The Ripper's Wife Page 5

  I tried to engage Mrs. Briggs in conversation about how beautiful the house was, but she simply stood there stiff backed and stared at me, and I soon felt like a perfect fool standing there babbling. I might as well have been talking to a statue. Mercifully, I was able to catch Jim’s eye and he smiled and came to my rescue. He might not have been a knight in shining armor, only a middle-aged Englishman in a black broadcloth suit, with the buttons on his waistcoat straining from all the rich, decadent dishes we had enjoyed in France and Italy, but he was my hero and, best of all, mine. In that moment, I fell in love with him all over again.

  I wished he would banish them all, so that we might be alone on this, our first night in our very own home. But, of course, that was impossible and would have been awfully impolite, since Mrs. Briggs had taken such pains over the house and Edwin and Michael were, after all, family and it was Edwin’s home too, so I could hardly turn him out; I just hoped he wasn’t going to be difficult.

  Jim kissed my brow and said I looked weary and asked if I wouldn’t like to have “a little lie-down before supper.” I was on the verge of uttering a grateful, heartfelt yes when Mrs. Briggs insinuated herself between us, prying my arm, with a grip like a wrestler’s, away from Jim’s. Before I even thought about going upstairs, she said I simply must meet the staff. There was steel beneath the silk of her voice that made me fear the consequences of refusing. After all, this was England and she knew how things were done here better than me, so I nodded, smiled, and said I would be delighted and let her lead me to the kitchen.

  It was spacious and well ordered, everything polished, bright, shiny, and new, white tiles, black iron, and brilliant copper, delicious aromas emanating from inside the mammoth black stove and the pots on top, the women all clad in black dresses with spotless white linen collars and cuffs, frilled caps and aprons, and the men in immaculate black suits and white gloves.

  When we came in they all stopped what they were doing and lined up like soldiers for inspection. There was a housekeeper, Mrs. Grant, who was also the gardener’s wife; Mrs. Humphreys, the cook; Bessie and May, the downstairs and upstairs maids; Jeffrey the coachman; and Mr. Grant, the gardener, who also looked after the horses and dogs.

  I smiled and spoke a few words to each of them, finding some little compliment to bestow or a question to ask, addressing them all warmly and by name, a little trick I had learned to help commit new names to memory, but their faces were as stiff as their backs. They were so stingy with their words, answering me with as few as possible, that I felt self-conscious about how generous I was being with my own. I found no answering warmth in any of them. No welcoming smiles. It will take time, I tried to tell myself. I’m new to them, and all this is new to me. None of us knows quite what to expect from the other. Yet I couldn’t help feeling the sharp twin bites of jealousy and resentment when I told them they might return to their duties and every last one of them turned and looked at Mrs. Briggs and only dispersed at her nod. I was the lady of the house and they should look to no other but me to give the orders!

  I started back to the parlor. I wanted Jim to be the one to show me my room for the first time, but Mrs. Briggs caught hold of my arm with fingers like steel. My word, but she was a deceptively delicate woman!

  “This way, my dear.” She drew me toward the stairs, and I had no choice but to follow her up them. I knew it would be bad form to make a scene. She didn’t even give me time to pause and admire the stained glass in the stairwell; I only caught a fleeting glimpse of reeds, water birds, and my husband’s coat of arms in passing.

  It was the most beautiful room I had ever seen, spacious and sky blue, combining bed and sitting room. Just knowing it had been created for me brought tears to my eyes.

  Carved gilt Cupids smiled down at me from every corner of the ceiling and leaned with knowing smiles on pudgy little arms from the tops of the mirrors, picture frames, chair backs, and bedposts. There was even one set as a medallion above the fireplace. I rushed to caress this cameo Cupid’s chubby cheeks and dainty wings; I just knew he would bring me luck and ensure that this room was always filled with love.

  Above the mantel, upon which was arranged a series of gilt-embellished blue and white porcelain plates painted with the portraits of famous eighteenth-century beauties such as Marie Antoinette, Madame Pompadour, and the scandalous and tragic Du Barry, hung a splendid reproduction of the famous Fragonard of a woman in a swing kicking off one shoe as a handsome young man crouches hidden in the bushes to peep up her billowing peach skirt to catch a glimpse of plump, bare thighs above her garters. Jim had laughed when we saw it together in Paris and said he hoped for her sake she was wearing drawers and for Peeping Tom’s sake that she wasn’t. I had no idea Jim planned to buy it for me.

  The windows were hung with sky-blue silk figured with delicate pale-gold flowers, and the canopied and curtained four-poster bed, sofa, and chairs were also done in the same beautiful blue. The carpet was a garden of pastel flowers and the tables and whatnot shelves were crowded with the most marvelous clutter, charming figurines, gilt-framed miniatures, little Dresden ladies in lacy porcelain skirts, antique fans spread out on gilt stands, plates, and bud vases, that Jim had bought for me in Paris.

  “It’s all so beautiful! I can never thank you enough!” I turned to Mrs. Briggs with gratitude shining in my eyes only to see hatred blazing in hers.

  Tentatively, I put out a hand. “Please . . . Don’t hate me! I didn’t know!”

  “Well . . . you do now,” she said with all the feigned smiling civility of a Borgia proffering a poisoned cup of wine, and, with a frigid nod and frozen smile, went out the door. And I was left alone, knowing that I had made an enemy and with no earthly idea what to do about it. It wasn’t my fault!

  I don’t know how I got through the rest of that evening. I was like a graciously smiling automaton sitting in the palatial faux medieval splendor of the dining room with suits of armor, standing like sentries, flanking each door, surrounded by high walls papered in bloodred damask. We dined at a long table with the most beastly uncomfortable gilded chairs upholstered in the same bloody red, reminiscent of royal thrones, all regal lions, unicorns, and ball and claw feet, so that each guest who sat at our table would feel like a monarch.

  I pretended to listen to the conversation around me, somehow managing to smile and laugh at all the appropriate moments and evade Edwin’s foot trying to entice my own to mischievous play beneath the table, while my head throbbed and the light of the crystal chandeliers catching the wineglasses and silverware made my eyes ache.

  I even felt caged by my clothes. I could not wait to return to my room, to kick off my onyx and silver filigree buckled pink satin French heels, pluck all the pins and silk roses from my hair, and shake down my high-piled golden pompadour and gratefully shed my black lace–overlaid mauve satin gown, whalebone corset, steel and horsehair-cushioned bustle, ruffled petticoats and drawers, and black silk stockings, leaving them all littering the carpet for the maid to pick up in the morning. All I wanted to do was sink down into my bed, free and unfettered in my peach silk nightgown, and seek refuge in the sweet oblivion of sleep, after first guiltily crying my eyes out because suddenly I wasn’t as happy as I thought I should be.

  Michael was so cold, Edwin I feared was too hot, Mrs. Briggs hated me, and the servants were so aloof they might as well have been on top of Mount Everest. What if I encountered the same chilly disdain when Jim and I went out in society? What if I always found myself up against an icy wall of feigned and frigid politeness? Was there anyone in England, except Jim, I could trust? Whom could I turn to? A time was certain to come when I would need someone besides my husband, an understanding friend to unburden my heart to and ask for advice.

  I felt so alone and helpless. I was used to being liked, even adored; I had never had to work to win people over before. I was tempted to rise from my bed, despite the abominable ache in my eyes and head, and dash off a frantic letter to Mama. But pride held me bac
k. I was a grown woman now and married. I should be mistress of my own mind, affairs, and house, not behave like a little girl running crying to Mama every time life was cruel or hurled some unexpected obstacle in my path.

  Then Jim was there in his fawn velvet dressing gown, leaning over me, stretching the length of his body ardently over mine, kissing my fluttering lids and throbbing temples, letting me feel his love, and all my fears, along with my headache, at least for the moment, fled as I surrendered myself body and soul to love, sweet love.

  I awoke too late to breakfast with Jim before he left for the office. Tomorrow, I pouted, and scolded myself, as I arose, with a renewed sense of confidence and purpose, and reached for my cream lace peignoir trimmed with peach satin ribbons and stepped into my satin slippers. Tomorrow, I promised as I yawned and shook back the golden weight of my hair, I would be there, smiling across the breakfast table in one of the pretty new dresses Jim bought me, to greet him, ready to hand him the marmalade and refill his teacup. I was not going to be one of those lazy, slugabed wives who thanklessly sent their husbands off to work without a kiss and a smile and making sure they’ve had a good breakfast first. Jim will leave this house every morning knowing how much I love him!

  Rather than ring for a maid, I impulsively decided to postpone my breakfast and go exploring while the house was still quiet and it was too early for callers. I had no idea if any of Jim’s friends or any of mine and Mama’s, like General and Mrs. Hazard, would come calling so soon, but I had a feeling Mrs. Briggs would not make herself a stranger no matter how much I might wish it.

  Standing in the midst of my beautiful bedroom, I hesitated. My suite was nestled between two very dear rooms I was most eager to see. The nursery was to the left and Jim’s suite was on the right. This was exactly what I wanted, to keep my loved ones close to me, so that we might always be together. I wanted to be there for my husband whenever he might desire or have need of me, and for my children to be able to climb into bed and snuggle up to me if they had a bad dream and wake me eagerly on the morning of a special day we planned to spend together.

  Unable to decide, I closed my eyes and spun around, stopped on the count of ten and opened them, and went to the door nearest me—the nursery. I gasped when I flung the door wide and found myself staring at an entirely empty room. Naked white walls, not the whimsical Mother Goose wallpaper I had envisioned, faced me on four sides, a blank white ceiling above my head and bare floorboards beneath my feet. There was not one stick of furniture. Even the windows I had pictured wearing sunny yellow and white gingham curtains trimmed with white eyelet lace and silk ribbons were naked.

  Why had Mrs. Briggs left it barren? I was a young woman, and as passionate as these early days of my marriage had been, I felt it was a sure bet that I would soon be expecting. Or was I being unfair? Perhaps she thought that furnishing this particular room would be trespassing too far? Maybe she meant to be kind and leave me one room to decorate myself, to respect a mother’s right to choose the colors and toys and furniture her babies would see every day?

  I decided to be charitable, and, with a smile, I spun gaily around and skipped back across the sky-blue expanse of my bedroom and into Jim’s suite. Here all was deep crimson plush, heavy red-tinged brown satin the color of dried blood, and dark mahogany with the muted shimmer of antiqued gilt. It was a dark, somber chamber, stifling and oppressive, with the curtains drawn tight, the kind that would make one prone to tiptoe and whisper. As I peeped through the velvet curtains at the perfectly made bed within, I sincerely hoped that whenever he felt amorous Jim would always come to me; I didn’t think I would like sleeping in his bed.

  In the dressing room, I caressed and admired his clothes, watered and embroidered silk and brocaded waistcoats, silk and velvet neckties, shirts of the softest snow-white handkerchief linen, and nothing but the finest coats and suits Paris and Mayfair’s Savile Row had to offer. Impulsively, I wiggled out of my robe and bundled myself into one of his coats, though it was far too big for me and the sleeves flopped over my hands like a pair of black broadcloth puppets. Smiling, I playfully batted them against each other like Punch and Judy. I reached up to the top shelf, where Jim’s hats were kept, and plopped a shiny black silk topper onto my head, laughing when it sank down over my eyes and bumped the bridge of my nose. I hugged myself tightly, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply, trying to catch his scent. When I heard footsteps out in the hall I started guiltily, fearing one of the servants might be looking for me, and quickly put everything back where it belonged, though I would have liked nothing better than to go on wearing my husband’s coat all day long so that I might feel embraced by him in his absence.

  In the masculine haven of his study, adjoining the bedroom, I found walls of watered champagne silk, oak paneling, discreet touches of antique gold, and heavy oak tables and chairs upholstered in cognac-colored leather with brass studs. There were shelves filled with gilt-embellished leather books, including works by Shakespeare and Dickens, a great globe of the world I delighted in spinning, glass cases filled with fascinating fossils, and cut-crystal decanters that shimmered like diamonds against the rich, warm golden and smoky topaz colors of the fine aged whiskey and brandy inside. The walls were decorated with ancient maps with unexplored territories marked “Here be Monsters,” with drawings of dragons and sea serpents, and a fine selection of gilt-framed Landseers depicting magnificent stags and heroic Newfoundland dogs rescuing drowning children.

  I sat back in the big, comfortable chair behind Jim’s desk and smiled across its wide oaken expanse at my framed photograph and sniffed his cigars and dared take a tiny sip of his very strong brandy as I rattled the heavy brass knocker knobs on his desk, each one fashioned like the hideous snake-haired head of Medusa. To my dismay, I found them locked, to protect petty cash from pilfering servants and vital business records no doubt, not any dire, dramatic secrets like in a novel or play. This is my life, I told myself, my real, wonderful life, not a stage melodrama, after all, and things like that don’t happen, not to happy people like us!

  I ventured next into his bathroom, a rather Spartan and severe room done all in black and white with shining silver pipes and fixtures, and white tiles with an elegant black starburst pattern. It was dominated by two tall ebony cabinets with frosted-glass doors that flanked the sink like a pair of the Queen’s tall, unsmiling guardsmen. Filled, no doubt, with towels, bottles of cologne, bars of soap, razors and toothbrushes, and other essential and luxurious items of refined masculine grooming. Suddenly I wanted very much to touch them, all these dear, familiar objects he handled every day, to inhale their fragrance, to smell his soap and cologne, to daub it on my wrists and behind my ears. Today was the first day since we were married that we had been apart and I missed Jim terribly.

  When I opened the first cabinet I was completely unprepared for what I discovered. All four shelves were crammed front to back with glass bottles and vials, clear, blue, amber, green, brown, and milky of varying shapes and sizes, pasted with grandiose and gaudy labels or capital letters embossed into the glass. Some were filled with liquids, others with pills, powders, or creams, and there were metal tins, cardboard boxes, porcelain canisters, bags, pouches, and packets of assorted sizes, some bearing bold words such as POISON! and DANGER!, dire warnings, and death’s-heads. There was even a sizable store of bone-black charcoal, with instructions written on the labels on how to administer it in case of an overdose or the accidental ingestion of poison. Spilled along the edge of the shelf there was a dusting of white powder. The same, I suspected, as Jim routinely spooned into his food and drink.

  This cabinet was an apothecary’s shop in miniature. The closest thing I saw to a harmless toiletry article was a goodly supply of an American concoction I had often seen advertised called Indian Princess Hair Blacking and some equally absurd preparation with a garish label depicting an unshorn Samson in a typical strongman’s pose and leopard-skin loincloth posing for a curvaceous Delilah lounging beneath the r
ed and gold inscription SAMSON’S BEST HAIRDRESSING COCAINE: IT KILLS DANDRUFF, PROMOTES GROWTH, STRENGTHENS HAIR, VANQUISHES GRAY HAIRS & CURES ALL IRRITATIONS & DISEASES OF THE SCALP! I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When I spied a box of Chinese Hair Tea with a bevy of kimono-clad women clustered around a goldfish pond combing out ink-black hair hanging down to the ground I found myself doing both.

  My mind began to spin, like in a game of blindman’s buff, frantically grasping and groping for a reasonable explanation. Did Jim plan a business venture in the apothecary trade? Were these perhaps samples given by the manufacturers? Did he have a kinsman or friend, or even a business associate, who had lately been in that profession and been forced to close up shop unexpectedly and Jim had generously offered to store his remaining stock here while he was away on his honeymoon? Or was my tenderhearted husband taking a collection to donate to a charity hospital, to ease the aches and pains of the less fortunate? But no, as much as I wanted to believe that, a closer look revealed that all these curatives had been opened and consumed to some degree. But perhaps that wouldn’t matter to a charity hospital; the suffering poor would be grateful to receive whatever they could get—No, Florie, no! Stop it; you’re being a fool!

  I picked up a large amber bottle with a gold and green label boldly emblazoned Du Barry’s Invalid Food, promising to cure indigestion, flatulency, dyspepsia, constipation, all nervous, bilious, and liver complaints, dysentery, diarrhea, stomach acidity, heart palpitations, heartburn, hemorrhoids, headaches, debility, despondency, cramps, spasms, seizures, nausea, shaking fits, sinking fits, coughs, catarrh, asthma, bronchitis, consumption, snake and animal bites, and all male, female, and children’s complaints, all in one bottle, if you were fool enough to believe it.