The Ripper's Wife(108)
It was there that word reached me that Mama had died in a French convent. She did it in style, in a cream lace nightgown trimmed with yellow ribbons, with her hair freshly coiffed, piled up in a mass of gleaming, lacquered white curls, sending out for enough yellow roses to cover her bed to help alleviate the stink of the sickroom and death when it came. At the end, a photographer came and took her picture and afterward hand-tinted it and sent it to me. That was my last sight of Mama, lying there oh, so peacefully framed by a fortune in yellow roses. The florist, hairdresser, and photographer sued her estate to have their bills paid, but there was nothing left, for them or for me.
Fred was kind. He held and comforted me. He bought me a black lace dress and hat, new black shoes and silk stockings, ordered masses said for Mama’s soul, and introduced me to the consolation of Catholicism. But, after a decent interval had passed, he asked me about the land.
It turned out that Mama, still trying to help me after all, even though I thought she’d long since given up, had written to him secretly, asking him not to tell, as I had had some bad experiences with fortune hunters that had left me rather sensitive, confiding in him about the two and a half million acres of land I would inherit whenever that vexing legal knot was finally untangled. It was like a bucket of ice water in my face. I told him there was no land; that was just one of Mama’s fairy tales. I was heiress to nothing except the free air.
He lost his temper. I couldn’t really blame him. He’d wasted so much time and money on me, not to mention all those tender words and touches at night in his bed. I was a fraud and he was a fool, he said. I just sat there on the floor and cried, cradling my cheek, smarting and pink from where he had struck me. He told me to get out. I’d grown accustomed to the comfortable life again, regular meals and a soft bed and wearing pretty clothes, and hats and shoes more frivolous than practical, and I wept even harder at the thought of taking to the roads again.
But Fred was not entirely without a heart. He offered to see if he could get me settled in an old-age home. Fancy that! And me only forty-eight! It was downright insulting! The thought of being confined in an institution again with rules to govern everything I did, when I got up, when I went to bed, what I ate and wore, made me sick to my very soul. I told him to go to the Devil and that I would rather die in a gutter than go to a place like that. He told me to do it then and get out. I packed my bags—I had enough to fill two suitcases by then—and hitched a ride in the back of a truck carrying pigs. At that moment those fat, oinking pink creatures seemed a lot better company than Fred!
By judicious pawning, I reduced my possessions to a single suitcase again and made my way slowly back to New York, inch by inch, trying to get my courage up. I had by then discovered that gin is wonderful for drowning cowardice. Mama’s death had made all my longings for my children bubble right back up to the surface again. I couldn’t stop thinking about them no matter how hard I tried. I was determined to be brave this time and see them face-to-face. Surely enough time had passed . . . the lectures and the book, and me along with them, had faded from public memory. I was their mother; I had every right. I had never surrendered my rights; they had been taken from me by force, by Michael Maybrick and a pack of liars in his pocket. I told myself to stop dillydallying and hiding and fight for my right to hear Bobo and Gladys call me “Mother” again.
I arrived in New York in time to stand outside the cathedral and see Gladys emerge as a bride, gowned in white lace with delicate touches of lavender ribbons, tiny crystals, and seed pearls, trailing yards of white lace train and veil behind her, and a dozen bridesmaids wearing chiffon dresses in three different shades of purple. There was an enormous emerald-cut slab of a deep purple amethyst flashing on her finger. I smiled; clearly my daughter had her own ideas about engagement rings.
“No more beautiful bride ever lived!” I cried as she walked past me, without a glance, taking the compliment as simply her due if she even heard it, and climbed into the back of the big silver car decked with bunches of lavender and white ribbons, roses, and bunting.
She’d married late, at twenty-nine. I hoped it meant she had taken her time and chosen right. I found a newspaper and carefully tore out the article for my scrapbook. His name was Dr. James Frederick Corbyn, a dark-haired physician of Welsh descent and quite handsome. Dusty and shabby as I was, I went into the cathedral. I took one of the purple ribbons tied to the pews to keep as a souvenir. I found my way into the little room where the bride had waited, hoping Gladys had left a handkerchief, embroidered with her initials, so I would know for certain it was hers, and found the empty pill bottle she had left behind instead. There was that familiar frog on the label, giving advice to a baby, the same nerve pills her father had favored. Apparently they were still around; they’d outlasted even the rose-scented cold cream I was fond of. I went back into the church proper and lit a candle. I prayed that Dr. Corbyn would always love Gladys and treat her well and that God would grant him the wisdom and the strength to steer my daughter off the path to self-destruction drugs were leading her down, just like they had her father.
I didn’t see Bobo amongst the wedding party, but my eyes had been glued to Gladys the whole time, I hadn’t even noticed the groom. I rented a room, bathed, and made myself presentable and went to a library and pored over old newspapers until I found out that Bobo was in Canada, working as a mining engineer at the Le Roi Gold Mine. I pawned the little gold rosebud earrings and matching pendant Fred had given me. They were so sweet and dainty, I had hoped to keep them, but this was more important; they would take me to Canada and my boy.