The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (14 page)

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 ?rst 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 in?nite 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.

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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 ?nding 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.

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What troubles me most is John’s decision, only moments ago,

to not inform the police. 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 ?rst.”

“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 ?rst year.” I let my words

hang in the air where he could taste them. “We shall prevail, even

if Laura is never found.”

“Don’t say such a thing!” he said, looking nearly dead himself.

“John?”

“What is it about this house?”

“It has nothing to do with this house. Coincidence is all,” I

said. Secretly, I did not believe a word of my own explanation. I

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believed either my husband responsible or that the two disappearances

were somehow related to the child I carried in my

womb. Fear kept me from examining my husband’s possible role,

so I focused on the latter possibility. Sacri?ces. My prayers to the

dark side were being answered, but I had yet to understand the

language being spoken. Privately, I wondered if another visit to

Madame Lu was in order. Or, conversely, had my recent visit with

the Great Lady been heard? One thing is for certain, prayer is a

powerful weapon, and when wishing one’s husband ill will, one

must be terribly careful.

“Coincidence?” he scoffed. Spittle ?ew from his lips as he

hollered at me, “She was right here, and now she is gone.”

I have never felt so calm. I spoke with reserve. “Right where,

John? Did you see her yourself to-day?”

My words ?ustered him. “What!?” he barked, sounding like

one of his hounds. “What kind of accusation is that?”

“I accuse you of nothing. Observation is all. I asked merely if

you had seen the poor woman yourself?”

“And if I had?” he roared.

“A question is all.”

“And you, so calm, so collected. What of you, Ellen? Did you

not see Laura to-day?” His large head jerked left to right, and I

thought it might sever from his body. “She is employed in this

very wing. Our chambers. She is practically underfoot, this

woman. At our call, day and night. She serves us both, equally.”

Oh, Dear Diary, the look in his eyes! The terror this man felt.

The guilt. A woman knows. A wife, better than anyone. “At our

call, day and night.” I, for one, have not once called Laura to my

rooms in the night. Sukeena, of course—more times than I can

count. But little Laura? I barely knew she existed, except to note

her unusual beauty. The translucent skin. The noble nose. I realize

now that my husband did not overlook this beauty either, and

I made a point of it.

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“A fetching girl, wasn’t she, John?”

“You speak of her in the past?”

“I speak of her looks. So innocent. So young and . . . fetching.”

I said, “Or maybe not so innocent. Looks can be deceiving.”

I saw pure panic in my husband’s eyes. There, it was done. We

both knew.

Perhaps I will have an “accident.” Perhaps I shall call upon

Sukeena to mix her herbs for me and dislodge the future heir

from where it lies curled inside me. This is the only true punishment

I can conceive for him. Accident that it may be, Laura’s disappearance

is not entirely innocent. I will not ask Sukeena if she

knows what happened to the girl if she, Sukeena, is protecting

me. Perhaps Laura did leave Rose Red of her own accord.

Perhaps Sukeena intervened and sent the girl packing without so

much as a visit to her dormitory to retrieve her belongings.

Increasingly, I am convinced that my dear handmaid has powers

far beyond insight and herbs. She is prescient and clairvoyant and

somehow divines the thoughts of others. I do not ask, because I

do not wish to know. If innocent Laura was not so innocent, then

her departure in any form is welcome. I have said so in my

prayers before. “Curse the woman who takes my husband for her

own.” I shall repeat it again to-night as I retire, as I do each and

every night. If Sukeena has perhaps overheard this prayer,

through her substantial powers or a slip of my own tongue, if she

is controlling my destiny in some manner—protecting me—then

who am I to complain? Who am I to inquire? Laura has left us.

The police are not to know. Many a latch will be locked in this

house to-night.

Many a question remains.

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9 september 1909—rose red

I write with weak hand, but I will not be denied the opportunity

of recording the most important day in my brief life. Eleven

hours ago, in the wee hours of the morning, I gave birth to a son.

I have called him Adam, for he is the ?rst. I am told by the

women who attended me that it was “an easy birth.” Three hours

of labor and a swift delivery. But if that was easy, I never hope to

experience otherwise! I have never felt such pain, have never

experienced that part of my body that is only a woman’s in such a

way that I did not know myself at all. Muscles and cramps and

contractions, in and out of consciousness, screams of pain, cries

of joy, and then that damp, pink creature laid atop my bosom

and already moving for my breast, some primeval instinct overcoming

him before the cord was even cut from our connection.

He now lies swaddled in the ?nest linens in a bassinet alongside

my bed, his small blue eyes closed in peaceful sleep, his tiny

hands clenched tightly, as if deep in thought. Oh, what a treasure!

What joy! I’m told Rose Red is abuzz with joy, that all the

servants are smiling and the master has been heard singing from

his rooms and has twice ordered champagne to his chambers. A

son! When Adam had been delivered, his father kissed me as tenderly

as I can ever remember. He thanked me with tears ?owing

from his eyes and promised me—us—a life of joy and prosperity,

and that as a family—“a family!” he roared—we should never know

pain, loss or sadness. (He must have been drunk, even then, but

his little speech brought me to tears just the same.)

Sukeena acted as midwife, sat by my side through the long

night of “warnings” as she called the early cramping, the early

morning hours of severe pain, and it was into her sure hands that

I pushed for the last time and felt that relief that is only a childbearing

woman’s. My nine long months were done. For this

alone I would have celebrated.

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Now I contend with milk bubbling from my breasts, a discharge

from between my legs that Sukeena assures me is normal

and an abundance of unnatural amounts of skin where my stomach

should be. I am not hungry, and yet I am starved. I drink the

coldest water they can bring me, and in amounts I would not have

thought possible. I sleep for hours at a time, I’m told, and yet it

feels like only minutes. All this is so new. So much a miracle. I

look down at his peaceful face and marvel that he was inside me,

without air, less than a day earlier. This little boy, this breathing

creature. This Rimbauer.

I heard music from the general direction of the servants’

quarters, and Sukeena tells me there is much celebration—food

and dancing—in that part of the house. John has provided the

staff spirits and wine. There is much revelry on my account. (I

fear Rose Red will barely operate to-morrow, given the condition

of our staff to-night, but no matter.) Word has spread quickly

around society. Tina Coleman’s coach delivered a card requesting

a visit, and I fear I shall be much besieged with such inquiries.

I have asked Sukeena to prepare a bath, and for my girls to assist

me in washing my hair, but she tells me it is too soon. A sponge

bath is all she will allow me until my recovery is better contained.

My hair may be washed, though in a bowl. In the morning, we

shall make the most of me we can.

Little Adam is so precious. When he drinks of me, I feel so

good, so bursting with happiness, that I want to laugh for no reason

at all. His hunger comes as great relief as my bosom nearly

bursts at times with mother’s milk. Already we have found a

rhythm of sleep and feeding and sleep again. He has not relieved

himself, and Sukeena waits for this event as anxiously as I did my

delivery. I don’t believe she has slept in the last two days, always by

my side when I wake, always holding my hand as I slip back off to

sleep. What a dear friend she has become. How did I ever exist

without her as a sister? Those hands of hers, inside me, ensuring

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a proper delivery. So gentle, so kind. So careful and understanding

of my pain. Some day perhaps I shall dare to ask for the

details, but not now. Now, I drift in and out of sleep, Adam at my

breast, in the bassinet, at my breast. Sukeena’s blue-black face