The Ripper's Wife(14)

“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 back. 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?