The Ripper's Wife(12)
When he spoke to me, Michael’s words were cold and precise, like daggers of ice, and his eyes were no warmer. After meeting him, I could never again quite convince myself that I had actually seen this man bounding across a stage with a big, cheerful smile plastered across his face, joyously belting out song after song for his adoring public. Surely the footlights had played a trick upon my eyes and it was only a man who resembled my brother-in-law. This arrogantly sneering cold and condescending man standing in my parlor and that hale and hearty, bubbly and bouncy, singing and dancing fellow couldn’t possibly be one and the same man!
Whenever Michael looked at me, his eyes seemed filled with hostility. Perhaps he thought I wasn’t good enough for Jim? Or, being an astute businessman with powerful and widespread connections in artistic, business, and social circles, possibly Michael had made inquiries about my family and discovered just how much had been exaggerated. Or he might have been one of those chilly Englishmen who deplored all Americans, holding each one he met personally responsible for hosting the Boston Tea Party and igniting the spark of rebellion in the Thirteen Colonies. I never could figure out quite why he so vehemently disliked me and disdained my every overture of friendship.
Edwin, however, was an absolute delight, affable and sweet, full of gossip and glee. Jim’s nominal partner in the firm of Maybrick & Company, Edwin had lived with Jim and would continue to do so here at Battlecrease House with us, when he was not visiting Michael as an excuse to enjoy himself in London. The youngest Maybrick brother and, honesty compels me to admit, the handsomest one was twenty-eight, tall, sun kissed, and slender, unlike his paunchy, pasty siblings, with his dark hair still luxuriant and thick, and lively brown eyes lit up with a devilish twinkle. He cultivated a pencil-thin mustache and had a taste for loud checkered and striped suits, garish neckties, waistcoats, and dressing gowns that looked like the bold, bright patterns were the work of color-blind lunatics. He was as avid for penny-dreadful novels as any twelve-year-old boy; that day in the parlor there was a copy of Varney, the Vampire peeping from his pocket. And he loved dime museums and melodramas and liked to boast that he had not only seen the Elephant Man but also shaken his hand. There was a warmth and sense of fun about Edwin that set me instantly at ease, and I liked him from the first moment.
While my eyes were still being dazzled by his forest-green waistcoat with a bold pattern of gaudy, bright yellow lemons, green-and-yellow-checkered suit, and striped tie he took my arm and led me away from the grim and glowering Michael to sit upon the sofa.
“Don’t mind Michael. He can’t help being a cold fish; it’s just his way. I keep telling him he should dress up as an old woman with gray hair and spectacles, a cane, ear trumpet, and shawl, and do a song and dance about the agonies of old age and rheumatism; don’t you know, they’d love that in the halls,” Edwin added with the most infectious grin. I already knew it was going to be fun having him for a brother.
Still holding my arm, Edwin leaned even closer and discreetly jerked his chin in the direction of Mrs. Briggs.
“Don’t be fooled by that iced-lemon exterior, so cool and poised. She’ll scratch your eyes out—in a perfectly nice way of course—and kill you with kindness if you let her,” he whispered. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Didn’t anyone tell you?” He drew back and searched my baffled face for some sign of comprehension. “No, I can see they didn’t! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! Well . . . better that you should hear it from me . . .” He dived right in with all the relish of a glutton into a vat of chocolate sauce. “Jim jilted dear old Mattie over there to marry you, my darling Florie—I may call you Florie, mayn’t I? Formality really has no place in the bosom of the family,” he added with a lingering glance down at my own. “To save face, she rushed Horace Briggs to the altar so she wouldn’t have to force a smile and welcome her erstwhile betrothed’s radiant young bride home, to the house she decorated and always thought would be hers someday, as an old maid. Poor old Horace.” He gave a wicked chuckle. “He stood at the altar looking like a cow on the tracks struck dumb with fright at the sight of an approaching locomotive! A locomotive covered in white satin and orange blossoms! It was so sudden I didn’t even have time to buy a new tie,” he pronounced as though this were some great tragedy.
I giggled and slapped Edwin playfully upon the knee. “I do declare, Brother Edwin,” I said, my voice full of syrupy sweet Southern charm, “you’re as gossipy as an old woman!”
“Brother Edwin.” He pursed his lips and shook his head dolefully. “You make me sound like a monk, though if any woman could drive a man to such despair he would contemplate entering a monastery I daresay it’s you. Oh, Florie”—he gripped my hand hard and stared deep into my eyes—“if only I had met you first!”
This was no joke or frivolous, flirty banter; he was serious! There was such an intensity in his eyes, and the way I felt his thigh burning mine through my skirt I was afraid he would forget I was his brother’s wife and pounce upon me right there in the parlor in front of everybody. I squirmed, trying to fight the vivid picture that suddenly filled my mind of Edwin on top of me, kissing me.
I suddenly felt very hot, flushed and flustered, and guilty, even though I hadn’t actually done anything. I loved my husband! How could I be entertaining such thoughts about his brother? I bolted up quickly and went to join Jim, linking my arm possessively through his and darting a warning glance back at Edwin, who merely smiled at me and pulled a big bright yellow silk handkerchief out of his pocket and began toying with it, forming the folds into a shape with a pair of ears that very much suggested—if I am not mistaken, and I don’t think I am—a bunny.