The Ripper's Wife(96)
How could anyone be so cruel? To deny me even the one tiny consolation of seeing my children’s faces, printed on paper, once a year at Christmastime? My heart all but died that day. My chest hurt so bad, assailed by the most awful pressures and pains, like a giant’s fist was gripping my heart and squeezing it, trying to wring every last drop of blood out, while bearing down with all his might upon my shoulder with the other hand, that I had to be taken to the infirmary again.
Every year thereafter, as the years crept slowly by—1896, 1897, 1898, 1899, 1900—a whole brand-new century, just think of it!—1901—the end of an era, Queen Victoria died—1902, 1903—I sat at my table every Christmas and lined up the pictures I had in a row and tried to imagine what my children looked like now. Where they were, what they were doing, how they were spending this Christmas? And did they ever spare a thought for me?
Bobo’s voice would have changed; he would have found the first whisker on his chin and started shaving. Did he sport a fine mustache like his father or agonize over the cultivation of a straggling, puny little one or prefer to remain clean shaven? He would have finished school and gone to work. Where? At what? What were his interests? Was his work just work or was it a passion? Did he share his beauty with the world or hide it away in a dull, dreary office?
Gladys would be a woman now; she would surely have beaus. I bet the boys just flocked to her and her dance card was never empty. A little beauty like her, she might even be engaged or actually be married for all I knew. And what of Bobo? Was there some sweet girl who set his heart afire and made his soul sing?
My mother’s heart ached to know. I would sit and stare at those photographs until tears blurred my eyes and I could no longer bear it; then I would fall weeping onto my cot.
I wondered if Queen Victoria had any idea when she commuted my sentence that sparing my life would be so much crueler than putting a quick end to it on the gallows?
33
Near the end of January 1904, a miracle happened. The king, Edward VII, Victoria’s fun- and lady-loving son, Bertie, the one everyone used to call “the Prince of Pleasure,” decided this wicked woman was indeed worthy of redemption.
My cell door swung open wide and I walked out a free woman, a lady again, with my head held high.
I was taken to a little room where a dusty cardboard box containing my belongings had been set out on a table, with a hand mirror facedown beside it, lying there just like a snake waiting to bite me, between a beautifully wrapped pink dress box tied with shimmering ribbon and a big pink-and-white-striped hatbox that Mama had sent me from Paris.
A bath—with hot water, the first hot bath I’d had in fifteen years!—and an entire cake of soap just for me, awaited me in an adjoining room. A tiny, strictly utilitarian bathroom, no frills and nothing fancy, but in that moment it seemed the most beautiful sight my eyes had ever seen. A toothbrush—another luxury that had long ago vanished from my life—was lying on the sink. Part of me wanted to sit and luxuriate in the hot soapy water and steam for hours, but now that I was free . . . I didn’t want to tempt fate. I was half-afraid that if I lingered a matron would come barging in and inform me that a mistake had been made and bundle me back to my cell again.
Sheer white silk stockings, pink satin slippers with French heels and big silvery buckles on the toes, drawers and chemise of the purest angel-soft white batiste trimmed with pink silk ribbons and lace, a corset, candy pink, the first that had embraced my waist in fifteen years, a shirtwaist of white eyelet trimmed at the collar and cuffs with pink ribbons, and, to fasten at the throat, a brooch, a big, round opal, with a whole flashing pastel rainbow captured in its milky depths, set into a bouquet of carved coral roses, a beautifully tailored suit made of candy-pink linen with a long, straight, narrow skirt—bustles were long gone!—and a jacket that flared out around my hips. I was dressed like a lady again, and for the first time in fifteen years I actually felt like a lady! And the hat! Oh, what a hat! An extravaganza of pink satin roses and ribbons covering what looked like an upside-down washtub woven out of golden straw, with a long hatpin topped by a green and white enameled ruby-throated hummingbird hovering above the roses. There was an exquisite white lace mobcap to wear beneath it, with a cascade of pretty lace to frame my face. Mama had thought of everything. She knew I would be embarrassed about showing myself to the world with my head shorn.
It was only then that I thought about my hair and opened that musty old cardboard box. It was still there, a shimmering gold horse’s tail tied at one end with twine. I sat down and, with my lips puckered in concentration, tried to braid and roll it into a bun I could wear until my own hair grew out, but I was too nervous, I just couldn’t manage it, the silky strands kept slipping through my fingers. With a defeated sigh, I stuffed it into the pink satin handbag Mama had sent. I would deal with it later.
It was only then, with the lace cap covering my cropped hair and that wonderful hat on top, that I had the courage to finally face the mirror. I almost wished I had remained a coward. I shrieked and dropped it. It shattered upon the slate floor, and staring up at me I saw my face reflected a dozen times, thin and marble white with hard, harsh lines chiseled deep about the eyes, nose, and mouth. My eyes were sunken and dark circled and the skin around my lips had with age achieved a faint permanent pucker, like the finest tiny pleats. My shorn hair, now shot with silver, had darkened to a deep muddy yellow, rendering that shimmering fall of radiant hair in my handbag utterly useless. If I wore it, no one would believe for a moment that it was my own. And my body—for a moment the new suit had made me forget—my curves had long since melted away, my bosom now hung pendulous and slack, and my body was practically a broom handle with arms and legs like toothpicks. And my hands . . . I quickly pulled on the white kid gloves to cover them. I had grown up believing you could always tell a lady by her hands. I now had the hands of a charwoman who spent her spare time picking cotton.