The Ripper's Wife(6)
She also glossed over the scandals of her own past, the label of “adventuress” many affixed to her name along with words like conniving, duplicitous, ingratiating, sychophantic, and scheming; the two dead husbands whose deaths the gossips claimed too conveniently coincided with Mama’s desire to change partners; her numerous love affairs—they said she went through men like handkerchiefs—and her amicable separation from my worldly and debonair Prussian stepfather, Baron Adolf von Roques. She deftly deflected attention away from his absence with nigh constant reminders that he was attached to the embassy in St. Petersburg and thus of necessity spent much of his time in Russia away from the bosom of his loving family. Glowing with wifely pride, she described his service under Crown Prince Frederick as a cavalry officer in the Eighth Cuirassier Regiment. His troupe of ballet girl mistresses and handsome male secretaries, always tall and candlestick slim, with hair slick and shiny as black patent leather, his hot and hasty temper fueled by a taste for vodka in vast quantities, and his penchant for dueling over the slightest perceived insult were of course never mentioned. Mama was always a practical woman who preferred to accentuate the positive and ignore the negative like dust swept under the carpet.
Their arrangement was entirely amicable. It was not by any means an unhappy marriage; on the contrary, it was all very sophisticated and civilized. But Mama was prepared to admit that it might seem distressingly bohemian and unconventional to the typically traditional, and narrow, English mind. So why risk muddying the waters by talking about it? After all, what had their marriage to do with mine? At the time, I thought it made perfect sense. It was not, of course, the kind of marriage I wanted for myself; I wanted the whole beautiful fairy tale of everlasting love and happily ever after. I wanted no storm clouds to mar my perfect blue sky, so I kept smiling and silent and let Mama do all the talking. She said she knew best, and I believed her. I didn’t want to make a single frown or worry line crease my beloved’s brow. I really was the sweet, old-fashioned girl he thought I was, not some wild bohemian child of the demimondaine, so why give him any cause to doubt me?
I loved Jim and truly I did not want to mislead him, but when I voiced my concerns to Mama she insisted that I keep silent. I would never be able to forget or forgive myself, she said, if such an overt display of honesty dashed my hopes entirely.
“Darlin’ ”—she clasped my face between her hands—“your face is your heart, you are incapable of lyin’, but you’ve yet to learn that honesty can cost a woman dearly. You will blame yourself every day o’ your life, an’ quite rightly too, for costin’ yourself that which would have brought you perfect happiness. In this world, a woman must be cunnin’, not na?ve an’ timid, or else she loses out to another, a rival, who is not afraid to be clever an’ take chances. Listen to your mother. I know; I have vast experience in these matters.”
She was adamant that I must leave everything to her; besides, it was unbecoming for a young girl to talk of business and financial matters. “If you’re goin’ to do that, Florie, you might as well put on some blue stockin’s an’ spectacles and scrape your hair back into a bun an’ give up all hope of a husband, for you’ll certainly never get one by talkin’ o’ those matters!
“After you’re married you’ll fall to quarrelin’ an’ quibblin’ about finances soon enough; every couple does.” She sighed, reminding me that as a third-time wife she was in a position to know. “Enjoy the bliss o’ ignorance an’ freedom from bein’ tied down by facts an’ figures while it lasts, darlin’. The honeymoon’ll be over soon enough; it always is.”
What could I do? She was my mother and a wise and worldly woman who “knew how the game is played an’, more important, how to win it.” I loved her, and I knew she loved me and always had my best interests at heart, so, as always, I nodded and said, “Yes, Mama.” Some might say that was a mistake, that any marriage begun in deception is doomed. All I can say is that she was my mother. All little girls are brought up being told to listen to their mothers and that they’ll be sorry if they don’t, and I didn’t want to be sorry and looking back years later, still nursing a broken heart and longing for Jim and what might have been. I wanted to be Mrs. James Maybrick with all my heart and Mama was determined to make my dreams come true. “The heart doesn’t lie, but sometimes the tongue has to,” she said, “an’ which would you rather have, a whole honest tongue or a broken heart?” Of course, I chose my heart; I always did.
The last night of the voyage, our last chance to dine amidst the shining silverware, white linen, and cut-crystal splendor of the first-class dining saloon before we docked in Liverpool, Captain Parsnell stood to make the customary announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “it is my pleasure to inform you that we have made the Atlantic crossing in the usual excellent time upon which the White Star Line prides itself. We have moved at a steady sixteen knots and shall dock in Liverpool in the morning. It has been, I think, as quick a crossing as can be managed by any steamer currently in Her Majesty’s service. Customarily, at this time, I would propose a toast to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, but this evening I wish to first offer another toast. I think perhaps you can guess to what, or should I say, rather, to whom, I refer. . . .”