The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (13 page)

with caution along with a great deal of excitement, I do

confess. This was not “the place” for a woman, and just the fact

that I was here ?lled me with a degree of thrill impossible to fully

explain in these pages. (There was quiet talk among the women of

my class that a woman’s “time” was coming. I think now, here in

this place, for the ?rst time I fully understood that certain

boundaries were soon to be crossed. In fact, I felt something like

a pioneer just coming here.)

We ventured up a ?ight of complaining stairs, ensconced in a

narrow tunnel of wood, completely unlighted, to a stark reception

room where the formidable Madame Lu occupied a wicker

chair as fully as a hand occupies a glove. She was easily the size of

three or four women, an enormous edi?ce of ?esh and silk with

two ebony hairpins containing a curtain of rich black hair that

might have reached the ?oor unbridled. She had a series of chins

that cascaded down to the upper seam of the red silk gown, and

pudgy hands that appeared bloated and in?exible. Her voice was

that of a man’s, deep, resonant and ?lled with ?uid. Her words

bubbled from her throat.

“Please, sit.” She indicated the ?oor, covered only by a woven

mat.

I glanced at Tina, my astonishment clearly showing. She simply

smiled back at me, folded her legs and slowly lowered herself,

with the help of her maid. (Now I understood her insistence that

I bring Sukeena along!) Sukeena helped me to the ?oor—honestly,

I do not believe I have sat upon a ?oor since a toddler!—and

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then our two maids stepped to the side and stood alongside two of

Madame Lu’s keepers, thin young women who were not yet fully

developed.

“You welcome here again, Miss Tina. You bring friend.”

“It is for my friend that I come, Great Lady.”

“Indeed.”

Those beady black eyes surveyed me and I felt a heat pulse

through me as if she had reached into me with her fat hot hands.

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I felt her robbing my secrets, as if she had opened these pages and

had begun to read.

Madame Lu commands a formidable presence. As the smell of

incense made me light-headed and, indeed, feeling somewhat

under her “spell,” she opened an old tin box from which she

removed a great handful of ivory white bones, all of them small

and glistening with the shine of having been handled a thousand

times. “What question you ask?” she inquired of me, in a voice

deep enough to be my husband’s.

“How many questions am I allowed?”

The big woman rolled her eyes and clearly consulted my dear

friend Tina with an insolent glance. Tina leaned over and whispered

that as a matter of etiquette, the Chinese will not directly

discuss business arrangements, and that Madame Lu charged for

each reading. I could ask as many questions as I wished, as long as

I understood each reading would cost me an additional ?fty

cents. I considered it a usurious amount of money, but agreed

nonetheless. “Very well,” I said to the Great Lady. I collected

myself, feeling somewhat indignant about my sitting on a mat on

a ?oor, and said something like, “Is Mrs. Fauxmanteur alive?

Unharmed?”

Madame Lu considered me for a long moment, steadied a

black enamel table in front of her and dropped the handful of

bones there. They sounded more like stones. She regarded the

unruly pile in the un?inching fashion of a dog inspecting the

unknown: a slight cocking of the head left to right. She nodded,

hummed to herself and dug through the small pile of artifacts.

Her voice resonated as she spoke. “Many forms to life. Yes? This

lady’s spirit lives. I deal in spirit. Yes? Her body? Maybe not live

as you think of living.”

I shuddered. Alive, but not alive? Were such things possible?

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To my Christian upbringing this reeked of paganism and sinful

talk—but I had crossed over long ago in my prayers. Only now was

the world around me catching up.

The big woman collected the bones in a greedy hand and

deposited them back into her tin box, one eye cautiously on me,

expecting another question. I awaited her.

“Something else?” she wondered.

I glanced over at Tina, not wanting her to hear my question

concerning Rose Red. Could I trust her? I decided I must. “Is

our home, our house, Rose Red, possessed of spirits?”

The question won Tina’s attention. She stared at me, but I

would not look over at her.

The ritual repeated itself. Her puffy, fat ?ngers reached into

the dull gray box and deposited a grip of bones to the shiny

enamel tabletop. Again, her index ?nger prodded through the

pile, mining it for information. Sukeena let me know with a sigh

that she clearly put no faith in our hostess.

Madame Lu said, “You are not alone in this house.”

“Spirits?” I gasped, suddenly very cold and shaken. Perhaps I

did not want the truth. Perhaps I was not ready for it.

“A presence,” Madame Lu answered. “This much I can tell

you.”

I did not wish to hear anything more. A presence. Why did

her con?rmation carry so much signi?cance with me? Why did I

feel so afraid and chilled to the bone? Worse, Sukeena was nodding

her agreement. A presence.

I wanted out of there. I wanted home. That is, until I realized

that home was Rose Red.

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1 april 1909—rose red

I pray with all my heart that someone is playing a practical joke on

John and me, as this is the day for such tomfoolery, but the

woman in me knows better, for we have seen this before, have we

not, Dear Diary? I feel nearly mad, delirious with worry.

Another woman has disappeared without a trace.

This time it is a maid by the name of Laura, a dear waif of a

woman, quite fetching in appearance, who works in our chambers

changing linens, housecleaning and seeing to the cleanliness of

our toilets and baths. A colored woman, light-skinned and so

radiant, she was one of Sukeena’s closer acquaintances on the

staff, rather a younger sister to my African queen.

When the “Regent”—a fellow named Thomas—informed John,

I thought my husband might faint, an unlikely event for such a

man as strong as he. “It’s Laura, sir,” Thomas told John as the

two of us were just sitting down to tea. (Don’t think I didn’t take

notice of the similarity in the time of day!)

“Laura?” John sputtered.

“Our chambermaid,” I gasped.

Believing I intended this for him, John snapped at me, “I

know who Laura is, Ellen. Hush!”

I felt like slapping him, I was so humiliated. Of course, he

knows who Laura is; John has had the last say in the hiring of all

the servants, and despite his claim that this domestic charge is my

responsibility, it most decidedly is not.

He bit his lip and chewed, thoughtfully immersed in some

devilish consideration (of this, I have little doubt given my

impression of his expression). It was then, for the ?rst time, that

I gave myself open to the possibility that this curse that af?icts us

might in some way be John’s doing, not mine at all. Perhaps it is

John’s prayers, not mine, that have reached the beyond. Perhaps,

all this time I have prayed to the other side, it has actually been

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my husband’s voice that has been heard. And if so, then to what

end was he praying? Certainly he could mean me no harm, not

before the birth—the possibility of an heir! Then what? I wondered.

And still, I have no answer, though evidence presents itself

to support my theory, for this disappearance has vexed my husband

greatly, far beyond the vanishing of Mrs. Fauxmanteur.

Upon the news of the disappearance, John and the Regent

gathered all thirty-three servants (Laura being the thirty-fourth!)

in the Grand Ballroom. A hush fell over all, because word travels

quickly in this house, believe me. (There is no privacy left to my

life—all is known.) The Regent and Sukeena, as John’s and my

personal representatives, stood forefront to the rows of attendants.

John addressed all in a forceful, dare I say, frightened,

tenor.

“I must inquire as to the whereabouts of our own Laura

Hirtson, master’s chambermaid, in service to Mrs. Watson.

Anyone with information about Miss Hirtson, please step forward

now.”

Thomas is a big man possessing a commanding presence, and

with a voice that can carry through walls. Some of the girls were

already crying, though doing their best not to show it. To my surprise,

a man of eighteen or so, who goes by the name Rodney,

stepped forward from his line and replied meekly.

“Sir, if I may . . .”

“Rodney?”

The extent of John’s memory never ceases to amaze me. I do

believe he could recall each of the servants by name, perhaps even

recall their backgrounds, if required to do so. I know many, but

not all.

“I saw Laura late this morning in the Solarium. I am not certain,

but I believe she was headed out toward the Carriage

House.”

John pursed his lips, looked directly at Daniel, the master of

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the Carriage House, and the two exchanged a powerful look. I felt

for a moment as if a wind swept through the room. “Is that so?”

John paused. “Daniel?”

“I never laid eyes on her, sir, and I haven’t left the Carriage

House all morning until this meeting here just now.”

Daniel and John go back years, Daniel having cared for John’s

horse?esh for nearly two decades. I knew, having no need to ask,

that John trusted Daniel’s opinion absolutely.

“The Solarium,” John repeated to Rodney.

“Yes, sir. And if I may say so, sir, her being there . . . she

seemed a bit . . . suspicious, like. Surprised to see me, you might

say. Went about an explanation right off the mark, as if I’d asked.

And I hadn’t! But that’s Laura, isn’t it? Likes to wag her jaw, that

one.”

A few of the men nearby Rodney chuckled over the man’s

deliberate delivery. John saw no reason for levity and squared his

shoulders, sobering the entire staff.

“Anyone else?”

No one stepped forward.

I raised my voice from the side. “It’s rather important, to say

the least. Please, if any of you at all has seen her.” I caught an

expression in Linda’s face—Linda, who is assistant to Mrs. Danby,

and one of Laura’s dorm mates. I believe the two close, though I

have little to support that belief. Her eyes widened. I thought I

saw her hand lift, if not imperceptibly.

“Linda?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am?” A tension in her voice.

“Were you to say something?”

A quick glance toward me and then John. “No, ma’am.”

“Just now, I thought—”

“No, ma’am.”

John put me back to silence with one scalding look. This was

his summons of the staff, not my own. He divided up the group

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and instructed them where to search. By his calculation, the

thirty-three staff could coordinate to conduct a thorough search

of premises—every closet, armoire, storage room, steamer trunk—

within an hour to an hour and a half. Two hours at most. (It was

there and then, seeing this army assembled before us, and realizing

this search would still account for a considerable amount of

time, that I came to grasp the enormity of this house that was still

under construction—a house that even I, the matron, had lost

track of. By way of example, there is a new wing of the third ?oor

open, completed and decorated over three weeks ago now, that I

have yet to see for the ?rst time.)

As the staff was dismissed and the search began, my dear John

showing a color of pale I had never witnessed, I endeavored to

locate Sukeena and to request she in turn ?nd Linda and bring

her to me in my chambers.

“But the search, ma’am,” Sukeena said in her Kenyan

singsong, her eyes wide with apprehension. She sounds British at

times. “Mister John.”

“Never mind John,” I instructed. “I wish to talk with Linda

immediately.”

“Very well, ma’am,” Sukeena replied, her determination to

follow my request apparent. One of Sukeena’s many wonderful

attributes is her ability to remain calm and consistent. Regardless

of generation, Africans are quite gifted in this regard, able to

leave the past behind—an argument, disagreement or other dif?-

culty—without the slightest timidity, as if it had never occurred.

(Despite Mr. Lincoln’s intentions, and that awful Civil War

through which our parents lived, and many fought, I do not

believe the slaves—nearly all of them African by descent—have

been provided the opportunity to advance socially as once

claimed. Indeed, I believe that history will record Mr. Lincoln’s

attitudes a result of political pressures rather than philanthropic

intention. The freemen seem rarely better off, often unem-

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ployed, forbidden to buy land and disassociated with regions

where they lived for generations. There is private talk among the

women of this city who speak of suffrage that the Negro has as

much, if not more, claim to ?ght for personal freedoms than