The Ripper's Wife(15)

I decided to be charitable, and, with a smile, I spun gaily around and skipped back across the sky-blue expanse of my bedroom and into Jim’s suite. Here all was deep crimson plush, heavy red-tinged brown satin the color of dried blood, and dark mahogany with the muted shimmer of antiqued gilt. It was a dark, somber chamber, stifling and oppressive, with the curtains drawn tight, the kind that would make one prone to tiptoe and whisper. As I peeped through the velvet curtains at the perfectly made bed within, I sincerely hoped that whenever he felt amorous Jim would always come to me; I didn’t think I would like sleeping in his bed.

In the dressing room, I caressed and admired his clothes, watered and embroidered silk and brocaded waistcoats, silk and velvet neckties, shirts of the softest snow-white handkerchief linen, and nothing but the finest coats and suits Paris and Mayfair’s Savile Row had to offer. Impulsively, I wiggled out of my robe and bundled myself into one of his coats, though it was far too big for me and the sleeves flopped over my hands like a pair of black broadcloth puppets. Smiling, I playfully batted them against each other like Punch and Judy. I reached up to the top shelf, where Jim’s hats were kept, and plopped a shiny black silk topper onto my head, laughing when it sank down over my eyes and bumped the bridge of my nose. I hugged myself tightly, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply, trying to catch his scent. When I heard footsteps out in the hall I started guiltily, fearing one of the servants might be looking for me, and quickly put everything back where it belonged, though I would have liked nothing better than to go on wearing my husband’s coat all day long so that I might feel embraced by him in his absence.

In the masculine haven of his study, adjoining the bedroom, I found walls of watered champagne silk, oak paneling, discreet touches of antique gold, and heavy oak tables and chairs upholstered in cognac-colored leather with brass studs. There were shelves filled with gilt-embellished leather books, including works by Shakespeare and Dickens, a great globe of the world I delighted in spinning, glass cases filled with fascinating fossils, and cut-crystal decanters that shimmered like diamonds against the rich, warm golden and smoky topaz colors of the fine aged whiskey and brandy inside. The walls were decorated with ancient maps with unexplored territories marked “Here be Monsters,” with drawings of dragons and sea serpents, and a fine selection of gilt-framed Landseers depicting magnificent stags and heroic Newfoundland dogs rescuing drowning children.

I sat back in the big, comfortable chair behind Jim’s desk and smiled across its wide oaken expanse at my framed photograph and sniffed his cigars and dared take a tiny sip of his very strong brandy as I rattled the heavy brass knocker knobs on his desk, each one fashioned like the hideous snake-haired head of Medusa. To my dismay, I found them locked, to protect petty cash from pilfering servants and vital business records no doubt, not any dire, dramatic secrets like in a novel or play. This is my life, I told myself, my real, wonderful life, not a stage melodrama, after all, and things like that don’t happen, not to happy people like us!

I ventured next into his bathroom, a rather Spartan and severe room done all in black and white with shining silver pipes and fixtures, and white tiles with an elegant black starburst pattern. It was dominated by two tall ebony cabinets with frosted-glass doors that flanked the sink like a pair of the Queen’s tall, unsmiling guardsmen. Filled, no doubt, with towels, bottles of cologne, bars of soap, razors and toothbrushes, and other essential and luxurious items of refined masculine grooming. Suddenly I wanted very much to touch them, all these dear, familiar objects he handled every day, to inhale their fragrance, to smell his soap and cologne, to daub it on my wrists and behind my ears. Today was the first day since we were married that we had been apart and I missed Jim terribly.

When I opened the first cabinet I was completely unprepared for what I discovered. All four shelves were crammed front to back with glass bottles and vials, clear, blue, amber, green, brown, and milky of varying shapes and sizes, pasted with grandiose and gaudy labels or capital letters embossed into the glass. Some were filled with liquids, others with pills, powders, or creams, and there were metal tins, cardboard boxes, porcelain canisters, bags, pouches, and packets of assorted sizes, some bearing bold words such as POISON! and DANGER!, dire warnings, and death’s-heads. There was even a sizable store of bone-black charcoal, with instructions written on the labels on how to administer it in case of an overdose or the accidental ingestion of poison. Spilled along the edge of the shelf there was a dusting of white powder. The same, I suspected, as Jim routinely spooned into his food and drink.

This cabinet was an apothecary’s shop in miniature. The closest thing I saw to a harmless toiletry article was a goodly supply of an American concoction I had often seen advertised called Indian Princess Hair Blacking and some equally absurd preparation with a garish label depicting an unshorn Samson in a typical strongman’s pose and leopard-skin loincloth posing for a curvaceous Delilah lounging beneath the red and gold inscription SAMSON’S BEST HAIRDRESSING COCAINE: IT KILLS DANDRUFF, PROMOTES GROWTH, STRENGTHENS HAIR, VANQUISHES GRAY HAIRS & CURES ALL IRRITATIONS & DISEASES OF THE SCALP! I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When I spied a box of Chinese Hair Tea with a bevy of kimono-clad women clustered around a goldfish pond combing out ink-black hair hanging down to the ground I found myself doing both.

My mind began to spin, like in a game of blindman’s buff, frantically grasping and groping for a reasonable explanation. Did Jim plan a business venture in the apothecary trade? Were these perhaps samples given by the manufacturers? Did he have a kinsman or friend, or even a business associate, who had lately been in that profession and been forced to close up shop unexpectedly and Jim had generously offered to store his remaining stock here while he was away on his honeymoon? Or was my tenderhearted husband taking a collection to donate to a charity hospital, to ease the aches and pains of the less fortunate? But no, as much as I wanted to believe that, a closer look revealed that all these curatives had been opened and consumed to some degree. But perhaps that wouldn’t matter to a charity hospital; the suffering poor would be grateful to receive whatever they could get—No, Florie, no! Stop it; you’re being a fool!