The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (11 page)

with little resistance. And then I participated. And then I cried

out my demands and drove him to a frenzy—a practice I have

learned to time to meet my own needs. We fell to the ?oor of my

dressing room in a tangle of white silk and a mutual hunger that

did not abate until the silk was torn and my dear husband carried

deep scratches down his back. (My gown will need much repair!) I

fear I screamed so loudly that the maids must have heard. Perhaps

the whole house. Sukeena gave me a look this morning that

informed me at least she had heard. Then she made me to lie in

bed with my rump elevated on pillows for nearly three hours, a

twinkle in her eye.

“I will give you child, Miss Ellen.”

Sukeena knows how badly I want this, how much I fear losing

another. But just those words ?lled me with excitement. John was

off to his study early this morning (oh, how his head must throb!)

in an effort to read a new contract with the Union Paci?c. But

before he left, he entered my bedroom and left a red rose on the

pillow next to me, the thorns neatly removed with a penknife, the

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smell so luscious and ?lling me and my dreams with contentment.

“What color to-day, Miss Ellen?” Sukeena asked from my

dressing room.

“Red,” I said back to her, naming the color of the ?ower.

“Rose Red,” I repeated more strongly. It has a familiar ring to it,

though I can’t recall from where. And then a realization: my husband

and I had just named our grand house.

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13 march 1909—rose red

I hesitate to put down into words my thoughts on this day, for I

am vexed indeed by what happened here this afternoon. As I

write, police are still searching the house. Somehow, by putting

this down here on paper, it seems I am giving it power. And I

have no intention to do such a thing, for I fear this power (if it

exists at all) is formidable indeed. But where else can I express

myself ? Certainly John will hear none of it, and though I love

Sukeena as a sister, her limited English rarely allows exchanges

that go beyond the ordinary mechanics of living or the functions

of a woman’s body.

I am now two months pregnant with child, and I have never

been happier. John parades around the house as proud as a peacock,

barking orders at the servants to take care of my every need.

He stays home at night and reads to me in the Parlor (the site of

our unfortunate incident to-day), all the while fretting over me

and my every squirm. I have just now begun to show ever so

slightly, and John comes to my rooms at night, lifts my nightgown

up past my waist and gently rubs my stomach, sometimes with

lotions, lays his head there and talks to the tiny child growing

inside me. We have had relations quite often—he has never been

more tender—and I feel closer to him now than at any point in

our brief marriage.

My pregnancy—the news has spread quickly through society—

was responsible for a teatime visit from my dear friend Melissa

Ray and her friend, Connie Fauxmanteur. I am less personally

acquainted with Mrs. Fauxmanteur, although well aware of her

husband’s lumber fortune and their sizable contributions to city

charity. She is ?ve or more years my senior, and as such I never

knew her in school as I did Melissa, with whom I have enjoyed a

steady and steadfast companionship.

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We discussed John’s and my year abroad, me carefully embellishing

the journey to sound like the ideal honeymoon. There was

also great discussion of children, both as infants and older, and

the mood was quite elevated throughout the long afternoon.

The Parlor is a magni?cent room, just to the left of the front

door as one enters. Paneled in walnut, with carpets from the

East, it houses a pipe organ I acquired in Germany during our

European travels. It is home to landscapes of France, a portrait of

John commissioned in England and various other minor treasures,

such as a Chinese vase and a set of German marksman pistols.

Although a poor cousin to our central Library, the Parlor

nonetheless houses among the literature on its shelves ?ve autographed

works of Dickens and another half dozen autographed by

Rudyard Kipling, a clever writer who has focused his works on

India and is becoming quite popular both here and abroad.

There is a leather-clad globe of the world, purchased in Oxford,

England, in the far corner, guarding the door into the Central

Hall West. Mrs. Fauxmanteur was regarding that globe when I last

laid eyes on her. Melissa and I were engaged in some gossip at the

time about rumors of Tina Coleman’s brother’s addiction to

opium, and I only made a sideways glance in the direction of the

visiting Mrs. Fauxmanteur. I felt an urgent need to warn her that

Sukeena uses that very globe as a kind of prayer wheel and that she

tells me this globe is since vested with extraordinary powers,

including the ability to open a portal into the soul of Rose Red.

(Sukeena claims the house is alive—that she can feel its presence—

an opinion with which I have taken great issue and that has been

the source of argument between us.) Sukeena also believes there

are many such portals throughout the home and that one must be

careful where one moves and to guard one’s thoughts in certain

locations or suffer the consequences—although she has never

relayed what these consequences might be. All this is communi-

cated between us in such a clipped, uncertain way that I’m not

even sure I have it right—although I do know, quite clearly, that

Sukeena is afraid of Rose Red. Or perhaps cautious is a better

word.

At any rate, dear Mrs. Fauxmanteur was in the corner, spinning

the globe like a small child with her gloved hand. All at

once, Melissa and I overheard the most astonishing language

coming from her. She was mumbling as if in prayer, though not

in any language I have ever heard (and over the course of this last

year, I have heard many!). The globe spun faster and faster, and

yet, at least from my angle, Mrs. Fauxmanteur was no longer

assisting its motion.

“Connie?” Melissa inquired in a troubled voice.

“Mrs. Fauxmanteur?” I called out, knowing more about that

globe than my dear friend Melissa Ray. “You really should not

handle that globe.”

And now, I swear to you, Dear Diary, did that woman’s head

turn all of its own accord—as if unattached from the body itself.

It did rotate toward us, and that woman ?xed her maniacal gaze

on us with reddened eyes and twisted lips. But what most astonished

us both was the ashen quality of her facial skin. Mrs.

Fauxmanteur arrived under the burden of a great deal of rouge

she did not need. And yet, as she turned to face us, none of this

cosmetic remained. Her skin seemed nearly translucent, the blue

veins showing like a tangle of knitting yarn, her lips bloodless and

cracking like ice.

“Step away please, dear woman,” I called out.

Connie Fauxmanteur did in fact step back and away from that

globe. And as she did, the globe’s rotation began to slow, and for

the ?rst time I noticed a noise, like a single high note of a children’s

choir, dissipating in volume. I had not noticed this music

until it left the room. Mrs. Fauxmanteur left the room with it,

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stepping through to the Central Hall West (I believe). I thought

perhaps she might be searching for the powder room, and so I

called out to her that I would be happy to show her the way. At

this point, Melissa, I suppose because of my pregnancy (everyone

is making much too much of my condition!), rose herself and

motioned for me to stay seated. Melissa did not appear in full

possession of her senses, I must say, clearly taken aback by that

translucent apparition of our dear friend. For a woman of such

poise and grace, she did hurry to the door to the gallery through

which Mrs. Fauxmanteur had just that moment passed.

I recall quite vividly that I smelled something bitter in the air,

could almost taste it—carried as it was with the wind of that swinging

door to the gallery. Whatever the source of that ?avor, it did

give me chills and rose the hackles on the nape of my neck. I had

tasted that same air in the Ocean Star when the great wind entered

our cabin. Despite the admonishment of my friend, I rose from

my chair and followed upon Melissa’s heels.

“Connie?” I heard Melissa call out.

A moment later, I too stood in the Central Hall West, alongside

Melissa.

The magni?cent room was empty of all but its oil paintings,

cherry and maple benches and some marble sculpture from

Rome. Mrs. Fauxmanteur had apparently run to the far end and

left before Melissa had herself reached the gallery.

“Mrs. Fauxmanteur,” I called out, “I would be pleased to show

you the way.” For she had it all wrong. The nearest toilet was

through the Banquet Hall and off a small corridor that connected

the Grand Stair. The far end of the Central Hall West connected

again with the Entry Hall and would only serve to lead her in a

circle. That is, unless by chance she had ventured upon one of

the room’s many false panels, one or two of which led to storage,

and another that offered “secret” passage between the Central

Hall West and the Kitchen, allowing servants more direct access

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during our entertaining. Now that I viewed the Central Hall West

in this light—indeed the whole house is a veritable warren of such

false passages—I realized what opportunity existed for a person to

become brie?y lost in its complexity.

“Connie!” This time Melissa’s voice carried the concern that

already beat in my own heart.

“You take the Entry Hall,” I instructed my friend, pointing to

a closed door at the end of the long gallery. At the same time, I

stepped to the wall and pulled on the servants’ cord, summoning

whoever was on duty at this hour. I had my own eye on the door

to the Banquet Hall, believing it the closest to the Parlor and

therefore, given that little time had elapsed, the most likely explanation

for Mrs. Fauxmanteur’s quick disappearance.

As I pulled open the door to the Banquet Hall, I found myself

face to face with Brian, our day butler, who had responded to my

summons. But our timing was of such coincidence that I did

jump back and let out a small scream, of no insigni?cance. This,

in turn, set John and the rest of the house to motion. By the time

I reached the Banquet Hall, and found it empty, several others

had hurried to my assistance. Doors were thrown open, false

panels too. It seemed that ten or more of us were immediately

engaged in the search for our Mrs. Fauxmanteur. Yolanda and

Fredrick hurried up the Grand Stair, believing they had heard

someone up on the second ?oor.

The louder we called, the more our voices echoed. Mrs.

Fauxmanteur was nowhere to be found. I felt rather faint at the

prospect of her disappearance, and I stumbled toward a chair,

Brian at my elbow. As I sank into its needlepoint and oak, the

door to the Banquet Hall sagged open, and I could see through

the Central Hall West and to the door of the Parlor.

There stood Sukeena, looking vexed and—dare I say it?—terri-

?ed. She stood by the globe, still slowly spinning. She wore the

same red handkerchief over her head as a scarf, a long blue work

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dress with a white apron, her blue-black skin shining in the glow

of the gas light. She shook her head at me, left to right. She was

crying.

This house had claimed a soul, and Sukeena knew better than

anyone that Connie Fauxmanteur was not coming back.

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14 march 1909—rose red

The police were much taken aback by the size of our home.

Perhaps they had heard the rumors and were surprised to see it

for themselves. (I hear tell it’s called “the palace” and “the statehouse”

by the people of Seattle.) In terms of the way “the other

half lives,” John and I are the “other half” and at least John makes

no apologies for it. He was born to success, or so he says, believing

success a matter of pocketbook, certainly not of character.

“What do you make of the disappearance?” I ask over the ?vecourse

lunch. (We invited the policemen, but they declined to

join us. So we eat in the Banquet Hall—why John insisted on this

I know not, since we usually dine in the Solarium or one of the

smaller dining rooms at mid-day.) It is just us, and four servants

in attendance (all white glove of course).

“I don’t believe it for a minute,” John Rimbauer replied.

“But, John—!”

“No, no, Ellen. You mustn’t be taken in by it, you see? The

Fauxmanteur woman simply chose us as her whipping boys, electing

to stage her little getaway from our house instead of her own.

It’s simply a case of a wife deserting her husband and responsibilities

—three children, can you imagine?!—and we are made to suffer

for it. We are made to bear the brunt of her irresponsibility,