find themselves with child.
~ Isaac Baker Brown – a summary of benefits from a clitoridectomy
D ARLINGTON FOUND HIMSELF on a stage, in Cockermouth’s only church. An assemblage of onlookers watched as he recited the vows the clergyman fed him.
Beside him, his bride wheezed through her “I wills,” and when it came time for the wedding ring to be placed upon her finger, Lady Bloomsbury hastily peeled her own band off of her gnarled knuckle and slapped it in the duke’s palm. She nudged his elbow, and he crammed the ring onto the girl’s waiting finger.
This was really happening. He was being forced to wed the young Bloomsbury girl, and there seemed no way out.
The clergyman pronounced them married, and it was only then that he ventured to gander at his bride.
She stood beside him, her splotched face, her huge grin, and now, she wore a wedding ring! There was clapping and whooping behind him (had the countess paid these unknowns to bear witness?), but before he could address any of it, he was led to the vestry where an enormous book lay on a table – a fountain pen waiting for his (and her) signature.
The beady eyes of the countess seared into his when he looked up before committing his mark to the page.
He scribbled hastily, vowing to demand that Lacy be freed at once under penalty of annulment.
No sooner had they signed the book, when Sarah Jane grasped his arm and demanded a kiss.
He closed his eyes and offered a peck just shy of her lips before casting an evil eye at his new mother-in-law. “You will pay for this. Mark my words.”
She did not hesitate to offer a cold, “It seems I already am, Your Grace. In so very many ways.”
The couple was ushered to a waiting carriage outside the church. Four white horses were harnessed to the rig, and a coachman – the corpulent Roland himself – turned round. “To Blantyre, then?” he inquired.
Just as the man was about to slap the reins on the horses’ backsides, Lady Bloomsbury thrust her hand into the cab. She held a scroll and she stabbed it toward the duke. “Paid in full,” she announced. “With a codicil, should you attempt to undo any of the arrangements.”
Duke Darlington grit his teeth. “If any harm comes to Lady Lacilia, you will regret everything.”
“Run along now, you two,” Lady Bloomsbury chirped, as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
“Onward!” yelped the coachman, slapping the team with a loud crack.
The carriage lurched forward, and soon rode out of the sightline of a dozen bewildered onlookers while the countess filled fists with ha'pennies.
Lacilia awoke in a cold room, her head pounding. She attempted to right herself, and discovered that her wrists were bound to the iron rails of a long, narrow bed. Images swam before her, and she blinked several times to get better focus.
“Hello?” she called into the empty space.
She heard her voice call back to her – the room was devoid of anything soft, and the sound of her call echoed off bare, stone walls. The smell of something dreadful lingered in her nose, and as she breathed in, she felt a dizziness so profound that she had to close her eyes once more.
Her limbs were nearly frozen, and she kicked her legs. Something odd down there. She opened her eyes again and attempted to raise herself on her elbows as to afford a view of herself.
She had been stripped of her clothing – and was now merely draped in a cotton shift even more thin than a bathing shirt.
With her teeth, she managed to pull a stiff sheet off her body. She squirmed the lower half of herself free from the shift, and below her stomach, where her woman’s hair should have been coiled, there was nothing. She was as bald as a young girl.
“Help me!” she wailed. “What have you done?”
Lacy thrashed and kicked, and at last a nurse entered the room.
“Now, Miss, don’t make it hard on yourself.”
Lacy blinked again, hoping to awaken from some horrible nightmare. “Where am I?”
“You, my
~ Isaac Baker Brown – a summary of benefits from a clitoridectomy
D ARLINGTON FOUND HIMSELF on a stage, in Cockermouth’s only church. An assemblage of onlookers watched as he recited the vows the clergyman fed him.
Beside him, his bride wheezed through her “I wills,” and when it came time for the wedding ring to be placed upon her finger, Lady Bloomsbury hastily peeled her own band off of her gnarled knuckle and slapped it in the duke’s palm. She nudged his elbow, and he crammed the ring onto the girl’s waiting finger.
This was really happening. He was being forced to wed the young Bloomsbury girl, and there seemed no way out.
The clergyman pronounced them married, and it was only then that he ventured to gander at his bride.
She stood beside him, her splotched face, her huge grin, and now, she wore a wedding ring! There was clapping and whooping behind him (had the countess paid these unknowns to bear witness?), but before he could address any of it, he was led to the vestry where an enormous book lay on a table – a fountain pen waiting for his (and her) signature.
The beady eyes of the countess seared into his when he looked up before committing his mark to the page.
He scribbled hastily, vowing to demand that Lacy be freed at once under penalty of annulment.
No sooner had they signed the book, when Sarah Jane grasped his arm and demanded a kiss.
He closed his eyes and offered a peck just shy of her lips before casting an evil eye at his new mother-in-law. “You will pay for this. Mark my words.”
She did not hesitate to offer a cold, “It seems I already am, Your Grace. In so very many ways.”
The couple was ushered to a waiting carriage outside the church. Four white horses were harnessed to the rig, and a coachman – the corpulent Roland himself – turned round. “To Blantyre, then?” he inquired.
Just as the man was about to slap the reins on the horses’ backsides, Lady Bloomsbury thrust her hand into the cab. She held a scroll and she stabbed it toward the duke. “Paid in full,” she announced. “With a codicil, should you attempt to undo any of the arrangements.”
Duke Darlington grit his teeth. “If any harm comes to Lady Lacilia, you will regret everything.”
“Run along now, you two,” Lady Bloomsbury chirped, as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
“Onward!” yelped the coachman, slapping the team with a loud crack.
The carriage lurched forward, and soon rode out of the sightline of a dozen bewildered onlookers while the countess filled fists with ha'pennies.
Lacilia awoke in a cold room, her head pounding. She attempted to right herself, and discovered that her wrists were bound to the iron rails of a long, narrow bed. Images swam before her, and she blinked several times to get better focus.
“Hello?” she called into the empty space.
She heard her voice call back to her – the room was devoid of anything soft, and the sound of her call echoed off bare, stone walls. The smell of something dreadful lingered in her nose, and as she breathed in, she felt a dizziness so profound that she had to close her eyes once more.
Her limbs were nearly frozen, and she kicked her legs. Something odd down there. She opened her eyes again and attempted to raise herself on her elbows as to afford a view of herself.
She had been stripped of her clothing – and was now merely draped in a cotton shift even more thin than a bathing shirt.
With her teeth, she managed to pull a stiff sheet off her body. She squirmed the lower half of herself free from the shift, and below her stomach, where her woman’s hair should have been coiled, there was nothing. She was as bald as a young girl.
“Help me!” she wailed. “What have you done?”
Lacy thrashed and kicked, and at last a nurse entered the room.
“Now, Miss, don’t make it hard on yourself.”
Lacy blinked again, hoping to awaken from some horrible nightmare. “Where am I?”
“You, my
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