love was returned. Suppose, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, Wednesday had sought a marriage in name only because she couldn’t wed her true love? Suppose the words were about him?

*

He wanted, most of all, for Wednesday to have what she’d set out to have when she’d whispered her qualifications for a husband in the ear of the trusted person who’d eventually thought to alert Alford. It was amazing that so little time had passed since.

The painting for his widow patron was finished and sent off when the leaves on the trees had gone brown. A letter soon followed with thanks and praise and a check that Xavier had trouble accepting even though he knew the transactional nature of what he’d agreed to. Another patron had come forward, requesting a landscape in his style. It was a much easier and freeing prompt; he took a very large canvas and recreated from memory the first night he’d been aware that his mother was truly dead and lost to him, the looming forest behind the eerie, pastoral field where she’d been laid to rest. He’d cried so desperately for her that his father had taken him out there and stayed all night with him until he could cry no more.

Wednesday watched from the doorway as the butler and footmen secured it in heavy parcel paper and twine. “What a tragedy that it must go to some other home,” she lamented honestly.

She seemed distant from him lately. A mysterious illness had struck in town, bringing in a small number of subjects for her to study. When he went down to sketch, she insisted on him wearing a protective mask and bathing immediately after. She limited her own time with the subjects as well, suspecting that the virus she’d discovered in the lungs was highly contagious. It was a strange case; she often came up from the basement frustrated.

*

Weems ordered a special dinner for Wednesday’s birthday. Her parents and brother had been to visit for a few days prior. Xavier spent a peaceful afternoon with Gomez and a hunting party, though he did not participate himself. Their Addams cousin had brought along his camera and promised him copies of some pictures he’d taken of the fallen elk, to be used as a reference for a painting he had in mind.

“Has passion always come so naturally to you and father?” Wednesday ventured to ask, watching her mother oversee the packing of her trunks.

Her birthday dinner had been very formal even though only her family was in attendance. Weems had insisted on it, claiming the staff was paid far too well to not have practice with setting and serving a formal meal. Her family would be leaving that morning, so she allowed it. Weems herself entertained them afterward on pianoforte. Gomez and Morticia had danced there in the parlor, their building ardor evident to everyone.

“Always,” Morticia smiled. During both visits to her daughter’s home, she hadn’t made note of the sleeping arrangements. It wasn’t uncommon for man and wife to have their own beds. “I so longed for the day we could speak of this. You never seemed to have an interest before. Does your husband inspire such want in you?”

As a child Wednesday had been interested in science, in medicine and the workings of the human body. When her mother fell pregnant with Pugsley, she was encouraged to learn the workings of the reproductive process. Sex was not a mystery to her. What she struggled with was how she was to express the illogical feelings she had for Xavier more and more with each passing day. That she was grateful no other young lady had seen him practically shirtless before his easel. That his genuine smile made his face appear fuller. That she still traced the strokes of his brush on canvas, wondering what it would feel like for his fingers to apply the same pressure to her skin. Wednesday had always eschewed social norms and conventions, but when it came to this she felt as though there was something holding her back from outright making any move.

He kept her writing, she knew. That he never acted on what she implied had to mean that he continued to see her as a mere partner in life.

“Yes,” she confessed. “I love Xavier very much.” It hurt to finally say out loud. It rang in her ears.

*

The first snow came heavily. The staff busied themselves plowing paths away from the house. The basement grew too cold to work in, and the virus had settled. Wednesday spent most of her day at her writing desk, sending the pitch for her book out to publishers. Not one had had the dignity of returning her query. She was not discouraged.

*

Not even when the only reply suggested she step back and let her husband take full credit.

*

She was too ashamed to tell Xavier about it. He didn’t know that she was avidly seeking a publisher. Her anger forced itself out of her every breath. She couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault. From what little conversation they held, she knew that he felt similarly to her. He considered her an accomplished equal, even. He would be just as insulted to learn how their book was being regarded.

In light of the cold snap, she relocated her research up to the library. She couldn’t perform lab work there, but she could study and refine the reports she wanted to include in her to-be-published manuscript. Xavier’s studio was across the hall. If she was very quiet, she could hear him pacing. She could hear him painstakingly stretching a new canvas.

On a bleak day when the snow had finally let up, she crossed the hallway and knocked, adjusting the thick, fur-lined shawl. The house was cold; Xavier had ordered heat only where necessary.

She hadn’t been in the studio since before her birthday, when he was working on the piece for his widow patron. She hadn’t seen the final result; though she had often been curious. He had painted the fountain in her family’s garden as it was the night he proposed. She didn’t remember anyone telling him its story. How had be known to show the blood stains? Was it already as sacred to him as it was to her?

Xavier’s voice from within invited her over the threshold. He sounded distracted.

“I am going to call Weems to bring wood for the fire in the library. It’s running low. Is your brazier still full?”

The little iron heater sat almost in the center of the room beside his desk. Weems had not been pleased about having it indoors, but it seemed to be well kept. “Thank you for your concern,” he said.

As she turned to leave, a stack of drafts sitting disorganized and clipped together on his desk, leaned toward the warm pull of the fire. Wednesday rushed forward to save it, jostling the edge of the table. Pencils and charcoals rolled to the ground, breaking apart and smudging their color. She winced apologetically. “It’s alright,” he said softly, gently steering her away from the mess before the fire could lick at her shawl and skirts. They both bent down to pick them up. His hand brushed against hers.

Xavier hadn’t touched her since their wedding.

She grabbed a sketchbook that had fallen, hastily trying to return it to the pile. It slipped, a few loose pages shaking free. Her face, her hands, the curve of her neck. All on paper. Wednesday turned the pages. Xavier watched her, snagging his fingers in his hair. It was coming loose from the leather chord he used to keep it tied back. “Should I be flattered?” she asked flatly.

“You’re angry.”

“No.” She was confused. Was she nothing more than a muse to him, their marriage only duty? She felt the doubt overtaking. Her heart suddenly went into overdrive, soaring.

None of the drawings were indecent, but Xavier’s face radiated embarrassment. “I hope you will not consider this a breach of your wishes.”

“My wishes.”

He held out his hand for the book and she gave it up reluctantly. “I have never once questioned why you orchestrated your future in such a way. I have only had the wish of my own to see you happy. To make you happy, in any way I can, within the scope I am allowed.”

The trees outside were stripped bare. They were beautiful in their vulnerability, Wednesday decided. “I was told you rejected more than one young lady before we met.” She hovered close, watching as he stopped short of caressing the rough edges of the pages.

“I did,” he sighed.

“Why?” She’d wanted to ask every day since the day they’d met.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. He set the sketchbook down on the desk and looked out the window, perhaps having the same thought as her. She could almost feel him painting the trees onto the landscape of his mind. “I was waiting for you,” he said at last, reverent. “I wanted to marry for love.”

She took his hand and kissed it. “You love me.”

He stared at her, awed. “I do. Wednesday, do you…?”

“I’ve loved you since before I met you,” she breathed, dragging him down to kiss. Her fingers pulled his hair free; she felt him smile against her lips.

“We should renew our vows,” he proposed, settling his hands at her waist. She shivered, not from cold.

“Will you accept my earnest pledge to you instead, the flowers of my innocence?”

“Here? Now?” he chuckled, bending down to kiss her again.

“Will you deny me?”

“No.”

She took his hand and led him up the dais, sinking down onto the cushions. Her slippers were soon discarded, their hands tangled peeling off her stockings. He kissed her again, for longer and deeper. All touches of cold left her skin. She was trembling. “I am your wife,” she promised. “I have never…”

“Nor I,” he swore.

She felt him hesitate. “I’m not ignorant, husband, but I’m impatient. We’ve wasted so much time already.”

He actually laughed. “I would never accuse you of ignorance.” He leaned back and unbuttoned his waistcoat, pulled his shirt out of his breaches. Wednesday cursed her own winter layers until he smiled and kissed her, helping unsnag the laces of her petticoats. Minute buttons yielded to him. She reached out and pulled his shirt over his head, finding his chest already flushed and warm.

“I want you to touch me as if you were painting me,” she murmured.

“I cannot.” She scowled and he grinned. “You are already a masterpiece.”

She had no words. She should have repulsed the saccharine hackneyed declaration, but the way he looked at her convinced her that he believed it true. He kissed her very softly; hands tracing the lines of her body, alive. She imagined her body made of paper, of canvas. This was another collaborative work, far more private. “I love you,” he vowed, coaxing her legs open. It felt as though she were offering it.

He didn’t have to be told what a gift it was, that Wednesday had spent her whole life selfish, reluctant to share any part of herself. It was a deep, secret reason why she’d become the agent of her own marriage prospects. She could have never imagined this. “I love you,” she panted, weaving her fingers through his hair. She let the steadiness of his hands pressed to her ribcage ground her, keep her from writhing too fiercely as waves of pleasure came over her. For a blissful moment, she lost herself. Then, she only knew Xavier’s breath, fanning over her inner thigh.

“I want you now.”

She wasn’t sure which of them said it. Their hearts and desires were connected now.

“Come sit here,” Wednesday called when he entered the dining room.

They’d made love twice more in the studio and then he tenderly, patiently sketched her as she was in the cold light of the fading winter day before carrying her up to her room and drawing the bath himself. 

She was wearing a raw silk ivory dress now, her hair loose. His chair had been brought to her end of the table, by the fire. They held hands under throughout the meal and lingered too long until she suggested moving to the parlor, where they sat together on the divan until the fire grew dim. Snow began to fall outside like falling stars.

She told him why there was blood in the fountain and he told her about his mother. They planned to go to Europe for a proper honeymoon.

“Everything is set for you to retire for the evening,” Weems prompted, entering with a maid to clean the ashes and smother the last embers.

“My husband will share my bed. It’s too cold to sleep apart,” Wednesday ordered smoothly.

The housekeeper exchanged a brief look with the maid. “Of course,” she agreed.

*

He woke in the middle of the night from a frightening dream, the kind he used to have as a child. Wednesday stirred beside him and stared up at him, her dark eyes full of love. He settled back in beside her and she wrapped her arms around his neck, whispering words that she would later write in her own hand.

I take thee as my husband to love and care for always. Never to be parted from.