The Story of Bluebeard Re-told
written by: Sarah Das Gupta
Of all the many beautiful girls in the county, Primrose Torrington Blye, was the most beautiful and the richest.
Her hair was long and truly golden, her eyes blue as the summer sky, her hands elegant, her feet dainty. To tell the truth, her father was in no hurry to see his daughter married. He enjoyed hunting through the forest with Primrose seated on her grey stallion, riding side saddle, her red, velvet habit flowing over the horse’s flank. She often led the hunt while many gentlemen admirers were trailing behind.
Rumours persisted about her legendary lovers, ranging from the Prince of Tartary to a handsome cowherd she had glimpsed one midsummer evening. Whether he had a corn stalk in his mouth or was singing of the beauty of the sunset has not, as far as is known, been recorded.
Currently, Primrose was being courted by an intriguing suitor, the suave, urbane Mr Wolfe. He sat beside Primrose at the lavish summer ball. The other Torrington Blyes were rather surprised to hear of the possibility of an engagement. In fact, by the end of the evening, a very large diamond, very large indeed, was flashing on Primrose’s perfectly manicured finger.
The strange thing was that Primrose had never seen Mr Wolfe’s estate or country seat. She had mentioned this frequently, subtly at first, then increasingly directly.
‘Darling, I really need to choose the carpet for the living room and the curtains too.’
‘My dear you can trust me with all that dull detail. My housekeeper enjoys a very generous salary just to take charge of such trifles.’
‘I’m not sure that my tastes are to be compared with those of a housekeeper, whatever her salary.’
‘You should not worry that beautiful head of yours about carpets. After all, we simply walk all over them.’
‘People will think it strange. We are to be married next week and I haven’t stepped over the threshold of my future house!’
‘I shall carry my bride over my threshold and talking of thresholds, I must be home before dark.’
Primrose sat by the library fire thinking, the house won’t come to me, so, I must go to the house!
A few mornings later, when her fiancé had mentioned he would be away on business, Primrose decided to put her plan into action.
After an hour of hard riding, she reached the hamlet of Wilberton on the edge of a dark pine forest. The first villager she met, an old crone of a woman, heard the name’ Wolfe,’ only to slam her front door in Primrose’s startled face. A young herdsman walked away as if she were speaking a strange language.
Finally, a woodcutter on the edge of the forest, waved in the direction of a clump of pines, before quickly disappearing.
Primrose, a woman who knew her own mind, was undeterred. She urged the stallion along a forest track. The forest was like all forests in such stories, dark, threatening. Ghosts may well have been haunting the shadowy depths.
Suddenly, the trees thinned out and Primrose found herself facing an old, fortified manor house. The horse’s hooves clattered over the drawbridge and came to a halt in front of a half-open door.
Dismounting, Primrose led the horse through the door into a cobbled, inner courtyard.
She called out ‘Wolfe’ several times, the words echoing threateningly against the mossy, brick walls. She looked into the main room, facing the courtyard. The furniture was elegant and the carpet a charming pale blue.
She walked up the steps into a long gallery with portraits of many beautiful, young women. All wore the same white lace wedding dress with a crown of May flowers.
At the end of the gallery, she turned the door knob. The door slowly swung open, as if reluctant to reveal its contents. Primrose gasped, collapsing into a shabby leather chair.
Lying on top of each other, piled into the room, were the rotting corpses of young girls. On some bodies putrid decomposing flesh still clung, others were mere skeletons, piles of bones with tatters of white lace hanging from ribs and shoulders. Congealed blood stained the walls and carpets. There was a sickening smell of death and decay filling the room.
Holding a handkerchief over her face, Primrose ran along the gallery but before she could reach the stairs, she heard footsteps. She crouched down low behind an old sofa, just in time for Wolfe dragging a pretty girl by her long, dark hair. The girl was sobbing and pleading but to no avail. Her tormentor looked down at her finger with a ring with a very big diamond, a very big diamond indeed. He tried once to pull the ring off. Failing, he impatiently took a knife from his pocket. With one downward stroke, he cut off the hand, pulled off the ring, and tossed the severed limb carelessly to one side. It fell on the top of the sofa, before dropping into Primrose’s lap.
The next day Primrose and Mr Wolfe were to be married. They sat facing each other before the wedding breakfast.
‘You look very pale, my dear Primrose.’
‘I had a dream last night. I went to your castle in a dark pine wood.’
‘Impossible! Only men in fairy stories live in such places.’
‘In my dream, were pictures of pretty girls in lace wedding dresses.’
‘Impossible! Only in myths and such tales!’
‘In my dream, was a room of Death, of bodies of poor, murdered women.’
‘Impossible! Only in Penny Dreadfuls.’
‘I dreamt you were dragging an innocent girl. You severed her hand with a knife, to secure her diamond ring.’
‘Impossible, no civilised man is so cruel!’
Primrose took the dead hand from beneath her dress. She pointed the poor cold finger at Mr Wolfe’s white, very white face.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Many old fairy stories can be ‘updated’ and have relevance today. The very fact they have survived, even for centuries, suggests they have something worth saying about human values and relationships.
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