Chapter Text
“I am going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.”
-Attributed to Jane Austen, as she began writing her novel Emma
Wednesday Addams, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortably haunted home and somber disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with only the preferred tortures to distress or vex her.
Wednesday was the eldest of the two children of a most affectionate, indulgent father, and an elegant, captivating mother; and had, in consequence of her parent’s preoccupation with one another, from a very early period, had free reign of the Addams’ ancestral seat, Gibbet Hall. For many years, she was supplied with an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection. Alongside the esteemed Miss Weems, her eccentric parents had allowed every murderous and morbid inclination to flourish in Wednesday, and at the time at which this current story begins, she was impressively gifted at the harp, pianoforte, fencing, alchemy, magick, modern languages, and all the good dead ones.
Being a young woman of considerable means and fortune, it was a surprise to all, except her most intimate acquaintances, of which there were few, that Wednesday Addams remained unmarried.
It was often a topic of idle prattle between the old women, mothers, and nieces that lived in the village outside Gibbet Hall; a village so small and quaint and so much like the other villages in that particular part of the country, that the name is principally irrelevant. If one insists upon knowing anything about it, let it be known that it was a village with the proper amount of houses and families and haberdasheries, but did not possess quite enough amusement that the potential marriage of the strange young lady who lived in the largest estate within a day’s ride was not a source of some speculation. Ever since Miss Addams had come of age, rich men of all shapes, sizes, and facial hair arrangements had begun circling through the area like vultures, desperate to achieve an audience with her. Most had not succeeded. They had gone home in their curricles and phaetons, disappointed to not have even caught a glimpse of the elusive young lady, whose personality was considered on the whole disagreeable, but by all accounts, was a pretty little thing. The few men that did successfully find themselves invited to Gibbet Hall, left, at best, disgruntled, and at worst, screaming in fear. Supposedly, though it had not been confirmed, and one knows how fast unfounded gossip spreads in those parts of the world, at least one of these suitors had not left with the same amount of fingers and toes that he had arrived with.
Wednesday herself was quite settled on the plan to never marry at all. Her education had included enough Mary Wollstonecraft to sway her from such a provincial want, while her demeanor, renowned for being cold and off-putting, did not lend itself to the art of flirtation, and her preference for solitude did not engender a desire for companionship. As much as the concept of a genteel county wedding fascinated the busy-bodies of the village of no importance, it hardly ever crossed Miss Addam’s own mind. No, what Wednesday Addams wanted more than anything else at the age of twenty-one, was to solve a murder.
She had long since read all of the works of Anne Radcliffe. She had, at a scandalously young age, devoured The Castle of Otranto, The Necromancer, The Castle of Wofenbach, Clermont, The Orphan of the Rhine and all kinds of horrid novels. In search of more, Wednesday took proper care to look out for news and gossip relating to murders and mysteries coming from London. She had closely followed the Ratcliffe Highway Murders as a student of the morbid, and kept clippings from the case in a rosewood and velvet keepsake box. She had long suspected that Mr. Williams was innocent of the crime, and that had she been allowed to travel to London and assist the local police force, as she had requested, she would have sent the proper villain to the gallows.
At Gibbet Hall, despite her best attempts at dispatching her younger brother Pugsley, there had been no murders. In the quaint, pastoral village whose name was wholly insignificant, not a single serial killer had appeared. By the time Miss Weems had left the house to teach at a local school for girls, for in her words, there was simply nothing else to teach Miss Addams, no great mystery had fallen into her eager hands. Wednesday Addams was, for the first time in her life, utterly, completely, and hopelessly bored.
That was until two events shook the bedrock of the county and ignited Miss Addams’ interest. Crosswood Hall, a neighboring estate that had sat empty for years, and was rumored to be haunted, was occupied by the living once more. This sent all the ladies and mothers of the county a flurry with excitement, for the new owner was a single man of good fortune. In Wednesday’s mind, this upheaval of the county’s social scene was quickly eclipsed in importance, for at more or less the same time, a local farmer came across what was presumed to be the body of an unknown young man torn to shreds on the side of the road. The body had no head.
“The body had no head.” Wednesday shared with her family over evening tea the following day. She delivered the news in her signature deadpan style, her voice low and level. A stranger might have thought her delivery completely emotionless, but those most familiar with her would have recognized the mirthful glint in her large eyes signifying glee. Her mother, Lady Morticia, gave the slightest of smiles. “How delightfully ghastly.”
“Querida,” Sir. Gomez Addams sighed in a whimsical tone, “How could you possibly know the sordid details of this deliciously appalling incident?” He twisted his black mustache at both ends playfully. “Unless perhaps, you climbed out the first floor west wing window in the middle of the night to sneak off to witness the body?”
“It was the second floor window, Father.”
“Ah, more daring. An excellent choice.”
The body had been brought to rest in a local inn while the magistrate was alerted. There had been absolutely zero security, and it had been altogether too easy for Wednesday to infiltrate the property and get a good close look at the mangled mess. It had already stopped producing blood, but the claw marks looked fresh and deep. The head appeared to have been removed in a clean break, as if it was wrested from the body in one single move, versus multiple hacks with a cleaver or sword. A curious detail, for surely no man alive could produce such force unaided.
“It is my belief, Father,” Wednesday declared, whilst picking apart a blackened cake with her fork, “That no mere animal would have cause or ability to destroy a body in such a way. This infernal act could only have been done by supernatural forces.”
Pugsley giggled to himself. He was working with his entomology set, picking apart moth wings and reassembling them into new creatures. The idea of the roles being reversed and some creature performing this kind of work on a human body was amusing to him. Sir Gomez cast a suspicious glance at his son before Wednesday circumvented his thought. “Don’t be silly, Father. Pugsley is far too insane to have pulled a murder like this off.”
Pugsley smiled his signature lopsided grin, “This is true.”
Lady Morticia placed a pale, thin hand over her heart. “I do hope, Wednesday, that this has satisfied your interest in the matter and you won’t continue to busy yourself with the affair.”
Wednesday scowled in response. She would not have brought the subject up if she had thought her parents would be disapproving of her participation. Sir Gomez placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Mi amor, have you so quickly forgotten what it was like to be young and to see your first dead body? The thrill of putrid flesh and stiff limbs.”
His wife gave a wistful sigh and gazed into her husband's eyes. “The rank stench of death…”
Their gazes locked and soon they were embracing in a languid kiss. Wednesday turned away with a frown. Her parents' garish insistence on public sensuality disgusted her. She made a mental note to keep any future developments regarding the mysterious body to herself.
“Oh, my dears, do not let me forget I am making a call to Crosswood Hall tomorrow.”
The air was suddenly sucked from the room. Wednesday fixed her cold gaze on her father, then her mother, then back to her father. They both remained impressively stoic. “Whatever for?”
“Just to welcome our new neighbor, my viper. The house has sat empty for some time..”
“Surely there could be no connection to the fact that the new owner is a young man with a considerable inheritance?”
For all their allowances, Wednesday knew her parents held a key fatal flaw; hopeless romanticism. They were an infamous lovematch. Despite the Addams impressive wealth of dubious origins, it was widely regarded that Lady Morticia, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Frump, had married beneath her. Her dark, haunting beauty was so renowned that she was thought to have been awarded first pick of all suitors in the season she debuted. It was a shock to everyone that she had so quickly chosen Sir Gomez Addams, an eccentric baronet with a warm complexion and a Hussar’s mustache, to be her groom.
Eager to create a similar match for her only daughter, Lady Morticia had worked tirelessly to introduce Wednesday to various suitors, all while hiding the attempts at arrangements behind supposed coincidences and happenstance. It was useless, and a point of contention between the two, growing in size with every year that Wednesday remained unwed.
“Oh, I had forgotten completely about that part.” Sir Gomez said, before taking a contemplative sip of his chartreuse. He paused a moment, savoring the drink, before continuing, as if he was reaching for a distant memory. “I hardly know anything about the fellow. In fact, very little springs to mind. All I have heard is that he inherited the estate from his uncle, Mr. Night, who had no wife or children, and who you might recall was found as a decaying corpse in his home some years ago, but Mr. Galpin has yet to occupy the house on account of his mother’s poor health. She had a touch of consumption, or something of the similarly nasty, and they had been splitting their time between Lyme and Bath for a good many years, and now that she has passed into the mysterious, welcoming arms of death, he has decided to take up a permanent residence.” Finishing his performance with a contemplative scratch of his chin, he added, “Or so I’ve heard.”
“It seems like you do know a quite good deal about him, Father.”
Lady Morticia, not to be outshone in a moment of theatricality, feigned a sudden realization, her perfectly rouged lips frozen in a slight curl. “I do recall hearing that he was well regarded in Bath. They say he is an exceptionally handsome young man, and very charming.”
“Who is ‘they,’ Mother?”
Lady M didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I ran into old Mrs. Gregory at Dabner’s, she had seen him in the Assembly Rooms last year.”
“Mrs. Gregory has been confined to her bed for these 12 weeks. I’ve heard she won’t survive the year.”
“You’re right. This was 13 weeks ago when I saw her.”
“Why were you at Dabner’s when he comes here to bring you your hats?”
“It was urgent business about some ribbon, and I felt like I could use the air..”
Wednesday huffed, her hands stiff in the lap of her black lustring dress. It was one of her favorite dresses, crisp and funereal, quite out of fashion amongst the genteel young ladies of the time, which made Wednesday prefer it all the more. “Regardless of when or who told you this news, or why the business with the ribbon was so urgent, it bears little to no importance to me, as I am firmly set against ever meeting the man.”
Despite her protests, she did meet the man, and only two days later. It was a day that became cemented in her memory. For that very same night, Wednesday Addams met The Beast.