The Embroiderer

A Gothic Body Horror

January 1st, 1865

My Dearest Mother,

I hope you are well and know that you are sorely missed. The house and its rooms are chillier without your gracious warmth to fill them. I am quite well, although things have been tense with Father since your departure, and strained further still since my refusal of Lord Ponsonby’s proposal.

Oh Mother! Forgive me. The proposal was such a shock. I felt ill-prepared, and you were not here to calm my nervous disposition as you usually are, to hold my hand steady and cradle my head to your breast. It was most strange to be unaccompanied when he visited, I just know you would not have allowed such a thing to have happened.

Lord Ponsonby, by all accounts, is perfectly fine. A Major in her Majesty’s service, he has served across the sea and travelled well. He is educated at Eton, handsome in some respects, and owns many properties, and yet behind all of this, he is a cad, a fraud.

Left alone in the parlour, I offered him tea, I had asked the maid to bring our finest China tea set and I am quite sure I was being as polite as possible.

I wore my new dress, the one from France, the dark blue satin striped bodice with the Chantilly lace trim. Perhaps, in hindsight, it was a little too revealing, cut too low. This is the regular fashion in Paris but perhaps I misjudged it’s appropriateness for such an occasion. He behaved in a manner I can only describe as monstrous. His instincts overtook him. The bodice is torn apart Mother, I have spent all of yesterday trying to mend it.

Oh Mother!

The tea, the tray, it all fell over and the maid rushed in…Father is furious with me. He can barely look at me and storms about the place, banging up and down the staircases all day and night. I am quite sure that, past three in the morning last night, I heard the mirror in the East Wing being smashed. It was most strange; I thought that mirror was a family heirloom?

He is worse than he has ever been Mother and I fear it is all my fault.

He is drinking too much, but how can I say such a thing to him? It is not my place. Why, it is unbecoming even to speak of it to you, and yet I trust you will understand.

I am so very alone here. The maidservants hardly look at me at the best of times.

Yesterday at supper, Father sat at the head of the table. Mrs. Tuffet placed his meal before him, and he threw it across the room in a rage. Cook had spent all day preparing veal in a very fine wine sauce, which now stains the Persian rug a deep red, splashed like blood. She looked so frightened, Mother. I have never known Father to be so cold with the staff. He refuses to meet my eye since the disastrous proposal. I have brought so much shame on us all. Please forgive me Mother. I am such a fool.

Mother, tell me, is there any way you can come home earlier? Forgive me for asking. I am a wretched child, all of nineteen, with no backbone to speak of, and yet I am lost here without you. I believe Father has commanded the staff not to speak to me; they give me such a wide berth and have been leaving tea outside my bedroom door. Some days, I do not speak to a single soul.

I do apologise for my melancholy tone. I should speak of more light-hearted things. I have been embroidering again, Mother. I am working on a piece for Father, a gesture, an apology, a Thai Stag Beetle, the Rhaetulus crenatus speciosus. I found a picture in one of Father’s books. Do you remember the scarab beetle I stitched, inspired by the one he had framed from his tour in Egypt? He was so pleased. He still has it hung above his desk. I shall make this stag beetle a companion to that one. Oh they shall make a fine pair indeed!

It feels foolish to speak about embroidery, but as you always say, Mother, it is good to enjoy the little things in life.

Give my best love to Olivia and the children. I pray for them all.

Your dearest, Laura

January 5^th 1865

Mama,

I have barely given you a chance to write back before sending word to you again. I am sure that writing to you is the only thing keeping me from sobbing furiously and from falling into total despair.

Papa continues to ignore me, and I am now certain he has demanded that none of the staff speak to me. I am entirely alone, and despite my efforts to remain cheerful, I grow more fretful and miserable with each passing hour. The house is cold and dark. A fog surrounds it, so thick I cannot take air in the gardens. Father will not allow it and has locked the doors. The maids vanish as soon as I appear and so no one will aid me. He has stopped allowing the groundskeeper to bring wood inside, every fireplace is cold and empty, blackened by old soot. I very nearly tore the quilt you made from the foot of my bed to wrap around me, but Father would think me mad if he saw me.

I dare not upset him even more than I already have.

It snowed all day today, though none of it stuck to the ground, it floated by like ashes and melted upon touching the earth.

There was a knock on the door this morning. I said, "Enter," but no one came. I wonder if someone is playing tricks on me?

I have been stitching all day. I found the beads you brought me from India, the dark ones, black as night. I think they are stone, though the name escapes me…onyx, perhaps, or moonstone? I am almost finished with the beetle's wings. I know beadwork is considered unfashionable, but frankly, I have time now that no one speaks to me all day.

Father spends all day in the library speaking to himself and so I cannot even retrieve a book to escape my tortuous thoughts. I have my Bible of course and study it well, it is a great comfort of course.

Mother, please write as soon as you can. Your words would be a balm to my soul and calm my worrisome heart.

I await your letter with love and hope.

Your daughter, Laura

January 6^th 1865

Dearest Mother,

I trust you are well and that your next letter will reach me shortly. The weather here is frightful, the fog has been so thick, with snow too, that I can barely see beyond the windows. The drapes are drawn all day to keep the chill out, and not a single fire burns in the house.

I shall remain cheerful and optimistic, as you taught me. I shall put on a brave face and put my faith in Gods plan.

Mother, I think you will agree I have been most creative.

I ran out of thread for Father’s embroidery, needing something slick and fine for the beetle's legs. I came up with a rather ingenious solution if I do say so myself.

I have used my own hair!

It is so long now, far below my waist, and as inky black as the beads I used for the body and wings of the little blackened beast. At first, I thought it was macabre, but really, it is no different than gifting a loved one a lock of hair. I think Father will be pleased and appreciate the sentiment.

He has yet to speak with me. I saw him yesterday on the landing he was staring into the air, unfocused, and when I called to him, he turned and looked at me as if he didn’t know who I was.

It was most strange. It unsettled me greatly.

I returned to my room to avoid any further confrontation.

I am at a loss as to what to do. I have resigned myself to giving him space. Perhaps he has concerns that my feeble mind cannot grasp. I should trust that he knows what is best.

I am sure he will love the embroidery I am working so studiously on.

I look forward to your letters, Mama.

Your dearest, Laura

January 12^th 1865

Dear Mother,

I am so cheered by your letter, you always know how to put me in the best of spirits. How delightful that Olivia is with child, this is truly a gift from God. I pray for her good health. I laughed at your retelling of the dinner at Lady Montrose’s home. I cannot wait to see such fashions. Shall it catch on in London this Spring? Beetle wings on hats? I will say I have become rather obsessed with beetles of late, particularly stag beetles!

How wonderful. It sounds like a riot, how I wish I was there with you Mama.

Mother, I have made great progress on my embroidery. Although I should be humble, I believe this is the greatest work I have ever done. Inspired by the use of my hair, I had another thought, what if I used something else out of the ordinary? Why place limits on creation?

Mother, you really must see it to believe it. Inspired by the lustrous texture of my hair, I sought a material both delicate and enduring. You may think me fanciful, Mother, but I discovered something quite remarkable- my own skin!

Now, before you faint with shock, let me assure you: the pieces I have torn off are delicate, like butterfly wings, and very pretty.

I have perfected a technique, using my beading needle, I make a very fine slice across my thigh. No blood is drawn. I have discovered that layers of skin are soft and incredibly fine and require great care to remove.

It is tidy work. Exact and precise.

Peeling the skin takes hours, or perhaps even days…to be truthful I have lost track, so enamoured have I become with my endeavour.

The skin shimmers in candlelight, as delicate as rose petals, it looks like a very fine Crepe de Chine. I have couched it onto the flax cloth to create plump peony roses upon which the stag beetle sits.

Appliqué, I believe the technique is called. It may not be common in England, but I believe it is popular among the French.

Oh Mother, you will be impressed. And Father too! He will see how deeply I adore him.

The weather has not improved. I thought to take a turn about the garden, but the doors have been locked. I am quite sure that some of the maidservants have left, they no longer bring me tea to my room. My appetite is all but gone of late and so I have not missed it greatly. I shall not complain,

Besides, I am invigorated by my embroidery. It may sound strange, but I believe I have created something more than craft…something akin to art. Of course, I would not dare compare myself to those that study in Florence and Paris in the Salons, but I believe that perhaps Art can take many forms.

I await your next letter with joy.

Laura x

January 24^th 1865

Dearest Mother,

I am so grateful for your letter but deeply saddened to hear of Olivia’s tragic loss. It is terribly sad news, I know what a wonderful Mother she is, just like you are Mama. She is so kind and caring, I am sure that God will see fit to bless her with another child very soon. Please give her my condolences and reassure her that she is in my thoughts and prayers.

My appetite is entirely gone, which is just as well, as I suspected, the maids have ceased bringing tea to my room, I even went to the kitchen and not a soul was there! I found some bread and made myself some tea with plenty of sugar. I made quite a mess to be honest.

I fear Father has sent everyone away, I have no idea why. Although, I trust that he knows what is best and put my faith that all will be well.

Mother, I do not mean to laugh at your concern regarding my creative outputs, but truly, I wish you could see it, it is far less macabre than it may sound.

It is a thing of beauty.

I have gone further still. It happened by accident really, and yet, I have read before of artists channeling the divine when it comes to their work, and Mother, I believe that God Himself is blessing me with inspiration.

I was peeling my arms, removing the skin for more rose petals, when the needle slipped and I cut too deep. I began to bleed, Mother, but while my old self would have cried like an infant, now, I am only fascinated by my own body and the wonders it holds. My body, this vessel for my soul is as wondrous as a garden in the bloom of Summer.

Before the blood rushed forth, for just a moment, my flesh, it was the most darling shade of pink.

Perfect and delicate, like a fine China bowl, shining like porcelain.

Then a rush of the most vibrant red pumped out of the valley of flesh and skin. It was quite extraordinary. Why, Mother, it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Truly.

Of course, I took my handkerchief to stem the bloody flow and, Mother, the colour was so sumptuous. Ruby red, like a robust Bordeaux.

And as I held the cotton cloth, I thought to myself, “Well, now this is really rather special. This is like a fine dye!” It is like lapis lazuli, that rare blue from the mountains of Afghanistan. And do we not suffer to mine such rare stones from the foothills of the Himalayas? Do we not tear flesh from the earth and crush it to make something wonderful? Why it is much the same thing. We are both Gods creations are we not?

The rich red is the perfect accompaniment to the softness of the peony roses, a contrast to the luscious black legs of the stag beetle, I have used my red dye straight on the flax and really Mother, it is rather spectacular.

The beetle looks so regal, so proper, shining like diamond against his surroundings.

Mother, you will admire it so much, I just know it.

I cannot wait to show Father.

Yours with love,
Your dearest daughter,

Laura

January 25^th 1865

My Dearest Mother,

I must assure you that I am quite well. Please, concern yourself only with Olivia and the little ones, I am doing very well. Very well indeed. My appetite has always been small, besides would you rather I was a “plump little beastie” as you used to jest?

Father has yet to speak to me. I think I have brought shame upon him because of how I spoke to Lord Ponsonby, but Mother, I am certain you would have done the same. He grabbed at me in the most ungentlemanly fashion. It was obscene behaviour. Father has not spoken to me yet, but men and their moods, as you used to say. Father has a temper, I know not to stoke it. I misjudged Lord Ponsonby’s intentions, and my dress was inappropriate, I see this now and will not make a similar mistake again. Father just needs time.

When will you be home, Mother? I do not mean to rush you. I am very well, but I wish to show you this Artwork of mine. The only way you will truly understand my “madness” as you call it is by seeing the beauty of it.

I will say, that I do understand your distaste at me using my own blood and skin, but necessity is the mother of all invention Mother and I know that you will simply adore it.

Perhaps steel yourself, as I have gone further still. In the pursuit of greatness, we must test our limits, Mother!

I discovered that by layering the red from my blood, I could increase the depth of colour. I woke one morning and was upset to see that some areas had turned a coppery brown, perhaps a chemical reaction to the air, I am not educated in such things of course, it is all trial and error, I have become something of an explorer of the flesh! I decided that I must add something to deepen the colour, and I thought, “I wonder what other colours I could create from mine own flesh!”

It sounds bizarre, and yet I am now very convinced that God or an angel whispers inspiration in my ears. I am compelled to make my little beetle something truly unique. I see ways to improve upon it constantly. My mind is filled with it, I care only about repairing things with Father and I just know this gift will make everything well again.

Mother, it does not hurt, let me assure you of that. If anything, it is a great relief as I slice into my body. There is no pain, nothing at all, not even a scratch from the needle as I sink it down. Surely, this only confirms my suspicions that this is being divinely directed? To not feel discomfort? Only pleasure at the scratching and scraping of flesh, at the sight of mine own sweet blood pouring forth from my body.

I decided I would experiment, to discover what colours I can create.

My skin is so pale, Mother as well you know. The blue of my veins shows through, especially on the tender parts of my legs and wrists. And so I started by my feet. I peeled back layers of skin, then the soft flesh above, catching the runoff of blood in my chamber pot to use later.

I was disappointed to see that the veins are not quite so blue when you dig deep enough to see them. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, the layers of blood and flesh. But I did find the most wonderful purples and deep reds when I went deeper below.

Oh, Mother, the colours are so wonderful! Even today I found a yellowish green upon my own flesh, erupting from my arms from the fine lines etched on them. This shade will be the perfect colour for the sharp thorny stems of my peony roses.

Mother, it is as if the Lord Himself has sent each colour, each part, in perfect sequence.
L x

January 27^th 1865

Mother,

I must get straight to it- you will not guess what I have been up to! I have so nearly completed my artwork. I am sure Father will be delighted. I hope he will come and speak to me soon. Lord Ponsonby is a friend of his, but I am his flesh and blood, no? I am sure he will forgive me when he sees how much of myself, I have put into this work.

I have perfected the colours now, reds, browns, yellows, and greens.

Green has been flowing freely from behind my knees, my arms and feet, which is surely divine. I have been using it as the fine lime shade of leaves behind the clusters of peonies.

I had run out of beads, I needed more and as ever, the Lord provides Mother!

Teeth, Mother!

I have removed my teeth, from the back of my mouth, mind you, so as not to detract from my smile. They look quite pearl like, really. I managed five. I propped the mirror against the bed, it was quite a trial to remove it from above the fireplace, I surprised myself with my own strength. It did fall but only parts shattered which I collected quickly.

Rather than a smashed mirror being unlucky, I am quite sure this was the Lords work, for in my palm, the shard of mirror was a most perfect blade. With this tool, the teeth came out much easier than I expected, I removed the flesh from around their base, sliced it away thinly piece by piece and it did not hurt one bit. I believe this lack of pain shows a heavenly protection from God, this is surely His will. There was some blood of course, a very dark shade of red, almost brown and very thick in it’s consistency, which I collected in my chamber pot to use later.

The teeth, such jewels, are truly wonderful, they look like tiny distant roses, adding great depth to my artwork. The beetle now sits atop a bushel of peony roses. The detail is really quite something to behold.

Yesterday I heard Papa storming about the place, smashing windows and glasses. Mama, he really must stop drinking so much, he is a fright. His tone with the staff is thoroughly inappropriate. I thought they had left but I can hear Papa directing them- far too harshly in my opinion.

Best,
Your darling L

January 28^th 1865

Dear Mama,

I am so looking forward to your next letter, but rather than wait, I wanted to send word of my work. I am quite tired, but I am so close to finishing my piece, and so I endeavour to keep going. I cannot go outside in any event. The fog still settles over the gardens and I swear it is as though it is coming down the chimney too, suffocating me within the room. It is so thick I cannot even see the snow outside, although walking has become difficult anyway so I am content to sit. Still, I am glad, really, it is giving me the focus to complete this gift for Father.

You will be very impressed when you hear about my creativity. It truly knows no bounds although, truthfully, I am being directed by an angel or God Himself. My own mind is far too simple to have conjured such things.

Now, do not worry, Mother, when you see my creation, the embroidery, all of your concerns will float away like butterflies. You will rejoice in it’s beauty.

Great art, great work, in the name of the Lord requires great sacrifice. For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

I removed part of my leg.

I am not sure of the scientific or medical term, it is a large piece of flesh, a very deep red, almost purple, that sits behind the long bone running to the foot. Around it, well was the most wonderful rich yellow, as vibrant as the sun. It’s removal was swift and caused no pain at all and I suspect it will grow back eventually. I only felt joy and ecstasy as I slid my mirrored blade along the bone and parted the flesh, it was quite a magical experience. It was as though I was removing the meat from an animal, something apart from me and yet knowing it was mine own body, I trembled with delight Mother and there before me, I saw a sparkling light, shining above me, bringing me great peace. I believe it was an angel, blessing me and bringing me strength to complete what I have been called to do.

The experience was transcendent. If I had known before that the edges of the universe could be reached from within my chamber walls, oh, Mother.

What sights I have seen! After my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God.

I laid the piece of fat flesh flat on my bureau and cut it into fine strips. When almost dried, now, it did take a few days to get to this point, they are quite elastic, and so make the most wonderful ribbon-like pieces! I am sure they will harden as they dry further, and so I have been working quickly to use them as the loveliest frame for my wonderful stag beetle. I have been swirling them into fabulous shapes, quite like the decorative Rococo style that is considered old fashioned, and then stitching them in place with long hairs plucked straight from my crown. Now, before you say that Rococo is gauche, trust me, this is very tastefully done. My sewing has improved so much Mother, I can scarcely believe it, I have left all the vulgarity of my youthful attempts behind.

The beetle now seems to pale in comparison to the garden of delights that surrounds him. Perhaps I need to add something else to him, I shall pray on it.

Please continue to write to me, Mother. Your words bring me great comfort and encouragement on these long, dark days. The staff have left. Father continues to bound about outside. I heard him cursing yesterday, Mother, it was most ungentlemanly behaviour. I have never heard the like of it before. I am staying put in my room, as to not upset him, besides I am so busy now with my little stag beetle I don’t have time to wander around the house.

Laura

January 29^th 1865

Mother,

I have completed my sweet little beetle.

I am unaware of the time and write to you by candlelight.

I am waiting for Father to come into the room, I have been calling out to him for hours but he will not come.

I have been here for some time now, on my own.

The flesh has not grown back as well as I had hoped, and it is becoming quite difficult to stand.

The most wonderful colours are weeping from me though, greens and yellows, oranges, reds and purples, even pure shining whites, thick liquids, like fine oil paints, I have become Gods very own medium.

The fog has been falling down the chimney, and the curtains have remained drawn since days back to keep the cold at bay, although I do not feel the chill at all anymore.

I have been staring at the artwork of the beetle, Mother, it was surely made by the divine grace of God. It is truly the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes upon. To think that my small sacrifice of the flesh could create such a wondrous thing. I am reminded of the great sacrifice of our Lord Jesus, and I know I am in the best possible company.

I miss you so, Mother, but in lieu of your warm embrace, I feel that God is with me in this room, holding me.

I can’t even feel the cold anymore, Mother. I feel at such peace.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the sky proclaims the work of his hands.

Father will come any moment now I am sure of it.

I await your letter patiently.

Your ever-loving daughter,
Laura