The Ripper's Wife (7 page)

I decided to be charitable, and, with a smile, I spun gaily around and skipped back across the sky-blue expanse of my bedroom and into Jim’s suite. Here all was deep crimson plush, heavy red-tinged brown satin the color of dried blood, and dark mahogany with the muted shimmer of antiqued gilt. It was a dark, somber chamber, stifling and oppressive, with the curtains drawn tight, the kind that would make one prone to tiptoe and whisper. As I peeped through the velvet curtains at the perfectly made bed within, I sincerely hoped that whenever he felt amorous Jim would always come to me; I didn’t think I would like sleeping in his bed.

In the dressing room, I caressed and admired his clothes, watered and embroidered silk and brocaded waistcoats, silk and velvet neckties, shirts of the softest snow-white handkerchief linen, and nothing but the finest coats and suits Paris and Mayfair’s Savile Row had to offer. Impulsively, I wiggled out of my robe and bundled myself into one of his coats, though it was far too big for me and the sleeves flopped over my hands like a pair of black broadcloth puppets. Smiling, I playfully batted them against each other like Punch and Judy. I reached up to the top shelf, where Jim’s hats were kept, and plopped a shiny black silk topper onto my head, laughing when it sank down over my eyes and bumped the bridge of my nose. I hugged myself tightly, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply, trying to catch his scent. When I heard footsteps out in the hall I started guiltily, fearing one of the servants might be looking for me, and quickly put everything back where it belonged, though I would have liked nothing better than to go on wearing my husband’s coat all day long so that I might feel embraced by him in his absence.

In the masculine haven of his study, adjoining the bedroom, I found walls of watered champagne silk, oak paneling, discreet touches of antique gold, and heavy oak tables and chairs upholstered in cognac-colored leather with brass studs. There were shelves filled with gilt-embellished leather books, including works by Shakespeare and Dickens, a great globe of the world I delighted in spinning, glass cases filled with fascinating fossils, and cut-crystal decanters that shimmered like diamonds against the rich, warm golden and smoky topaz colors of the fine aged whiskey and brandy inside. The walls were decorated with ancient maps with unexplored territories marked “Here be Monsters,” with drawings of dragons and sea serpents, and a fine selection of gilt-framed Landseers depicting magnificent stags and heroic Newfoundland dogs rescuing drowning children.

I sat back in the big, comfortable chair behind Jim’s desk and smiled across its wide oaken expanse at my framed photograph and sniffed his cigars and dared take a tiny sip of his very strong brandy as I rattled the heavy brass knocker knobs on his desk, each one fashioned like the hideous snake-haired head of Medusa. To my dismay, I found them locked, to protect petty cash from pilfering servants and vital business records no doubt, not any dire, dramatic secrets like in a novel or play.
This is my life,
I told myself,
my real, wonderful life, not a stage melodrama, after all, and things like that don’t happen, not to happy people like us!

I ventured next into his bathroom, a rather Spartan and severe room done all in black and white with shining silver pipes and fixtures, and white tiles with an elegant black starburst pattern. It was dominated by two tall ebony cabinets with frosted-glass doors that flanked the sink like a pair of the Queen’s tall, unsmiling guardsmen. Filled, no doubt, with towels, bottles of cologne, bars of soap, razors and toothbrushes, and other essential and luxurious items of refined masculine grooming. Suddenly I wanted very much to touch them, all these dear, familiar objects he handled every day, to inhale their fragrance, to smell his soap and cologne, to daub it on my wrists and behind my ears. Today was the first day since we were married that we had been apart and I missed Jim terribly.

When I opened the first cabinet I was completely unprepared for what I discovered. All four shelves were
crammed
front to back with glass bottles and vials, clear, blue, amber, green, brown, and milky of varying shapes and sizes, pasted with grandiose and gaudy labels or capital letters embossed into the glass. Some were filled with liquids, others with pills, powders, or creams, and there were metal tins, cardboard boxes, porcelain canisters, bags, pouches, and packets of assorted sizes, some bearing bold words such as
POISON!
and
DANGER!,
dire warnings, and death’s-heads. There was even a sizable store of bone-black charcoal, with instructions written on the labels on how to administer it in case of an overdose or the accidental ingestion of poison. Spilled along the edge of the shelf there was a dusting of white powder. The same, I suspected, as Jim routinely spooned into his food and drink.

This cabinet was an apothecary’s shop in miniature. The closest thing I saw to a harmless toiletry article was a goodly supply of an American concoction I had often seen advertised called Indian Princess Hair Blacking and some equally absurd preparation with a garish label depicting an unshorn Samson in a typical strongman’s pose and leopard-skin loincloth posing for a curvaceous Delilah lounging beneath the red and gold inscription
S
AMSON’S
B
EST
H
AIRDRESSING
C
OCAINE
: I
T
KILLS D
ANDRUFF
, PROMOTES G
ROWTH
, STRENGTHENS
HAIR
, VANQUISHES G
RAY
H
AIRS
& CURES ALL I
RRITATIONS
& D
ISEASES
OF THE
S
CALP
!
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When I spied a box of Chinese Hair Tea with a bevy of kimono-clad women clustered around a goldfish pond combing out ink-black hair hanging down to the ground I found myself doing both.

My mind began to spin, like in a game of blindman’s buff, frantically grasping and groping for a reasonable explanation. Did Jim plan a business venture in the apothecary trade? Were these perhaps samples given by the manufacturers? Did he have a kinsman or friend, or even a business associate, who had lately been in that profession and been forced to close up shop unexpectedly and Jim had generously offered to store his remaining stock here while he was away on his honeymoon? Or was my tenderhearted husband taking a collection to donate to a charity hospital, to ease the aches and pains of the less fortunate? But no, as much as I wanted to believe that, a closer look revealed that all these curatives had been opened and consumed to some degree. But perhaps that wouldn’t matter to a charity hospital; the suffering poor would be grateful to receive whatever they could get—
No, Florie, no! Stop it; you’re being a fool!

I picked up a large amber bottle with a gold and green label boldly emblazoned
Du Barry’s Invalid Food,
promising to cure
indigestion, flatulency, dyspepsia, constipation, all nervous, bilious, and liver complaints, dysentery, diarrhea, stomach acidity, heart palpitations, heartburn, hemorrhoids, headaches, debility, despondency, cramps, spasms, seizures, nausea, shaking fits, sinking fits, coughs, catarrh, asthma, bronchitis, consumption, snake and animal bites, and all male, female, and children’s complaints,
all in one bottle, if you were fool enough to believe it.

A new fear suddenly caught hold of me. Was my husband deathly ill and keeping it a secret from me? Had he married me for one last, desperate grasp at happiness, to experience the pleasures of the marriage bed before the cold, cold grave? Was I to become a widow when I was barely a wife?

If I knew what was wrong perhaps I could help, or—my hopes soared—my brother Holbrook was a doctor! I would write to him, or, if it was something particularly dire, one of those ailments where time is of the essence, we could hasten back across the Channel and consult him in person. Or maybe Jim wasn’t sick at all and he was merely being a tad
too
zealous about the preservation of his health? There was a name for such people, though I could not, for the life of me, think of it at the time, the kind of folk who fancied stepping in a puddle of cold rainwater would send them to death’s door or that every disease they ever heard of would soon be visiting them. But taking all these medicines couldn’t possibly be good for Jim and might even kill him. Arsenic and strychnine were deadly, dangerous poisons, and many of these medicines mentioned one or the other upon the label, like the several bottles of lavender-tinted Fowler’s Solution, staring at me with a label describing it as
a delicate and delectable mixture of white arsenic and lavender water
. The cabinet seemed to contain a vast store of arsenic in powdered form; one particularly large sack was labeled
Industrial Arsenic.
I supposed that meant it must be even more powerful than that routinely dispensed by druggists. And my husband seemed to have invested in bulk in strychnine tablets. I would have to write Holbrook and ask his advice on how to wean Jim.

I knew Jim had brushed shoulders with death a few years back when he caught malaria on a business trip to Virginia. Maybe that had scared him and sent him running to the doctor or drugstore for every ache and sniffle? Or—a new horror dawned on me—had he been putting on a brave face when the truth was that his illness had fatally crippled his constitution?
No!
I refused to believe that! He was
so
vigorous and vital, younger and handsomer than his years. Alexander the Great had had malaria; I read that once in a magazine somewhere. It was the kind of thing only weak, puny people died of, not robust and virile men like my Jim.

I put down the amber glass bottle I had been holding, something from America called Dismal Swamp Tonic. My hand was shaking badly and it rattled against bottles of Kilmer’s Swamp Root and some mysterious concoction called Kickapoo Indian Sagwa, with a proud Indian chief’s stalwart, noble profile printed upon the label, vowing that this
Great Indian Remedy will cure rheumatism, chills and fever, loss of appetite, scrofula, and any disease arising from impure blood or a deranged liver
. A cowboy grinned back at me from the bottle beside it:
Doc Lone Star’s Genuine Snake Oil Rendered from REAL Texas Rattlesnakes for the Guaranteed Cure of ALL Aches, Pains & Diseases! This is NOT an INTOXICATING BEVERAGE but a REAL MEDICINE of REAL MERIT and PLEASANT to the TASTE! ONLY $1 a bottle!

One might as well use dollar bills for matches! I slammed the bottle down in disgust.

In my Alabama childhood, I had seen the traveling medicine shows and been entertained by them, the singers and dancers, faux Indian chiefs, and the bombastic spiels proclaimed by charlatans who were no more doctors than I, a little girl in pigtails, was. I had laughed, clapped, and sung along with the rest of the audience. But now, for the first time, I saw the danger in these potions. They weren’t just harmless sugar-water the gullible downed in the hopes of living forever, turning a puny milquetoast into a Hercules, or growing a new head of hair on a scalp bald as a billiard ball. That which promised to cure could actually
kill!

And my husband was poised to become one of their victims!

Jim was a businessman and one of the most intelligent, well-read men I had ever met; surely he couldn’t believe all this! There
had
to be some rational explanation!

My poor head felt like it was swimming in syrup and my eyes were drowning in tears. As I tried to steady my breathing, my eyes fixed upon the bough of sunny yellow lemons decorating the label of Lymon’s Lemon Cough Curative
~ 90% alcohol derived from the oil and peel of GOD’S GOLDEN FRUIT—the Marvelous, Miraculous Lemon! For the cure of consumption, dyspepsia, neuralgia, and all complaints of the stomach, liver, bladder, kidneys, bowels, and organs of generation, pains of the teeth, ears, back, and extremities. A soothing topical for burns, cuts, abrasions, and animal bites. Also a fine flavoring for ice cream, jellies, custards, puddings, and pastries!

There was actually an address housewives could write to in order to obtain recipes!

“Merciful heaven!” I cried, wondering who would be fool enough to spoon cough syrup onto their ice cream or actually make dessert with it. I held on to that cabinet for dear life when all I wanted to do was push it over and smash every last bottle inside it. The trembling of my hands shook a bright red tin from the shelf and I bent to retrieve it.

This was
too
much! I slammed it down in disgust, so hard I dented it, but I didn’t care. Inside my head I was
screaming
. I couldn’t stand looking at this smorgasbord of snake oil! I slammed the cabinet door shut and sagged weakly against it, sliding to the floor. I felt like Bluebeard’s innocent young bride, the happy girl in the fairy tale whose dream come true turned to one of horror almost overnight. He gave her
everything
—the keys to his castle, all the rooms filled with riches and pretty things. He asked only
one
thing of her—that she not enter one dismal little room in the cellar. But stay away from it was the
one
thing she could not do. She couldn’t enjoy the treasures and pleasures; she couldn’t stop wondering what secret was hidden inside that forbidden room. When she finally unlocked the door she found the floor awash with blood and the murdered, mutilated bodies of her husband’s previous brides, women just like her who also could not resist the lure of that forbidden chamber. Though Jim had forbidden me nothing, I had presumptuously rattled drawers and opened doors and I had discovered something I wished I had not, something far worse than a cache of naughty nude French postcards hidden in a drawer beneath my husband’s underclothes.