The Ripper's Wife(68)
The warm, fragrant water lulled me into a doze, and I awakened with a start to a sudden splash. I was no longer alone. Edwin had crept in and disrobed, in such haste to join me in my perfumed bath that he had forgotten to remove his socks. I laughed until I cried, and then I laughed some more. Edwin laughed with me, pointing and braying at his sodden green socks. It was almost like old times except we were naked in the bathtub.
When my laughter subsided, I tried to shove Edwin out, but he only laughed all the harder and pulled me onto his lap. He assured me that we were quite safe; Jim had gone up to London. My absence had put him in a fond and forgiving mood, and he had decided to surprise me by settling all my debts as the first step on the road to the new life we would be starting down together the moment he returned tomorrow evening. We were only a scant few months away from a new year, 1889, and he truly wanted this New Year to be a new start for us, devoid of all deception and lies.
“He told me to tell you,” Edwin said, “when he takes you in his arms and kisses you at the stroke of midnight, he wants to kiss you that way every day for the rest of his life. I think he means like this. . . .” Edwin proceeded to illustrate until I succeeded in stopping him by shoving a cake of pink rose soap into his mouth.
I jumped out of the tub and threw on a robe. Foolish creature that I am, the words were scarcely out of Edwin’s mouth before my heart went leaping after Jim, leaving Alfred Brierley in the dust. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped and sank like a stone. By now Jim would have already inquired for me at Flatman’s and discovered that Mrs. and Mr. Maybrick had already checked out. The catastrophe I’d set the stage for could not be averted. The only hope I had was to pray for a miracle and, barring God’s intervention, to somehow brazen it out. If only I could persuade Jim to hold on to that spirit of forgiveness, then maybe, just maybe, there was some hope left for us after all. I suddenly wanted that new start more desperately than I had ever wanted anything in my life. I knew then, no matter how I might try to pretend, I still loved Jim. I wanted to be a wife, his wife, not any other man’s mistress.
I dressed in green, the color of spring, and waited for Jim to come home. Someone had once told me that butterflies were a symbol of rebirth, so I put the lavender and mint jade butterfly comb in my hair and sank down on my knees and prayed with all my might that if God would help me disentangle myself from this foolish fix that was entirely of my own devising I would never look at another man again, that henceforth there would be no one but Jim. That’s the way it should have always been, but I’d made mistakes, out of anger and hurt pride, a spirit of revenge, and a longing for what was lacking, and now I wanted desperately to atone.
I’d kept Mrs. Humphreys slaving in the kitchen all day. I ordered her to prepare, with especial care, a replica of our first meal as man and wife. Everything must be exactly right—the rosemary chicken, tender green asparagus, new potatoes seasoned with herbs and butter. I’d ordered the lemon custard cake from the bakery this time, Mrs. Humphreys not being so adept at fancywork as I would like, and asked that a dove with an olive branch in its beak be drawn in icing atop the dark chocolate frosting.
I jumped up and ran downstairs the instant I heard Jim at the door. My foot hadn’t even left the final step before his fist felled me. As stars danced before my eyes blood streamed from my nose and my consciousness wavered like a dying candle. I fully expected to feel his hand in my hair dragging me upstairs, followed by the crushing power of his fingers around my throat, but he left me lying right where I fell. It was his way of telling me that he was done with me. I wanted to roll over on my stomach and drag myself up the stairs after him and find a way, some way, to win his love back, but I didn’t have the strength. I never wanted anything more until after I knew I had lost it. Tomorrow, I promised myself as the stars stopped dancing and everything went dark, tomorrow . . .
21
THE DIARY
My life is a house of cards. It’s threatening to fall apart. I’m afraid that soon all will come a-tumbling down. Blinding headaches, bad dreams, and bellyaches, I do believe I’m done for; I’m afraid I am damned in this world as well as the next. Even my medicine’s strength seems to be flagging. I need so much now that every time I take it I know I am taking my life into my own hands . . . one grain too many and Death’s scythe will strike me down. I feel awed and enslaved by its power, yet I would not give up one precious grain of my white powder.
The icy numbness that afflicts my hands is creeping down into my legs and feet. My fingers and toes are like nubs of ice. Sometimes I sit on the side of my bed and hold up my unfeeling hands and stare down at my bare feet. I wiggle my fingers and toes. Sometimes they tantalize me by tingling, but that’s all. It’s a queer sensation. I walk but cannot feel the floor beneath my feet. I stepped on one of Bobo’s lead soldiers; his little sword broke through the skin and drew blood. Had I not stumbled and looked down, I never would have known it.
Dead whores stalk my sleep, rattling their chains and pointing fingers of blame, alongside images of my wife-whore writhing naked on my bed with Alfred Brierley while I stand at the foot and watch, furiously jerking my cock, and our children’s woebegone faces float before my eyes, and something else—I’m haunted by the gentle man I used to be. Sweet and solicitous to my wife, kissing and caressing her, I liked to pretend she was my little girl with golden curls and no one could spoil her even half so well as me. “Kiss Papa,” I would whisper when I hung jewels around her slender white throat and pressed a kiss to the gently throbbing pulse.