Tina Coleman gasped. Until that moment I believe she thought my entreaty might concern my marriage or my childbirth—at worst, the disappearance of Mrs. Fauxmanteur. A second disappearance (previously unknown to her) and subsequent ghost sighting appeared too much for her to bear. She engaged her fan, swiping the air with such force that some of her hair stood up on end.
The big woman said, “I be little help to you, child. Not in house. Need be in house, speak to missing women.”
“A séance?”
“Need be in house. Not for me. Madame Lu never leave neighborhood. Dangerous outside neighborhood.”
“But I could send a carriage,” I said, immediately protesting.
Tina leaned over and whispered, supplying quickly that Madame Lu would never leave this place—any of the powerful Chinese caught outside their own fiefdoms were subject to the whims of city police. Madame Lu knew better than to challenge these long-held principles. The city’s political structure is said to be rife with corruption, favor-peddling and nepotism. The city runs exceptionally well for its businessmen, and no one is prepared to challenge its structure. I didn’t like hearing any of this—I wanted to understand the goings-on at Rose Red—but I also recognized that despite the influence of my husband’s name in some circles, in the world of Madame Lu we barely existed.
Tina spoke to the Great Lady, inquiring after someone who might perform the séance.
“There is one I know,” Lu said. “Madame Stravinski. Only one. No other. Come Seattle not often. I write letter and see.”
“I would be most appreciative,” I said.
“You suspect husband,” she said bluntly.
I felt my breath catch in my throat.
“Tell me why,” Madame Lu said.
I glanced at Sukeena, who looked as surprised as I did. Tina would not look in my direction. I wondered if I could speak freely in front of my friend. I saw no other course to take. I told Madame Lu about our recent experience in the barn and young Laura in that awful state of undress, legs spread on the bed of that wagon. Sukeena throwing the skirt. Laura gesturing at my husband and his stable master.
Madame Lu’s face never changed. She looked at me impassively. “Has been dancing or celebration at house of late?”
“My husband is generous with the dispensation of spirit, at week’s-end, there is often music heard in the servants’ quarters.”
“Place where husband or stable hand might seen young girl dancing like this?”
“The servants celebrate. It sometimes goes on all night, I’m told.” Again, I checked with Sukeena. Again, Madame Lu did not let on that Sukeena even existed. My throat constricted.
“Other lady missing. She know husband or stable hand?”
“Mrs. Fauxmanteur?” I said. “Certainly not. She was a friend of Melissa Ray’s,” I said, pointing to my dear friend to my left. “Tea, was all.”
Tina Coleman looked over at me with a face I took for the dead. It held no color whatsoever. Her lips looked yellow despite her application of color there.
“Dear friend?” I asked.
“I wish to contradict this notion of yours, sweet Ellen.”
“Tina?”
“As to the nature of the friendship between your fine husband, John, and my dear friend Melissa Ray.”
“They knew each other?”
She found her color as she blushed. “John … well, he’s been to the house on business, you see. Many times. My husband is an investor with your John. Did you know that?”
My head was spinning. “Perhaps,” I mumbled. It seemed to me I did know this, though I still did not make the connection that I should have made.
“They had met, several times. Mrs. Ray and the widow, Fauxmanteur. Your husband.”
“Widow!?” I exclaimed.
“They make friendship,” Madame Lu informed me, as if reading Tina’s mind. “Your husband understanding man, yes? Feel badly woman lost husband. Make friendship.”
Tina confessed, “There were several dinners … while you were with child, and not feeling well … dinners John attended without you.”
Madame Lu closed her eyes and added, “Husband offer his carriage.”
“And Melissa’s visit to our house?” I asked, my whole body numb. “For tea. It was her idea to bring along her friend. Tell me it was so.”
Tina’s lips quivered. She looked to the floor. “Connie Fauxmanteur asked Melissa to arrange it. John … it seems John would not return Connie’s notes … and since it seemed unjust to Melissa that he should … for you see, she had confided in me the nature of their … their friendship.”
“My husband and Mrs. Fauxmanteur?” I gasped. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
Tina was in tears. Madame Lu looked carved from stone. The Great Lady said, “One must not look for that which one does not wish to see.” It sounded to me as if she were quoting. I’d never heard such a complete statement spoken by her.
“I … want … the truth,” I said. I swear I heard my words echo in that room.
“Madame Stravinski,” Madame Lu said without hesitation. “In Europe. I write note. I call for her.”
“Do we wait weeks?” I asked. “Months?”
“Years,” Lu answered. “Patience, my dear. In matters of the spirit, time is of little consequence.”
16 JANUARY 1910—ROSE RED
This day follows another extraordinary celebration at Rose Red, this time marking the second anniversary of our inaugural. To my great delight, the grand house remains under construction, at great cost to my husband. The facade of the house is much the same as a year ago, and so to the casual visitor little would appear different than during the inaugural a year ago, but in fact much has changed. I have ordered the complete remodel of the East Wing of the third floor, an area of some six thousand square feet, now designated “Adam’s Wing.” Once complete, there shall be a child’s library holding some two thousand volumes, a recreation room, a train room (John’s contribution), a small gymnasium and a classroom.
I wore the same gown as last year—repaired to look like new—and hope to make this a tradition. (I was so pleased to show the other women that I had recovered my form a scant four months following Adam’s birth! Some women never recover at all!) The gowns were among the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, blue velvet being the most popular. We served nearly seventy-five more couples than last year, the invitation list growing with the popularity of the event. Thankfully no one got lost or disappeared—how ridiculous that looks on your pages, Dear Diary, but oh, how I worried! I was in a frightful state all night, pacing the halls, escorting guests on tours, believing Rose Red might spoil our fun, and although the guests seemed to enjoy themselves, it required three tall flutes of champagne before I fully relaxed. Alas, our grand house allowed us to enjoy its existence. (I wonder if it feels the presence of all the guests, if it celebrates along with us?)
There is little to tell, other than the usual rumors of mistresses and misconduct. What ills society spawns! Our head chambermaid, Mrs. Watson, reported to me this morning that a woman’s full set of underclothes was found kicked under the bed of one of the guest rooms in the East Wing. (She apparently left the party with nothing beneath her gown but that she was born with!) Such stories abound at all the best parties. John stayed by my side most of the night, and I know even he is not rogue enough to attempt such a tryst at his own party, so I’m greatly relieved to know he had no part in this, or any other such assignation.
In fact, after the guests were gone (nearly four in the morning), my husband—a bit tipsy—found his way into my chambers and occupied us both until the sun skimmed the horizon. He is quite the spectacular lover, my husband, and I must say it was time we came together as husband and wife once again. I know that he harbors certain reservations about my womanhood, well aware of the suffering I underwent at childbirth, and since then he seems to find it even a bit repulsive to think of touching me as a husband touches a wife, but the brand
y apparently did the trick. He showed no reservation last night, and I returned a great deal of enthusiasm for the rite so that I might indicate my own satisfaction with his decision to visit my bed. Hopefully another four months will not pass before he elects to do so again. I will admit here to your pages that I am ready this instant. Just the thought of John’s embrace fills me with ardor. (I detest myself for succumbing to this power he lords over me. After all his transgressions, and there I lie in my bed hoping—dare I say it? trembling!—to hear his knock at my door! What kind of sickness accounts for such behavior in a woman? I dare not broach the subject with my friends, although Tina would be safe now that she knows so much!)
Our party was perfect. Following that, our time in my chambers was perfect. I wonder if things are on track again. I wonder if whatever force brought tragedy into this home is suddenly gone. Perhaps Rose Red is a house, a building, and nothing more.
There is nothing to be afraid of. I repeat this phrase in my prayers and yet do not fully believe the words, the memory of Laura’s ghost lingers so boldly in my imagination.
I want so badly to believe: Nothing to be afraid of. If only I could!
10 JULY 1910—ROSE RED
John’s partner in Omicron Oil, Douglas Posey, and his wife, Phillis, attended dinner to-night. We hosted six other guests, but they were inconsequential to the telling of this story. Our guests were invited, in part, to help us celebrate the amending of the state constitution in support of the suffrage movement. This week, Washington became the first state in the land to allow women the right to vote. It has been a hard-fought campaign, led by many of my friends on the hospital board, and John has brought out the champagne to lift our spirits! We dressed the table in American flags and will eat off red plates (from the Far East) set on blue linen, with white napkins. It’s all very festive!
I sensed tension between John and Douglas from the moment the Poseys arrived. (Douglas has purchased a splendid new motorcar that I know incites some envy on John’s part.) Within moments of the arrival, John took Douglas rather forcibly by the arm and escorted him into the Gun Room off the Central Hall West. I heard raised voices—as did all the guests. The Gun Room is a small, masculine space, wood-paneled with long glass displays containing John’s collection of rifles. They started in the Gun Room, but within minutes their voices were coming from the Smoking Room. One passes through a stair landing to reach the Smoking Room from the Gun Room, and John must have taken Douglas by this route, or Phillis and I would have seen them pass through the Parlor. Our other guests were being served smoked salmon, Wisconsin cheese and drinks in the Tapestry Gallery. Phillis, as it turned out, wanted my ear as badly as John wanted his partner’s.
I believed the tension between Douglas and John arose from a European contract that John had approved but Douglas had tied up in legal negotiations. Spain, it might have been. By delaying the contracts, another firm—Standard Oil, of all companies!—had negotiated a separate deal, essentially reducing Omicron’s share of that market from eighty percent to less than five, and costing John and the company tens of thousands a year. It is funny how you can be so sure of something only to find out how wrong you are. I could not have been more wrong about the cause of their squabble. Yes, Douglas Posey had delayed the contracts; yes, it had cost John plenty; but the source of their disagreement was to come out in my secret and heated meeting with Phillis, Douglas’s distraught wife.
She is a wife in name only, being some fifteen years her husband’s senior. (In some ways they, as a couple, are a direct opposite of John and me. While Phillis has the business acumen, Douglas is the socialite. Phillis, previously married and the mother of five grown adults, knows the ways of the world. Douglas is new to marriage and parenthood, just as I am. Beyond that, all comparison stops.)
Phillis is a homely woman, wide of girth, deep of voice. Her black dress could have fit me twice over. She is in the habit of cupping her hand behind her left ear when one speaks to her on this side, the result of a childhood injury when a young boy struck her with a snowball that proved more ice than snow. She smelled too strongly of perfume, and though a pleasant enough perfume, I’m sure, it played bitter in her company—tangy and sharp on the back of the throat. (She would have done better without it.)
“I am vexed,” she said, a big gush of wind as from a bellows. “And I have no one to speak with, excepting you, dear child, for I do believe we are quite good friends.”
I hardly knew the woman at all. This told me quite a bit about her social skills. Her husband was the one with the smooth tongue. She should have been business partner with my John. If society had allowed it, John might have considered this possibility.
“What is it?” I asked, somewhat anxious to get back to my guests in the Tapestry Gallery.
“Did John tell you? Oh, my, I can see he did not …” She is a bit frightening when worked up—I think it’s her size. “John … It’s Douglas, you see. Perhaps my fault, when you get right down to it.” She looked at me, blushed and looked away. “Oh, dear.”
Agitated to be kept from my guests, I was more forward than I might have otherwise been. “If there’s nothing to discuss …”
“Oh, but there is!” She produced a handkerchief from inside her sleeve. Dabbing her eyes, although I saw no tears, she continued, “It’s our ages, I’m sure.”
“You’re a young woman, Phillis,” I said as kindly as possible. She looks a bit homely.
“Boarding school, when you get right down to it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Douglas … well … you see. He’s always preferred the boys’ locker room to the girls’—if you follow me, dear.”
I did follow her. I hope I didn’t turn too grave a shade of red. There had been talk. This was the first Phillis had ever mentioned it.
She said, “It was a young man in the company.” John, Douglas, everyone associated with Omicron calls it “the company.” “An accountant,” she said. “A bookkeeper.” She lowered her voice to where even I, as close as I was, could barely hear her. “John walked in on them, you see? Compromised, as they were. Douglas’s office, of all places.” She adjusted to her confession rather quickly, suddenly quite herself again. “I’ve known since before we were married. He was quite up front about it, dear man. Needed a wife to make the social circles, to be your husband’s partner. I fit the bill quite nicely, despite the years I have on him. For my part, I don’t ask much. I take a young man myself every now and again.” She winked, and I found myself about to laugh. The idea of this woman with anyone was laughable. “An experienced woman knows to marry for position. One’s more physical desires are quite manageable outside the confines of that agreement.”
Was this how my own husband felt about it? Was our marriage made to suit the situation, while his appetites were another matter entirely? I did not share this attitude with my robust friend, but I kept thoughts on the matter to myself. “Go on,” I said.
“Well, it’s just that. John caught him. Them! This very day.”
It explained John’s foul mood. Usually, on the advent of a dinner party, he is quite entertaining and enjoyable company. To-night he had been snarly and gruff.
“I do believe he has a mind to punish my Douglas,” she said, her jowls quivering. “And what I’ve come to say to you … to ask you … to explain … is that Douglas is quite helpless in all of this. It’s a bit like me and the gardener,” she said with another of those disturbing winks. “I hope John isn’t too hard on him … in terms of the business, Ellen. Douglas works so very hard.”
“To let him go?” I blurted out.
“They’re partners. He cannot fire him!” she protested. “Not for walking the other side of the street.”
I can tell you this, Dear Diary, my mother and her friends would have never discussed such things. Not ever. Not even cousins would discuss such transgressions. A man taking a boy was nothing new—except when he walked in your front door. They were stories, is all. Your f
riends did not do such things. But having had my own devilish temptations with the dark-skinned chambermaid, I knew that such lusts surfaced. I knew that fervent prayer was the only lasting answer. (I knew that I still secretly looked at Sukeena in ways and at times that were more appropriate for a man.)
When Phillis laughed at her own jokes, she looked pitiful. I reached out and held her hand. I assured her I would talk to John.
“You are a dear.”
“But I warn you, John’s his own man.” I doubted this was news to Phillis Posey. “Especially when it comes to business. And as to this other matter … the accountant. I rather suspect John will be more upset that it involved an employee, and that it was … that they were in the office … and all.” I didn’t need these images in my head. “More that than whatever choices Douglas has made.”
“But it isn’t a choice. Not for Dougie, it isn’t. He’s been this way since he was a young boy. He took to swimming, diving … The suits, you see?” she said, as if this explained anything. I did not want to think about it. “All that bare skin.” I assumed her amusement stemmed from anxiety, from her nervousness about approaching the subject, for she dealt with this problem of her husband’s in a most unusual way.
For me, the conversation was far more revealing of my own situation than that of Douglas Posey. I could not influence John in this matter, nor would I try to do so. John is outspoken about homosexuals and has told me so often. He seems less troubled with women finding mutual romance than men. He has expressed openly to me the “indecency of one man touching another in any such intimate manner.” This, from a man who installs hidden mirrors in the lady-servants’ quarters. I can just imagine him lustily looking on as one girl soaps the back of another!
But Phillis’s explanation of their marriage of convenience reflected foully on my mood. Had I, in fact, been viewed as nothing but a brood mare—a fear that had lingered in my heart for far too long already? Had John justified his unfaithfulness by qualifying our marriage as one of convenience: good family, good pedigree, breed her and keep her on to raise the children while he takes to the streets to satisfy his more pressing needs? Disgust welled in my heart, a bitter taste at the back of my throat.
The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer Page 12
