The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (15 page)

glowing in the gas ?ame. I see love in her eyes. I feel her love. I

see hope and goodness. I shall remember this day forever—the

passing of life from life, generation to generation. My husband is

back in the hall outside my rooms. He is shouting, “I have a son!

I have a son!” There is joy in this house at last. I only can hope

and pray that it will last.

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23 september 1909—rose red

Good God in Heaven, I fear this house has a mind of its own.

For the past two weeks I have strolled with Adam and Sukeena

down the long halls of this grand house, just today revisiting the

East Wing, an area I feel I have scarcely seen before. Here is

located the Grand Ballroom, last used during the inaugural but

kept wonderfully fresh and white-glove clean by our dedicated

staff. I can still see the dancing, hear the orchestra (thankfully, I

cannot smell the liquor, for since Adam’s birth my senses are

severely heightened—I can hear at great distances and detect my

husband’s cigar from opposite ends of this enormous Rose Red),

recall the dashing band leader, and I am able to envision the

women’s gowns in all their glory. While Sukeena held Adam I

strolled the great room, reliving that wonderful party and beginning

to anticipate the second of its kind, now only a few months

off. Full preparations will begin in just a week or two, as I will

organize the staff and we will begin to conceive decorations,

entertainment, cuisine, invitations and all the details that must

be attended to prior to this January the ?fteenth. This was, in

fact, the basis for my visit today: to get a feel for the room again,

the walnut-paneled walls of the hallway leading to the Ballroom,

the grand oil paintings—portraits and landscapes—that John and I

purchased in Paris and London while on honeymoon. I would

like fresh-cut ?owers in the Mediterranean urns, and this will

require our gardeners to work months ahead, as the only ?owers

available will be forced bulbs, and I shall want them in quantities

of many hundreds. (This climate seems especially favorable to

bulbs, and I can foresee the day when farmers raise great quantities

of them. I have already encouraged John to buy and clear

land north of the city for this purpose, and he is considering

working a deal with the lumber barons to take over the ground

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they clear-cut, as this ground is virtually worthless to them once

the trees have been taken.)

After walking this wonderful room several times and explaining

aloud to Adam where I envisioned the drinks, the seating and

the entertainment, Sukeena and I (and Adam, in Sukeena’s arms)

left the great room and reentered the impressive hall of the East

Wing.

That I fainted and Sukeena screamed is the only reason Adam

remains unhurt, for if I had been holding him he would have

fallen with me.

There at the end of the hall, just prior to the top of the staircase,

stood lovely Laura, our missing housemaid. Missing these

many months! Her blouse hung open, partially exposing her bare

breasts and dark skin. Her skirt was missing altogether, her ruf-

?ed underclothes untied and hanging open at the junction of her

legs, her womanhood exposed, as I imagine some street whore

presenting herself. She looked so terribly saddened—a woman

recently ravaged—her hair tousled and her skin blotchy. I did not

hear her voice, but I saw her lips move and understood clearly her

words, nonetheless. “My skirt,” she said, looking at me and then

down at herself and making the motions as if tying it back around

herself. So pathetic. So ghastly!

It was then I lost consciousness and fell to the ?oor. Then that

Sukeena screamed—less from fear than it was calling for someone

to help me. By the time I regained my strength, Laura was gone.

Lost to this house—or taken by it—as she had been before.

Leaving young Adam with a chambermaid behind locked doors, I

ventured outside of Rose Red this evening for the ?rst time since

the birth. John had gone off on “business,” which meant downtown,

either to a poker game, to a business dinner or to places I

had no desire to think about. With Sukeena at my side, we struck

out for adventure, following a train of logic so easily seen: if

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Laura had indeed been spotted in the Carriage House, and if she

was now missing her skirt, then what were the chances Sukeena

and I might ?nd this piece of evidence and help the poor creature?

Perhaps it was that skirt, and that skirt only, that kept her

locked in the netherworld in which we had witnessed her. (For I

swear it was so: that woman at the end of the hall was a ghost, not

any kind of ?esh and blood. Do not ask me how this is possible,

for I know not. But it is with absolute certainty that I write this!)

I must confess to feeling a bit like a teenager, my heart in my

throat, as Sukeena and I elected to ?ee unseen from the West

Wing via the narrow servants’ staircase that deposited on the

ground ?oor between the Parlor and the Central Hall West.

From there, with Sukeena as lookout, we crossed to the Gun

Room, out to the exterior hall, between the Tapestry Gallery and

the structural south wall, and down a long, stone corridor and

through a door to the spiral stairs that access the west end of the

West Wing, off John’s chambers. (I swear he uses this hidden

stairwell to enter and leave the house without my knowledge.) We

passed through the Bowling Alley to the swimming pool, and

around the pool to the east doors that face Rose Red’s rear gardens.

Sukeena is capable of moving without any sound. My

African queen seems to ?oat above the stone, move ?uidly

around corners and remain unseen, almost invisible. Upon

reaching the garden, we both stopped to catch our breaths (me,

far more than her) and waited for our eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Oh my, but my chest hurt with the tension! Our ears

clouded with the sound of the fountain, only a matter of yards

away—directly between us and the Carriage House—we remained

in shadow along the wall of the Pool House, well off the perfectly

laid stone paths, electing a circuitous route through the plants,

shrubs and ?owers.

“I’ll have at it later!” came a male voice I did not recognize.

One of the Carriage House staff, no doubt, preparing either to

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leave the property for a beer or to retire to one of the dormitories

we provide.

Sukeena and I had chosen our timing carefully, as the

Carriage House staff is usually dismissed and done for the day an

hour or so after the return of the last horse or team. John having

taken the motorcar to his “business,” it followed that the Carriage

House would be quiet for the night (although John does park the

motorcar in a modi?ed stall in the Carriage House and would be

returning at a later hour). I assumed that Daniel, as head of the

Carriage House, would make himself available upon my husband’s

return, but Sukeena had it on good report that Daniel had

a game of dice planned at this same hour, said to be under way in

the skeet room of the basement—a room designed to launch the

clay pigeons for skeet shooting from the Loggia on the north side

of the ground ?oor, just off the Billiard Room. If true, Daniel

would be hard pressed to ?nd himself any farther away from the

Carriage House and still be on the property. That said, I thought

it in the man’s nature to have a young scout placed somewhere

about, keeping an eye out for the master’s premature return.

Probably a son of one of his workers—someone paid by a piece of

sausage or a few coins for his time. It was this scout that Sukeena

and I sought to avoid.

We settled in the shadow of a well-kept rhododendron on the

northwest corner of the garden, only a piece of the rose garden

between the fountain and our hiding spot. Directly across from

us was the dark, looming structure of the Carriage House, now all

but quiet, given its four-legged residents. (The pool, the west wall

of the house, and the Carriage House combine to form an enormous

courtyard, the only escape from the west where we were now

?rmly entrenched.) We waited for what felt like an eternity, my

muscles complaining from the childbirth I had performed,

Sukeena as still as a black rock. When we ascertained that all

human voice was gone from the place, we sneaked ahead and

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rushed across a small clearing of mowed grass, making for the

Carriage House’s west entrance—its only entrance entirely

screened from the rest of the house. If we were to confront anyone,

it would be someone inside the Carriage House. (I had several

rather clever excuses for the two of us showing up at the

Carriage House unannounced like this, and even one or two that

might help cover that fact so my husband would not ?nd out. As

it turned out, we didn’t need them. At least not right away . . . )

Sukeena led the way across the short open space and into the

shadow of the Carriage House. I tell you, my heart felt ready to

burst as I ducked and hurried through the garden and out across

the short expanse of crushed stone driveway that accessed the

Carriage House. We pressed our trembling bodies up to the

building’s cool wall and tried to catch our breath. I glanced at

Sukeena and nearly burst out laughing, I was so nervous. She

remained stoic and impassive—hard to read. I don’t know if she

enjoyed it half as much as I. Perhaps she feared losing her job—

and it was only then I saw the dif?cult position I had put her in.

She would not refuse me—not ever, I’m sure of it—and I had

placed her in the awkward position of leading me into the mouth

of the lion. (It is not that I am forbidden to visit the Carriage

House, but to search it for a woman’s missing garment is another

matter entirely!)

After a moment of collecting our courage, together Sukeena

and I calmly turned and entered through the massive open doors

at the west end of the Carriage House, as if we had not a care in

the world. The doors had been left open, presumably to allow for

the return of John’s motorcar later this same night. It afforded us

easy access as we stepped onto the wide redwood planks, a dusting

of straw beneath our feet, the gorgeous Carriage House ?ooded

in dim electric light, not a soul in sight. I have always loved the

smell of horses, and entering the Carriage House brought me

back to my childhood. The stall doors are made of wrought iron

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and carved redwood and operate nearly soundlessly. (Daniel is

the ?nest stable master in the state, by some accounts.) It is a

two-story barn, the bottom occupied by horse stalls, room for

several carriages, a tack room and a saddle room and Daniel’s

of?ce. The upstairs loft is primarily for straw and hay storage,

though several large rooms were constructed here for cold storage

as well. I assumed most of these to be empty, as we had occupied

Rose Red for less than a year, and these rooms were intended for

“over?ow” storage. (Mind you, I can’t imagine ever running out

of basement storage in Rose Red—it’s the size of a school playing

?eld.)

Sukeena and I stopped many times, trying to discern the

sounds and to separate man from animal. Thankfully, we heard

no one, and so continued into the depths of this large barn. I will

admit here, where I share my innermost secrets, that I was imagining

the worst. If Laura was missing her skirt, I feared a man

responsible. Need I say more? I feared Daniel’s participation in

this matter—his allegiance to my husband is unquestionable. I did

not forget Daniel’s disclaimer concerning Laura, made in front

of all the staff. He had not seen Laura—or so he said.

We passed stall after stall of some of the ?nest horses in this

part of the country: Summertime and Rex are my favorites for I

helped buy them, but all the horses here are extremely ridable

and elegant examples of their breeds. John knows his horse?esh.

In the middle of the building, we found the tack room and the

saddle room locked up tightly. Disappointed, we continued on.

Daniel’s of?ce was locked as well. We moved silently down the

center hall, Sukeena careful to check behind us every few seconds,

looking back toward those wide open doors at the west end, fearing

someone might ?nd us out and beg an explanation. The stalls

were bigger in this east end of the Carriage House, large sliding

doors accessing one carriage after another—six in all, three to a

side. The ?rst two were ornamental carriages—one a single-pull;

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the other intended for a pair. We peered inside through the

wrought iron. The pony carriage and the sleigh were next, followed

by two large hay wagons, the last of which was rigged to hold

a ?re-?ghting pump, if ever needed.

I can offer no explanation for why Sukeena stopped in front

of the door to the second to last storage area, no reason for her