The Ripper's Wife

by Brandy Purdy

  He spun me a tale about Sarah Robertson, a buxom red-haired beauty who had roused his young lust when he was an apprentice boy, working at a London shipping office and living in a single rented room in Whitechapel above her uncle’s watchmaking shop. Jim had dallied with her as young men are wont to do.

  “You’re a woman, Bunny, not a little girl anymore, so you know something now of the ways of the world. I was a young man, and my flesh was not only willing but weak, and I succumbed.”

  He had toyed with the notion of marrying her, but Michael, always the soul of sense, had talked him out of it, advising Jim to ask himself seriously if this was a woman he would be pleased to present as his wife to the Currant Jelly Set. The voice of reason had, of course, prevailed. But before Jim could let her down gently, Sarah had suffered a fall down the stairs, cracked her head open wide, lost a bucket of blood, and it was only by some miracle that she survived.

  Her body recovered, but her poor battered brain did not. She began to imagine that Jim was her husband, and it became dangerous to leave her unattended where any man might get at her, for the part of her brain that governed morality was fatally damaged and she would welcome any man eager to embrace her as her “husband,” Jim.

  “The world is unfortunately full of many men who would take advantage of a woman, especially one as beautiful as Sarah was then, and say, ‘Aye, Wife, here’s your Jim!’ ” He shook his head and sighed over the perfidy of his gender.

  She conceived three bastards that way while Jim was still in lodgings there. “None of them mine,” he insisted. “I never laid a finger on her after the accident.” That another two had come after our marriage and she might now be expecting a sixth was news to him.

  Moved to pity by her plight and harboring fond memories of the family who had made him feel like one of their own when he was a lonely lad making his way alone in London, he had made a point of sending a sum of money to Sarah and her bastard brood each month, but circumstances had forced him to neglect this act of charity for the past several months.

  “My own family must come first,” he said, caressing my cheek. “I cannot think of clothing and feeding her children before my own. There are charities she can turn to if the situation is indeed as dire as she claims.”

  Tears pouring down my face, I wilted against his chest. I put my arms around his neck. I let him kiss me. He carried me to the bed and would have made the most tender love to me, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him away and buried my face in the pillows and cried. He sat for a long time beside me, stroking my sob-shaking back, assuring me that Mad Sarah and her bastard brood would trouble me no more and the best thing I could do was forget. But I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, stop weeping or roll over and face him, and, after some time, I heard the door close behind him.

  I cried because, even though I pretended to—and would go on pretending for the sake of my children and my own selfish self to avoid facing disgrace and hold on to the life to which we had all become accustomed—I didn’t believe him. I wanted to, but the seed of suspicion had been sown and I just couldn’t uproot it. I, who had so desperately craved a rational explanation, rejected it at the very moment when my prayers were seemingly answered with a story that might have sprung straight from the pen of Charles Dickens. And I cried for another reason—I cried because if it were indeed, God help me, the truth Jim was telling me, then I was the one who had been untrue. I had betrayed our marriage that afternoon in the parlor with Edwin. I just couldn’t face the truth or the lies anymore, so I pushed my husband away and hid my face in the pillows and cried.

  There was no use pretending. I just didn’t have the iron petticoats or steel backbone of Queen Victoria. I crumbled and fell to pieces where she and a woman more like her would have stood strong. All the pieces lay scattered around my feet and I didn’t know what to do with them, where to begin, or how to pick them all up and put them back together again. I was doomed to failure, and I knew it. Maybe that’s why I didn’t even bother to try. I just left them where they lay, a mess to rot or be swept under the carpet, and went on, running from the truth and rushing headlong into the arms of the next disaster.

  8

  It was the Friday afternoon the striped foulard was ruined. That day is forever fixed in my memory as the one when I not only rushed headlong into the arms of Disaster but also stayed there, kissed him, and surrendered to him body and soul.

  I was sitting in the parlor crying, as I so often did those days. The romance novels I was accustomed to wiling away the afternoons with now seemed trite and unbelievable, full of silly unrealizable dreams, and the bonbons had lost all their flavor. Not even the sweet velvet smoothness of chocolate could soothe me now, and a caramel or strawberry cream center no longer brought a smile to my lips. I was sitting there just staring at the syrupy red stain spreading over my purple-and-white-striped skirt and the pink speckled ruin of the pretty lace.

  My head was aching like an ax had split it in twain, my ribs practically screaming beneath my stays every time I drew a breath, making me wonder whether I would have to invent a story we would both only pretend to believe and send for Dr. Hopper. I sincerely hoped not. I didn’t want anyone to see me. My left eye looked like it was blooming out of a violet, the tears having washed away most of the powder I’d carefully applied that morning after spending half the night lying flat on my back with a slab of raw steak on it.

  Jim and I had been fighting again. He’d banged and battered me all about the bedroom, kicked me when I was down, and pulled my hair until I cried. Then had come the familiar kisses and unbelievable promises that he would never hurt me again, followed by the long, tearful hours alone with cold raw meat over my eye, arguing with my proud, stubborn self, tallying up all the reasons why I couldn’t just walk out. I just could not bring myself to accept that the dream of a happy home and hearth was well and truly dead and that it might be, at least partly, my fault. And the resulting scandal that would surely cling like tar and feathers to my children; divorce was such an ugly, bitter thing and the woman was usually blamed. Men will be men; she should have just turned a blind eye, the reasoning generally went.

  Right on cue, at half past noon, a messenger boy from Woollright’s Department Store had brought a sable cape lined with periwinkle-blue satin to the front door with a box of imported French bonbons and a perfumed pink card signed: “With loving regards from your most repentant husband.” But at that moment the cape still lay snug in its nest of pink tissue paper, tossed carelessly onto my bed, and I’d sent the fancy French chocolates to the kitchen for the maids to gossip over; I just didn’t have the stomach for them.

  I was sorely worried about my little girl, Gladys. She was the reason Jim and I had gotten into that awful fight. I lost my temper and flat out accused him of trying to turn our daughter into a drug fiend just like him. She was five years old and still distressingly susceptible to every cough and sniffle, and starting to enjoy the attention sickness brought her, like extra ice cream to ease a sore throat. I’d caught her batting her little lashes and trying to flirt with Dr. Hopper while he was taking her pulse. Once I’d even overheard her telling Mrs. Hammersmith that she wanted to be an invalid like Elizabeth Barrett Browning when she grew up and wear pretty dresses and lie around on a couch all day and have the maid bring her medicines on a silver tray. Not a famous lady-poet, mind you, or the female half of one of the world’s great love stories, but an invalid! I didn’t like it the least little bit, this romanticizing of sickness, and I’d told Jim so several times, but he always chuckled and said it was a phase she would grow out of soon enough. But when my daughter started tearing advertisements for medicines out of magazines and asking if she could have them, I had to put my foot down. “She’s becoming just like you!” I screamed at Jim. But Jim just laughed at me until he got mad enough to hit me.

  That afternoon weeping in the parlor I was at my wit’s end. Gladys had been crying all day for her Cherry Pectoral. It was a popular cough syrup for children
. Jim said it was the most pleasant-tasting one on the market—and he should know. It frightened me the way she cried for it. She used to be just like Bobo, who stoically endured every vile spoonful, and not without tears and complaint, for the sake of the toffee or licorice drop that always followed to chase the nasty taste away, but not since the advent of the Cherry Pectoral. That blasted bottle had changed everything! Now Gladys couldn’t wait for her dose. She watched the clock and would be tugging at my skirt or Nanny Yapp’s if we weren’t there with the spoon and the bottle right on the dot.

  Gladys had even asked if she couldn’t have it on top of her ice cream instead of chocolate sauce last night, then started to cry and kick her chair and pound her fists when I said no, indeed she most certainly could not, and snapped at Jim to sit back down when he said he didn’t see why not and started up to get it. That was what had precipitated our quarrel, which continued later in the privacy of my bedroom.

  Gladys and I had gotten into a terrible tug-of-war over the bottle while Bobo galloped around us in circles astride his dappled-gray hobbyhorse shouting, “Tallyho!” and pretending to be hot on the heels of a fox. I’d sorely underestimated the strength of an angry and determined five-year-old, and we’d ended by spilling the better half of the bottle all over my dress, and with Gladys flinging herself down on the floor to pound it with her fists and scream at the top of her lungs and bring all the servants running. Bessie, downstairs dusting in the parlor, had even dropped a vase, thinking someone must surely be being murdered upstairs. But Nanny Yapp had strode right in and snatched Gladys up and slapped her, stunning the poor little thing into sudden silence. Then I lost what fragile hold I still had on my own temper and almost slapped Nanny Yapp. The housekeeper and the cook had to actually get between us and escort me, with hands like steel clamps upon my arms, back downstairs to the parlor to calm myself, as though I were the one who was at fault when that awful woman had actually struck my child!

  “You’re all against me!” I cried, and not a soul in that house denied it.

  I was still trying to compose myself an hour later when the doorbell rang. Then Bessie was showing in Mr. Alfred Brierley, a handsome young copper-haired gentleman who often did business with Jim on the Cotton Exchange. They had offices around the corner from each other and frequently met for lunch or at the Liverpool Cricket Club and Turkish baths. Apparently Jim was not in his office, he’d gone up to London on some sudden and important business, without even bothering to send a note home to tell me, and Mr. Brierley had some papers he’d rather Jim looked over this evening instead of waiting until he was in his office again on Monday morning. Therefore, Mr. Brierley had taken the liberty of bringing them around. He smelled of spices and Turkish cigarettes.

  My cheeks began to burn. I turned away in shame; I didn’t want him to see me this way—with my soiled dress and black eye. Before I knew it, I had begun to cry again, burying my face in my hands.

  He sat down on the sofa beside me, put his hand on my shoulder, and in the kindest, gentlest voice said, “Please don’t cry.”

  Ever so gently, he turned me around, and suddenly my head was on his shoulder. My breasts, quaking with sobs, were crushed against his chest as he held me, stroking my back in the most comforting manner.

  “Oh! What am I doing?” Common sense pulled the reins on me and I sat up straight and tended to my own tears as best I could, noting with dismay that the last of the powder came away on my handkerchief. My eye was now naked as a blueberry. I must look a perfect horror. Crying certainly didn’t improve my appearance any; no woman wants to receive visitors with a red, runny nose and eyes bloodshot and swollen from tears as well as a husband’s angry fist.

  Through my stained skirt, my thigh trembled against Mr. Brierley’s green-and-tan-checkered trousers. I pulled away, startled by the welcoming warmth of him. Something about him just made me shiver and set me on fire all at the same time. I was startled to realize that I wanted to pull him closer even though I knew I should push him away. I was appalled at myself—I wanted to kiss him! I wanted him to kiss me! I would have stood up, moved to a chair, where I could sit solitary without the hot press of his thigh tempting me to unladylike thoughts, but I didn’t trust my knees; I knew even without trying them that they had already turned to jelly.

  I just couldn’t understand it! I had met Mr. Brierley many times before. Besides being a friend and business associate of Jim’s, Mr. Brierley was the bachelor all the belles in the Currant Jelly Set were casting their lines for. Bets were always being laid on who would be the lucky one to land him. He was a fixture at all the best balls, dinner parties, race meets, and first nights at the theater and opera, and I couldn’t even begin to count the number of times he’d been to dine at Battlecrease House. So why was he having this strange effect upon me now? I’d even played croquet and cards with him without feeling anything out of the ordinary, not even the tiniest twinge of excitement, much less weakness and wobbly knees.

  “Mr. Brierley, I do apologize! What must you think of me?” I said, lowering my head and giving a discreet tug to the wide lace ruffles on my cap, pulling them down as far as I could, and avoiding looking him in the face.

  “That such a beautiful lady should never be anything but happy,” he said, taking my hand in his, gliding his thumb over my skin in a way that made me shudder and think of more intimate caresses. Though it was just the back of my hand he was touching, the fact that it was bare skin filled my head with wanton thoughts of nakedness. Suddenly I wanted to be naked as Eve in the Garden of Eden, right there in our best parlor with Alfred Brierley.

  “I’ve always said that Mrs. Maybrick has the most beautiful smile,” he continued, his voice like pink silk on bare skin. “And no lady with a smile like that should ever be given cause to even think of frowning.”

  I looked at him then, full in the face, then, remembering my eye, wished I hadn’t and tried to turn away again, but he wouldn’t let me. He caught my chin in his hand and bent and kissed first my brow, then each of my eyes. “Your eyes are like wet violets,” he said, before his lips traveled down to the tip of my nose then found my mouth, “sweeter than sugar candy.” His red-gold mustache tickled my face, making me smile. “That’s it!” He smiled. “Just what I wanted to see—the beautiful Mrs. Maybrick smiling at me!”

  “ ‘Florie,’ ” I whispered tremulously as my arms went round his neck.

  “Florie,” he said, his voice a warm caress, as his lips found mine again.

  I looked into his crystal-blue eyes, so cool and inviting I wanted to dive right in. It had been months since I’d let my husband make love to me. I missed his touch terribly, but every time I was tempted to give in the memory of Sarah came between us, her presence so palpable it was like she was right there in the bed with us, and I just had to turn away, presenting my back like a brick wall to Jim. I couldn’t bear for him to touch me. But I was not made of ice or stone. I was a woman, flesh and blood, and I missed being loved. Desire overcame Reason; Temptation kicked Common Sense right out of the parlor. I lay back on the sofa and drew Alfred Brierley down on top of me.

  All I can say in my defense is that he was kind to me.

  9

  For my daughter’s sixth birthday I was determined to make a fresh start. I sat Jim down on the sofa beside me and though he didn’t—he couldn’t!—know everything I meant by it, I took both his hands in mine and said I wanted to wipe the slate clean and start all over again and make everything right between us. Jim smiled, drew me into his arms, onto his lap, and kissed me.

  “My darling Bunny,” he said, “nothing could give me more pleasure!”

  For the first time since Sarah had come calling, I let him make love to me. I spent the rest of that night floating on warm, blissful waves of love. In my ecstasy and contentment I forgot all about sponges, womb veils, and douches. I just loved my husband and let him love me.

  I had not seen Alfred Brierley privately since that one weak and foolish afternoon and I
did not intend to.

  “I love my husband and children,” I told him discreetly from behind my fan when we met at a ball.

  “Of course you do,” he said, “but your heart is so big, Florie, is there really no room for another?”

  “For a friend, there is always room,” I said, and quickly left him. Mr. Brierley was temptation personified, and resisting him was powerfully hard. My knees were already weak and I feared my resolve would soon be too if I lingered.

  I’d also been doing my earnest best to avoid being alone with Edwin without arousing suspicion. I’d told him softly under cover of Gladys’s piano lesson that I wanted us to be friends as we were before, “nothing less or more.” Before he could answer, I went to stand beside the piano, where Gladys and her teacher sat side by side on the bench, and private, indiscreet conversation was impossible even if he had dared to follow me.

  After that, when he couldn’t catch or keep me alone the impetuous fool began writing me letters, pages and pages filled with amorous nonsense. He kept begging for just one hour alone with me, to prove that he could please me in every way, promising that if I would come back to him we would be “jolly companions again, just like before, and share additional pleasures even more stimulating and sweeter,” then went on to spend the next six pages enumerating them. But I never answered his letters. When he asked if I had received them I laughed and told him he should try his hand at writing romances; it was something he could do right there at his desk in the office to relieve his boredom.

  The morning of Gladys’s birthday, July 20, 1888, I awoke, after a most passionate night in Jim’s arms, with roses in my cheeks, a song on my lips, my nightgown on the floor, and not a bruise upon my body. Jim had declared Gladys’s birthday a holiday and promised to forsake the office altogether and leave it all to Edwin, even if that meant he would spend the day pulling doves and pennies out of cotton brokers’ noses and ears or tearing up important notarized contracts he would promise but ultimately fail to magically restore to pristine condition, causing the poor clerks no end of bother.