The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer

by Joyce Reardon

  I heard her words but was not entirely convinced. (Sukeena, I knew, doubted this woman’s powers from the start.) This room emanated a heaviness, like danger, whether the result of incense clouding my breath or the shifting shadows accounting for a certain sense of dizziness. Whatever the case, I moved my feet forward with caution along with a great deal of excitement, I do confess. This was not “the place” for a woman, and just the fact that I was here filled me with a degree of thrill impossible to fully explain in these pages. (There was quiet talk among the women of my class that a woman’s “time” was coming. I think now, here in this place, for the first time I fully understood that certain boundaries were soon to be crossed. In fact, I felt something like a pioneer just coming here.)

  We ventured up a flight of complaining stairs, ensconced in a narrow tunnel of wood, completely unlighted, to a stark reception room where the formidable Madame Lu occupied a wicker chair as fully as a hand occupies a glove. She was easily the size of three or four women, an enormous edifice of flesh and silk with two ebony hairpins containing a curtain of rich black hair that might have reached the floor unbridled. She had a series of chins that cascaded down to the upper seam of the red silk gown, and pudgy hands that appeared bloated and inflexible. Her voice was that of a man’s, deep, resonant and filled with fluid. Her words bubbled from her throat.

  “Please, sit.” She indicated the floor, covered only by a woven mat.

  I glanced at Tina, my astonishment clearly showing. She simply smiled back at me, folded her legs and slowly lowered herself, with the help of her maid. (Now I understood her insistence that I bring Sukeena along!) Sukeena helped me to the floor—honestly, I do not believe I have sat upon a floor since a toddler!—and then our two maids stepped to the side and stood alongside two of Madame Lu’s keepers, thin young women who were not yet fully developed.

  “You welcome here again, Miss Tina. You bring friend.”

  “It is for my friend that I come, Great Lady.”

  “Indeed.”

  Those beady black eyes surveyed me and I felt a heat pulse through me as if she had reached into me with her fat hot hands. I felt her robbing my secrets, as if she had opened these pages and had begun to read.

  Madame Lu commands a formidable presence. As the smell of incense made me light-headed and, indeed, feeling somewhat under her “spell,” she opened an old tin box from which she removed a great handful of ivory white bones, all of them small and glistening with the shine of having been handled a thousand times. “What question you ask?” she inquired of me, in a voice deep enough to be my husband’s.

  “How many questions am I allowed?”

  The big woman rolled her eyes and clearly consulted my dear friend Tina with an insolent glance. Tina leaned over and whispered that as a matter of etiquette, the Chinese will not directly discuss business arrangements, and that Madame Lu charged for each reading. I could ask as many questions as I wished, as long as I understood each reading would cost me an additional fifty cents. I considered it a usurious amount of money, but agreed nonetheless. “Very well,” I said to the Great Lady. I collected myself, feeling somewhat indignant about my sitting on a mat on a floor, and said something like, “Is Mrs. Fauxmanteur alive? Unharmed?”

  Madame Lu considered me for a long moment, steadied a black enamel table in front of her and dropped the handful of bones there. They sounded more like stones. She regarded the unruly pile in the unflinching fashion of a dog inspecting the unknown: a slight cocking of the head left to right. She nodded, hummed to herself and dug through the small pile of artifacts. Her voice resonated as she spoke. “Many forms to life. Yes? This lady’s spirit lives. I deal in spirit. Yes? Her body? Maybe not live as you think of living.”

  I shuddered. Alive, but not alive? Were such things possible? To my Christian upbringing this reeked of paganism and sinful talk—but I had crossed over long ago in my prayers. Only now was the world around me catching up.

  The big woman collected the bones in a greedy hand and deposited them back into her tin box, one eye cautiously on me, expecting another question. I awaited her.

  “Something else?” she wondered.

  I glanced over at Tina, not wanting her to hear my question concerning Rose Red. Could I trust her? I decided I must. “Is our home, our house, Rose Red, possessed of spirits?”

  The question won Tina’s attention. She stared at me, but I would not look over at her.

  The ritual repeated itself. Her puffy, fat fingers reached into the dull gray box and deposited a grip of bones to the shiny enamel tabletop. Again, her index finger prodded through the pile, mining it for information. Sukeena let me know with a sigh that she clearly put no faith in our hostess.

  Madame Lu said, “You are not alone in this house.”

  “Spirits?” I gasped, suddenly very cold and shaken. Perhaps I did not want the truth. Perhaps I was not ready for it.

  “A presence,” Madame Lu answered. “This much I can tell you.”

  I did not wish to hear anything more. A presence. Why did her confirmation carry so much significance with me? Why did I feel so afraid and chilled to the bone? Worse, Sukeena was nodding her agreement. A presence.

  I wanted out of there. I wanted home. That is, until I realized that home was Rose Red.

  1 APRIL 1909—ROSE RED

  I pray with all my heart that someone is playing a practical joke on John and me, as this is the day for such tomfoolery, but the woman in me knows better, for we have seen this before, have we not, Dear Diary? I feel nearly mad, delirious with worry.

  Another woman has disappeared without a trace.

  This time it is a maid by the name of Laura, a dear waif of a woman, quite fetching in appearance, who works in our chambers changing linens, housecleaning and seeing to the cleanliness of our toilets and baths. A colored woman, light-skinned and so radiant, she was one of Sukeena’s closer acquaintances on the staff, rather a younger sister to my African queen.

  When the “Regent”—a fellow named Thomas—informed John, I thought my husband might faint, an unlikely event for such a man as strong as he. “It’s Laura, sir,” Thomas told John as the two of us were just sitting down to tea. (Don’t think I didn’t take notice of the similarity in the time of day!)

  “Laura?” John sputtered.

  “Our chambermaid,” I gasped.

  Believing I intended this for him, John snapped at me, “I know who Laura is, Ellen. Hush!”

  I felt like slapping him, I was so humiliated. Of course, he knows who Laura is; John has had the last say in the hiring of all the servants, and despite his claim that this domestic charge is my responsibility, it most decidedly is not.

  He bit his lip and chewed, thoughtfully immersed in some devilish consideration (of this, I have little doubt given my impression of his expression). It was then, for the first time, that I gave myself open to the possibility that this curse that afflicts us might in some way be John’s doing, not mine at all. Perhaps it is John’s prayers, not mine, that have reached the beyond. Perhaps, all this time I have prayed to the other side, it has actually been my husband’s voice that has been heard. And if so, then to what end was he praying? Certainly he could mean me no harm, not before the birth—the possibility of an heir! Then what? I wondered. And still, I have no answer, though evidence presents itself to support my theory, for this disappearance has vexed my husband greatly, far beyond the vanishing of Mrs. Fauxmanteur.

  Upon the news of the disappearance, John and the Regent gathered all thirty-three servants (Laura being the thirty-fourth!) in the Grand Ballroom. A hush fell over all, because word travels quickly in this house, believe me. (There is no privacy left to my life—all is known.) The Regent and Sukeena, as John’s and my personal representatives, stood forefront to the rows of attendants. John addressed all in a forceful, dare I say, frightened, tenor.

  “I must inquire as to the whereabouts of our own Laura Hirtson, master’s chambermaid, in service to Mrs. Watson. Anyone
with information about Miss Hirtson, please step forward now.”

  Thomas is a big man possessing a commanding presence, and with a voice that can carry through walls. Some of the girls were already crying, though doing their best not to show it. To my surprise, a man of eighteen or so, who goes by the name Rodney, stepped forward from his line and replied meekly.

  “Sir, if I may …”

  “Rodney?”

  The extent of John’s memory never ceases to amaze me. I do believe he could recall each of the servants by name, perhaps even recall their backgrounds, if required to do so. I know many, but not all.

  “I saw Laura late this morning in the Solarium. I am not certain, but I believe she was headed out toward the Carriage House.”

  John pursed his lips, looked directly at Daniel, the master of the Carriage House, and the two exchanged a powerful look. I felt for a moment as if a wind swept through the room. “Is that so?” John paused. “Daniel?”

  “I never laid eyes on her, sir, and I haven’t left the Carriage House all morning until this meeting here just now.”

  Daniel and John go back years, Daniel having cared for John’s horseflesh for nearly two decades. I knew, having no need to ask, that John trusted Daniel’s opinion absolutely.

  “The Solarium,” John repeated to Rodney.

  “Yes, sir. And if I may say so, sir, her being there … she seemed a bit … suspicious, like. Surprised to see me, you might say. Went about an explanation right off the mark, as if I’d asked. And I hadn’t! But that’s Laura, isn’t it? Likes to wag her jaw, that one.”

  A few of the men nearby Rodney chuckled over the man’s deliberate delivery. John saw no reason for levity and squared his shoulders, sobering the entire staff.

  “Anyone else?”

  No one stepped forward.

  I raised my voice from the side. “It’s rather important, to say the least. Please, if any of you at all has seen her.” I caught an expression in Linda’s face—Linda, who is assistant to Mrs. Danby, and one of Laura’s dorm mates. I believe the two close, though I have little to support that belief. Her eyes widened. I thought I saw her hand lift, if not imperceptibly.

  “Linda?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am?” A tension in her voice.

  “Were you going to say something?”

  A quick glance toward me and then John. “No, ma’am.”

  “Just now, I thought—”

  “No, ma’am.”

  John put me back to silence with one scalding look. This was his summons of the staff, not my own. He divided up the group and instructed them where to search. By his calculation, the thirty-three staff could coordinate to conduct a thorough search of premises—every closet, armoire, storage room, steamer trunk—within an hour to an hour and a half. Two hours at most. (It was there and then, seeing this army assembled before us, and realizing this search would still account for a considerable amount of time, that I came to grasp the enormity of this house that was still under construction—a house that even I, the matron, had lost track of. By way of example, there is a new wing of the third floor open, completed and decorated over three weeks ago now, that I have yet to see for the first time.)

  As the staff was dismissed and the search began, my dear John showing a color of pale I had never witnessed, I endeavored to locate Sukeena and to request she in turn find Linda and bring her to me in my chambers.

  “But the search, ma’am,” Sukeena said in her Kenyan singsong, her eyes wide with apprehension. She sounds British at times. “Mister John.”

  “Never mind John,” I instructed. “I wish to talk with Linda immediately.”

  “Very well, ma’am,” Sukeena replied, her determination to follow my request apparent. One of Sukeena’s many wonderful attributes is her ability to remain calm and consistent. Regardless of generation, Africans are quite gifted in this regard, able to leave the past behind—an argument, disagreement or other difficulty—without the slightest timidity, as if it had never occurred. (Despite Mr. Lincoln’s intentions, and that awful Civil War through which our parents lived, and many fought, I do not believe the slaves—nearly all of them African by descent—have been provided the opportunity to advance socially as once claimed. Indeed, I believe that history will record Mr. Lincoln’s attitudes a result of political pressures rather than philanthropic intention. The freemen seem rarely better off, often unemployed, forbidden to buy land and disassociated with regions where they lived for generations. There is private talk among the women of this city who speak of suffrage that the Negro has as much, if not more, claim to fight for personal freedoms than does the American woman!) As to the moment, Sukeena hurried off, and it wasn’t ten minutes before I retired to my chambers in the West Wing to discover both Sukeena and Linda there waiting. As I requested a tremulous Linda to sit, Sukeena retreated toward the door—she never presumes, another of her lovely qualities—and I bid her to remain with us. I then took a chair in front of dear Linda, clasped my cold hands in her own and we spoke.

  “Dear girl, what was it you wished to say to me just now?”

  “Nothing, ma’am.”

  “Now, now, dear child, we both know you nearly spoke up. I saw it in your eyes. If you know something about Laura’s whereabouts … I cannot tell you how important this is. A matter of life and death, perhaps. We cannot forget our dear Mrs. Fauxmanteur’s ill fate, now can we?”

  The frightened thing looked first to Sukeena, then to me, and her eyes teared.

  “Go ahead, child. No harm will come to you.”

  “I … it … it is as Rodney said.”

  “The Solarium.”

  She nodded, lip quivering, head lowered.

  “It’s all right, child.”

  “No, ma’am,” she whispered.

  I looked to Sukeena and her infinite patience and understanding. Sukeena studied the child for several long seconds and she said, “You saw Miss Laura in the Solarium?”

  Linda shook her head “no.”

  “Leaving the house,” Sukeena said. I knew from much discussion that Sukeena believed Mrs. Fauxmanteur had never left the house, as police had speculated and continued to believe.

  Linda nodded faintly.

  Sukeena asked, “How she dressed?”

  The girl looked up with wet, saddened eyes.

  I said, “A wrap? Was she prepared for the outside?” It has been cold of late, ocean storms from the north. Not terribly unusual for this time of year.

  The girl shook her head.

  Sukeena said, “The Carriage House.”

  I felt a shiver, recalling my husband’s questioning of Daniel and the fraternity of these two men. What were they hiding?

  Linda’s eyes widened. She bit down on her lips and sprang from the chair, removing herself so quickly from my rooms that one could imagine she had never been sitting there before us.

  “Oh, my,” I stuttered.

  “This have to do with him, ma’am.”

  “Daniel?” I asked, though in fact I knew to whom she did refer.

  “No, ma’am,” Sukeena said, her black eyes boring into me. “Him,” she repeated.

  Rose Red was indeed thoroughly searched, top to bottom. Cellar to attic. Wing to wing. Floorboard to chimney. I felt a desperation in John with each further attempt. He took a keen interest in Laura’s disappearance, more so, I must say, than with that of our dear Mrs. Fauxmanteur. Perhaps it is the repetition of the event that so vexes him. (I prefer this possibility to the other, more likely consideration that now occupies my every thought!) He became personally possessed with finding this girl, requesting the Regent to reassign the staff to different locations and conduct the search again. At the same time, he put his hunting dogs into the woods behind the manor, in search of this girl’s scent—a piece of underclothing was delivered from the dorms. We are now some six hours into searching, and still no sign of our sweet Laura.

  What troubles me most is John’s decision, only moments ago, to not inform the poli
ce. With bloodshot eyes, gray skin and an eerie, calm stillness to his voice, my husband said, “Servants run away all the time.”

  “Not from this house, they don’t,” I said. “We’ve never had one leave. You pay the best in the city, John.”

  “There’s always a first.”

  “But what of her possessions? Her clothing? Nothing was taken. Nothing so much as disturbed! Who leaves in this manner?”

  “It could involve some young boy on the staff, dear woman. Some heartbreak. You know how children are.”

  “Laura was no child, John. She is barely three years my junior.”

  “A young man. Romance. A broken heart, I’ll gamble.”

  “But not to involve the police?”

  “There is our standing to consider, my dear. Our position in society. The police, twice in the same year? Do you think we would survive such a scandal?”

  “If we talk of survival, John, should it not be Laura’s whereabouts that concern us, rather than the vile tongues of this town? I can control the tongues. They will not wag to our disfavor.”

  “How can you be so sure? Already there is the difference in our age. You know quite well that people talk of this—they give us little chance of enjoying our years together.”

  “We have endured much in our first year.” I let my words hang in the air where he could taste them. “We shall prevail, even if Laura is never found.”