The Ripper's Wife(13)
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!”