“Amen.” When she sipped from her teacup, Tina Coleman’s small finger raised in the air like a flag.
I said something like, “I would have to have my head in the sand not to be aware of the rumors that circulate concerning the nightlife of John Rimbauer. You need not sugarcoat it, dear friend, but I do ask of you the truth as you know it. What you’ve heard, and how much credence and faith you put in these reports.”
“You find them vexing.”
“Indeed. Wouldn’t any woman, especially one about to marry?”
“Honestly, I don’t know how you cope. I will tell you this: you have the respect of many of the finest women in this city, both because of your strength in light of the rumors you now mention and because of your ability to win John Rimbauer’s heart. Some women will envy you, Ellen, and you must be prepared for their vengeance. They will stop at nothing to see you fail. I would attribute a great deal of the rumor to this and this alone.”
“But not all,” I said.
“John Rimbauer is a respected businessman, a man at the very peak of society. For me, or any others, to color him this way or that without any firsthand knowledge is undignified and without call. He is twenty years our senior, yours and mine. A man of the world. What are we to expect of him? That he spent these past two decades in a monastery? Clearly he did not. I would not trouble myself over his past. His future is with you, dear child, and a bright future I should think. Very bright indeed.”
“But you’ve heard things.”
“Words is all. Words can be so destructive, especially when they are just so much fiction.”
“But we don’t know that. I don’t know that,” I said.
“I have been married three years. I have given birth to two children in that time. One lived. One did not. My husband is a brilliant surgeon, a fine man and a loving husband. He does not always come home when he says he will. Sometimes it is with the smell of liquor on his clothes. Not perfume, thank God, but a woman’s imagination can paint many a difficult picture, can it not? I love my husband, Ellen. He is not perfect. Neither am I. Neither is John Rimbauer. I’m certain of it. But these are challenging times. We live in a challenging part of the country—some still refer to it as the frontier. Can you imagine? I trust my husband’s love, even if at times I question his actions. Never to his face. Never aloud. A woman’s heart is much stronger than a man’s. They are weak creatures, dear. Weak, and often far more insecure than they present on the outside. Trust your love, child. The rest will follow.”
“What is it you’ve heard?” I asked.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, and I appreciate your sound advice more than I can tell you. But I simply must know what is being said behind my back, behind the back of my future husband, or am I to be the laughingstock?”
“There are women who can see the past, and some even the future. Have you ever consulted such a medium, my child?”
“A séance?”
“They take all forms.”
I felt flushed with excitement. “Have you ever consulted such a person?”
“Oh, I do so regularly. Not always with my husband’s knowledge, you understand. So you see two can play at this game of carefully guarded secrets. I am trusting you not to betray our friendship and share any of this with John Rimbauer.”
“Of course not.” I felt giddy. A medium. I’d read news reports, but I had never met anyone who had actually attended such a séance. “What can I expect from such an experience?”
“Remarkable. Profound. Transcendental. You have never experienced anything quite like it. For all my heightened anticipation of the union of a husband and wife, I must admit to you now, dear friend, that I find a séance quite a good deal more stimulating.” She showed her teeth when she laughed. She had gold work throughout. She appreciated her little joke more than I did, implying that I would be let down by the culmination of my forthcoming marriage, the anticipated union of which, only here in your pages, can I admit my honest excitement.
“Is it true the mediums can see to the other side?”
“I do not know what to believe, but I imagine they can, yes. That is, I have experienced such a connection myself, during a séance, and I must confess …”
I found her timidity provocative. She teased me with her reluctance to divulge all, begging my curiosity. I gripped my teacup with both hands and caught myself leaning into her every breath, wanting more. “Yes?”
“I think it far wiser for you to make your own estimations, dear friend. My experience … Well, you see … That is, I believe each of us … either the connection with the other world is there or not. And for me it was … is … and as to whether it might be for you.”
“But I know it is,” I said, clearly startling her. “My prayers are answered, you see.”
“Yes, well … prayers … There is more to the netherworld, dear friend, than one can possibly imagine. And it would be improper and wrong of me to imply it all has to do with angels and prayer. Some of what is revealed is most unpleasant. Not at all the stuff of prayers.” She placed down her own cup and craned forward. When she spoke, it was less a voice than a cold wind. Less a woman than a presence. The curtains behind me ruffled as if that window were open, which it was not. The crystal of the chandelier tinkled. I swear the temperature of the room dropped a dozen or more degrees. I could see her breath as she spoke. “Many of the dead are still living. Whether you believe this or not, that is not my concern.” She waved her long fingers dismissively. She looked pale, almost gray. “One does not attempt to make contact with the other side without a certain … shall we say … personal investment.” A wry smile. She was consumed. I shuddered from the sudden cold, longing for a shawl or a throw over my shoulders. “One does not approach this lightly.” She leaned back.
The curtain stopped moving, as did the chandelier. The color returned to her cheeks and the temperature of the parlor was restored. I am certain I must have looked the idiot, my mouth sagging open in abject horror. For a minute, I swear to you, Dear Diary, Tina Coleman was not in that room. It was someone—something—else entirely. And I will also tell you this: I am a believer. Nothing in that room was of the world I know. Nor can I perceive that place from which it came. But I am fascinated and intrigued, as curious as a person can be about something so unknown.
I wanted to ask her for the name of her medium right there and then, but something prevented me from doing so. Fear? Guilt? Was it John looking over my shoulder and cautioning me that “no wife of John Rimbauer will be found to be engaged in such sinful activities.”
For I have no doubt as to its sinful nature. None whatsoever. God, whoever and however He may be, was nowhere to be found in that room this afternoon. And I would be lying if I did not admit to a certain amount of enthrallment, dare I say attraction, to whatever occupied my new friend for those brief few seconds. A power greater than any I have known. A power that both filled me with a numbing cold and an unspeakable heat that penetrated the depths of my soul. This is a friend I long to visit with once again. A power I yearn to feel again. To glimpse such a formidable presence is one thing. To taste it, to drink of it, yet another. To be owned by it—what must that be like? And how soon until I can find out?
12 NOVEMBER 1907—SEATTLE
I am sitting in my mother’s dressing room and parlor, a room in which I doubt my father has ever set foot. I am here, in front of the mirror where for years I have watched her brush her red hair before bed. I am perplexed, and nearly in a state, some moments giddy, some pensive, some nearly in tears, clothed in my wedding gown, a garment at once both splendid and lush, yet fetching (or so I hope). My maid of honor, dear Penelope Strait, has gone off to inspect the route of my descent to the front door and the team of two black geldings who shall deliver me to the church in royal fashion. She said she would arrange tea to be delivered, and given this small break, this moment alone, it is to you, Dear Diary, that I now turn.
I feel a bit like the young g
irlish child who once picked at daisies reciting, “I love him, I love him not.” Petal by petal my poor heart labors over my decision to marry John Rimbauer. I feel both passion for John and reservation, cloaked as I am under the uncertainties that rise to the lips of my friends. The caution in their eyes that greets me whenever John’s name is mentioned. I fear that in a very short time, I am to marry a ladies’ man, I am to be both pitied and scorned by my peers. And I shiver with the thought. “Deliver me from evil and leadeth me not into temptation.” Why do I find it so difficult to move on from these thoughts? Why do I weep now at my mother’s mirror, knowing I shall never live in this home again?
Following the reception, John and I are to take the Presidential Suite at the Grand, where we shall stay but a single night prior to our departure on the Ocean Star, bound for the Pacific Atolls. I am told the native women go bare-breasted there, and the men wear loincloths and the water is as clear as an old man’s eyes. Much has been made in Europe about the changing face of fine art, and the influence these islands have had, and John would like to experience this part of the world firsthand. Oil is not used on the islands, and he claims he might consider starting a small business there, but these islands are said to be rustic and quite taken to debauchery and even open fornication, and I don’t know whether to believe this or not. If true, what kind of a place is it for a woman? Why would John bring his new wife to such a place? And is this trip of ours to be made as husband and wife, or businessman and wife? I harbor all these questions, but I ask nothing of John, for it riles him so when I challenge his decisions. He takes it for criticism instead of the curiosity it is. And so more tears fall here upon your pages, for I know not what I have gotten myself into. Wealth. Position. A darkly handsome man who has caught the eye of many an eligible girl. But twenty years my senior, moody and private. About our trip overseas he has only told me “to pack for a long trip. A year or more. Warmth, cold. Prepare for it all.”
“But where are we going, my dearest?”
“To the islands first, as we’ve discussed. India, perhaps. Burma or Tibet if we can find passage. The British have long since installed magnificent rail lines in this part of the world, and how far behind can an oil-burning locomotive be? I tell you, Ellen, Omicron is in a position to be an international supplier. We have the jump on the Far East because of our base here in Seattle. And after that? Persia. I’d like to see Persia. And then on to Africa as the seas blow cold and that continent warms with summer winds. East Africa, of course. Good hunting. And around the Cape and up the coast to Spain, France and Britain, if war doesn’t prevent us. New York. Philadelphia. And then by rail again. Chicago? Denver? Who’s to know? The world is ours, my dear. Five star. The best cabins, coaches and the finest suites at the grandest hotels, train cars all to ourselves. Six months? A year? Long enough for the completion of the grand house, so that we have that magnificent structure to which to return. A place of our own. A place to raise the children that I hope you’ll be carrying before our return. A family, Ellen. Just think of it.”
Said with such passion and enthusiasm. Who was I to cut in with the voice of reason? To intrude upon my husband’s shining moment. Never mind the insects that came to mind, the disease carried by every living creature in such places, never mind the rumors of bare-breasted heathens (it seemed he had chosen only primitive locations). Never mind that I might have preferred San Francisco, Paris and London. A year in Paris, Venice or Rome—now there was a honeymoon! Long hours spent languishing in bed under a down comforter with room service a bell pull away, hot bubble baths with Parisian soaps and my husband to guide me through the pleasures of being husband and wife. But for him, hunting. Natives. Exploration. Elephants, diamond mines and the Iron Horse.
I kept my thoughts to myself the first time he mentioned the trip. And the second. And the third. Always telling myself there would be plenty of time to set the course straight. That course now starts to-morrow. Pier 47. We steam to Victoria, switch ships and board for the Tahitian Islands. I see in myself this hesitation to confront John, a reluctance to spoil his good moods, or dare to enter his bad ones. He lives on these giant swings, like an ape, back and forth, high to low. Perhaps the great Sigmund Freud, about whom everyone is talking (his publication on the sexual theory is under translation into English but is said by Germans who have read it to be quite scandalous and intriguing), would have some way to quantify John’s moods. For me they are difficult to read, and dangerous to intrude upon. At his most elevated moments, he is so exciting and stimulating to be around: animated, courteous and entertaining; at his low points he is sullied, dark and brooding. I fear him. I anticipate violence at times, though have yet to see—and I hope I never will!—this side of him rise to the surface. If John ever does become violent with me, I tremble at the thought. He is a big man, strong and imposing. I fear he could crush me like an insect.
I read the last few paragraphs and wonder that I could put such thoughts to ink on our wedding day, of all days. My mother tells me that she too had reservations prior to her wedding (she told me other things as well, concerning what to expect on my wedding night, but they are best left between mother and daughter), that it is not uncommon for a woman to question her decision and that men go through much the same thing. I must admit that John, bless his heart, has never for an instant voiced anything but total support for, and faith in, our union. In fact, one of the great ironies here is that the concern is all mine. John, for his part, seems absolutely giddy with the marriage. He has been a saint throughout its planning (has financed a good deal of the reception and celebration, a much appreciated gesture from my father) and has often been boyish with glee about the approaching date. Now he waits for me at the church. I can picture him there, in his finest London-tailored tails, white gloves clasped behind his back like a general awaiting his army. In this case my arm, not an arm-me. (I annoy John with my puns, but what liberties I have here!) Standing there at the altar, an occasional grin steals its way onto his otherwise composed expression. He is a man of great vision, and I know that he sees much ahead for us, and I trust him to make the most of it. Yes, it is true that at times I fear he regards me more as a brood mare than a mate, that as a man turned forty with a sizable fortune he is looking more for an heir than a companion. That—dare I say it?—women of pleasure are there to pleasure, and a wife is there to bear and raise children. He will want a son, of course. Will not stop breeding me until I throw one for him. I see all this in his eyes, hear all this between the lines of his reasoning. As long as the love is there as well—and it is, it is!!—I am not deterred by his intentions. Love, true love, provides an abundance of good. I go in just a matter of minutes to profess that same love before God, family and all our friends. And oh, how I do love my John Rimbauer. I go with courage. I go with faith. Great anticipation. I go without doubt or expectation. Let love carry us where it may. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready.
13 NOVEMBER 1907—ABOARD SS OCEAN STAR
Oh, my. Where to start? The marriage? The reception? Dare I ever put in these pages a recounting of the marriage night itself? (The pain? The pleasure? The fulfillment of dreams? The fear? The feeling of overwhelming consumption, as if possessed by him?) Another time perhaps, although some things are better left to blossom in memory rather than wither in reflection.
Here we are aboard the Ocean Star, a luxurious steamer bound for Tahiti, in a presidential stateroom fit for a king and queen (three rooms and a full bath with WC). We dine at the captain’s table tonight (black tie and evening dress) and begin our Pacific crossing. If the rest of the trip is anything like our first few hours, it is to be spent in the union of marital bliss—we have been together twice already, and only on the ship for four hours! John has gone topside for a cigar and to hope to collect telegraphs he’s expecting concerning both business and the construction out at the grand house. The complexity of the project has continued to consume him. To my knowledge the only day he was completely away from it was our weddi
ng day, and for all I know he had one of his many business associates keeping him current even then. He has informed me that he wants the house decorated to reflect our travels, to remind him of our various ports of call, and that it is my duty to spend as much money as possible to that end! Yes, he was kidding, of course. But his eyes twinkled in such a way as to tell me he was serious as well. Even now I am only beginning to glimpse how wealthy we are. Comments like the one to which I refer would have seemed something fit for one of the tawdry novels I read, not for a serious comment from my husband. The house alone is costing a fortune—literally. This trip, another fortune entirely. And yet I sense these fortunes are but mere play toys to John. Could there be a bottomless well from which John draws our funds? Is such a possibility anything more than pure fancy? Whatever the case, I am thrilled with this challenge of his. I expect to collect many objets d’art, decorations and furnishings, so that he shall never forget our voyage. (Without John’s knowledge, I paid for and kept the sheets from our marriage bed at the hotel, crimson stains and all. I wanted a souvenir of that night as badly as he wants souvenirs of our trip. I carry them with me in one of my six steamer trunks, wrapped in tissue paper and a red bow. Something feels so shameful about this action, especially preserving my virgin blood, and I hesitate to think of John’s anger if he were to ever find out. And so it is that we start our marriage with secrets. We start our marriage holding on to some small part of ourselves, treasured and kept private. Is this wrong? I ask myself. Or does a woman have to hold on to something in the face of such overwhelming surrender? He climbs on top of me, and he possesses me in a way I never imagined could be true. Inside me. Occupying me. Pleasure, and pain. And I wonder, will I ever get used to it?)
The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer Page 3
