The Ripper's Wife(100)

“Please! I am too overwhelmed to speak!” I kept crying as I slumped against Mama.

The next thing I knew I was seated in the opulent velvet-cushioned softness of a sleek silver motorcar and a broadly smiling man and woman, Mama’s friends, my ardent supporters the Densmores, were pressing enormous bouquets of pink and white flowers into my arms and I was being whisked away to the quiet and splendid seclusion of their country estate, Cragsmore House. I was so stunned I couldn’t take in a single word. I merely sat there, dumb as a mute, trying to just breathe and staring at the back of the chauffeur’s head while Mama and Mrs. Densmore sat on each side of me, patting my hands, and Mr. Densmore kept smiling so much I’m sure his mouth must have ached long before we reached Newport.





It was a world I thought lost to me forever, only a dream I vaguely remembered—manicured lawns, sweeping marble staircases, antique statuary imported from digs in Roman ruins, crystal chandeliers, forest-green, plum, and deep blood-crimson plush velvet portieres, gilt accents, like golden lace to trim this lavish life, stucco embellishments, rich-veined woods, polished until they shone like brown eyes lit by love, brocade, damask, velvet, and leather upholstered sofas, chairs, stools, and benches, ancestral portraits and Old Masters in rich golden frames on every wall, photographs framed in silver, Wedgwood, Sevres, Dresden, Chippendale, Sheraton, Brussels tapestries, Aubusson carpets, graceful rococo splendor evocative of the vanished opulence of Versailles vying with discreet intrusions of the new, exciting and frightening, fast modern world tap-dancing to the tune of progress. I felt like a child, walking through a museum, afraid to touch anything. This world I had once taken for granted was now alien and frightening to me; I was a fish out of water terrified I’d never get back in it or, if I did, it would be only to discover that I had forgotten how to swim. That golden-ringleted girl who had flopped with careless, casual grace into Chippendale chairs didn’t exist anymore. That girl was dead, but I, the shell, the weary old husk, she left behind her, was still alive, desperate and frantic to find something to fill up that emptiness.

I was shown into a lovely rose-colored room, filled with light and vases of roses. I smiled and nodded politely whenever my hostess spoke to me, saying she hoped I would be comfortable and happy here, but all I could do was inwardly pray that my closely entwined feelings of unease and awkwardness would soon abate. I had to learn to swim again, and quick! This pretty room felt too good for me, as though by just being here, touching it, sleeping in that beautiful rose-pink bed, sitting in the fireside chairs, reading by the light of the rose silk–shaded lamps, I would pollute or damage it, as though black stains would spontaneously appear wherever I touched.

There was a balcony with a fine view overlooking a vast rose garden, with fountains and statues. A little lacy white wrought-iron table and chairs had been set out with one of the chairs drawn back as though in readiness for me.

“I thought you might like to work out here in the sunshine and fresh air sometimes,” Mrs. Densmore said.

“Work?” I asked, recalling instantly the hundreds and hundreds of shirts I had sewn in prison. I thought all that was over! I had, perhaps foolishly, thought that I would never have to work again. I had just assumed I would always be taken care of from now on. I’d never had to fend for myself or earn my own living before, and I feared I was rather old to start now.

Mama and Mrs. Densmore exchanged a lengthy look. Then Mrs. Densmore made her excuses and left me alone with Mama, to settle in and rest after my long and tiring journey.

“Work?” I repeated.

“Your book, o’ course,” Mama said as she pulled me back into the bedroom and, just like I was a little girl again, began to divest me of my hat, muff, wrap, handbag, and gloves. “You’ll want a hot bath; I remember that was always the first thing you wanted whenever we arrived in those happy days of our travels—”

“What book, Mama?” I persisted.

“Florie, dear.” Mama went to sit on the bed and patted the rosy coverlet beside her. “I don’t like to say it, but you must be practical. It is an unpleasant but unavoidable fact that you will surely want for money, an’ soon. You cannot live off the generosity of your supporters and admirers forever. People are fickle, an’ their interest will fade. In this day an’ age when every edition of the newspaper proclaims a new sensation it is only a matter o’ time before they forget you entirely now that you have won your freedom an’ procuring that freedom has ceased to be a cause for them to champion. In short, your days o’ fame are numbered, darlin’. You have to make the most o’ them while you still can; you simply cannot afford to let an opportunity pass you by; you’re no spring chicken anymore an’ you’ve your future to think of. Your story must be told, an’ now is the time to tell it, an’ who better than you to tell it? An’ in a way that will provide you with an income until such time as we can find you a new husband. So, you’re goin’ to write a book. Isn’t that excitin’? Your agent, Mr. Charles Wagner, has already arranged everything, includin’ a generous advance for you, an’ then you’re goin’ on the lecture circuit. He’s already started bookin’ a tour for you, a hundred appearances at fifty dollars per, an’ that’s just for starters. If you look pretty an’ tell your story in an engagin’ fashion, so that all the women weep for you an’ all the men want to protect you, you might be able to stretch this out for a few years, maybe more!”