The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (20 page)

I am unsure how to interpret his request. Is it that he has

come to fear Sukeena and her insights? Does he know about her

questioning some of the staff about Delora’s disappearance? Does

he wish to leave her behind, with me away, so that harm can come

to her? Or is it that he’s lifting the skirt of one of the nannies,

with me unaware? I withdrew my acceptance immediately, and

John stood his ground: the offer for a European trip stands, but

Sukeena is to remain behind.

I postponed my answer for a day or two. Meanwhile, I must

make Sukeena busy. There is more here than meets the eye.

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10 november 1912—rose red

I write with little Adam about to fall asleep on my lap, pressed

against my bosom, his small face warm, his little hands twitching

as he can’t decide whether to sleep or get up and roam the room.

I have dismissed his nanny, Miss Susan McConnell, for the present,

content to be alone with my child, the heir to Rose Red. Oh,

heart, how can I love so? My children ?ll and occupy a place in

me that sings of contentment and satisfaction. If only I had

known life could be so ful?lling and whole! I fear I married for

all the wrong reasons—society and wealth—when in fact one

should marry for family and love I know now.

I am driven to these thoughts, no doubt, because John is still

away in Europe. I considered taking the children, traveling with

him, but used the excuse of an epidemic in?uenza in that part of

the world to remain at home (in protest of his refusal to allow

Sukeena to attend me on the voyage). I pray for my husband’s

health. I have had a letter or two. He writes of business and the

likely expansion of war, one of a very few who might bene?t by

that prospect. I hear little of his social activities beyond the mention

of the occasional dinner with a few of our acquaintances,

and my wife’s heart fears the worst. I know the man he is. Live

and learn. It troubles my imagination to think of him alone in

his ?ve-room hotel suite, his chauffeur-driven motorcars, his

late dinners and his brandies.

As to events here at Rose Red, I am saddened to report the

death of our stable master, Daniel—one of my husband’s most

devoted employees. I have written John of our loss (I know this

news will devastate him!), but he will not receive the post for

another several weeks at the earliest, and by then Daniel will be

buried and all but forgotten.

One can imagine such accidents are commonplace enough for

stable hands, and thanks to some quick thinking on the part of

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Daniel’s staff, this house was spared another round of scandal.

But mark my word, this man’s horri?c death was no accident! In

point of fact Rose Red reached down and took another man’s

life—the fourth such “accidental” death in a little over two years’

time.

Of?cially, the police determined he was trampled to death,

found as he was in the stall of a young stallion who is known to get

quite high of spirits when fed straight oats—a misfortune of inexperience

on the part of one of the stable boys, who fed him a

bucketful. In point of fact, Daniel was found in the very same

wagon stall where Sukeena and I witnessed the ghostly specter of

Laura’s misfortune. Mind you, Dear Diary, there is no horse in this stall

to have trampled poor Daniel to death, and as stated earlier, only

the sharp wit of a stable hand (who moved Daniel’s broken corpse

to the stall occupied by Black Thunder and then relaid straw in

the wagon stall to cover the spillage of blood) saved us from the

undue attention of the police and society. This house and its

employees have seen so many bizarre events that we have begun to

protect one another. The fast-thinking stable hand, a boy named

Dirk, shaken as he was by the events of the evening, was provided

several bottles of claret, subsequently drinking himself to unconsciousness.

(Sukeena’s remedy, as she wisely suggested I quickly

buy this boy’s silence while formulating a plan. In John’s absence

the running of this house falls ?rmly on my shoulders. In the

morning I plan to offer him a month’s wages and promotion to

stable master for his silence.)

I once believed trouble comes in threes. Now, I simply believe

that trouble comes. One learns to get out of its way. Daniel

invited trouble and was, at least in the opinion of this great

house, expendable. My husband, who may or may not be guilty

(all evidence suggests he is!), is too valuable to Rose Red to be

sacri?ced. No matter what others may believe, it is my conviction

that Rose Red is behind all of this: she brings out the worst in

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men, she gobbles up women—she judges, sentences and condemns.

(I am told that Daniel was so badly trampled that only his

belt and boots lent to his identi?cation. He was not killed, but

executed.)

Another life passes through Rose Red. Another life is claimed.

The scriptures have never been more accurate in their promise of

Hell for those who sin. Just ask Daniel. Why this pleases me so, I

do not know. I feel guilt over the pleasure I take in such matters.

Yet whatever force did spirit Mrs. Fauxmanteur and the others

away (to points unknown) also left the corpses of four men

behind (?ve, if you count poor Mr. Corbin who will rot in jail!)

to pay for their part in whatever activities occupy the long nights

at Rose Red.

She is watching us all. And though John may claim the title, or

even pass the mantle to me in his absence, we would all be well to

acknowledge that there is only one master of this house. It is a

mistress, indeed. It is the house itself. She governs all. No one

leaves without her permission.

150

4 september 1914—rose red

The events of the past several years are too numerous to recall.

Concerned that my writing this diary somehow contributed to the

disappearances and deaths here at Rose Red, I have abstained

from these pages for far too long, especially given that two more

women have vanished from our grounds—one a gardener, the

second a “gypsy” child whose very presence here is questionable.

This second disappearance brought the police once again—this

time at John’s urging, since accusations included that John had

been seen with the woman in the docklands the night before

(thankfully this rumor was put to rest!). John was nowhere near

the docklands that night—he and I had attended a hospital dinner,

not returning home by motorcar until well after midnight,

both of us retiring to our chambers.

Now, with the war raging in Europe, with John away more

than he is home, with Sukeena claiming that several times she has

seen all the missing women dancing together in the Grand Ballroom, I

?nd I must pick up my pen and write. You, Dear Diary, were

never the cause of any of this, and I was a fool to think so. Once

again, I entrust my most private thoughts to your pages, con?-

dent that only my eyes shall ever read these words. (Woe be to

anyone, anywhere, at any time who violates the privacy of these

pages! May a curse be upon you. If you have read any of this, you

know these pages are for me, and me alone.)

They picked a new Pope yesterday in Rome. Benedict XV. I

am Protestant, as is John, but I wish the Pope would visit our

grand house and explain what or whose spirit it is that possesses

it. The Indians? I fear it is them. They have graves to ?ll—graves

that we dug up. Surrogates will do, I suppose. “Please form a

line . . .” Like a ticket box of?ce for a show.

Sukeena tells me that the staff thinks I am crazy, that I have

lost my mind (we chuckle at this together). I do spend a good deal

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of time in my chambers, for my African fevers reoccur, sometimes

for days or even weeks at a time. The rest of my time is

spent in the gardens or alone with the children—rarely taking

dinner with John or showing myself around the house. The children

occupy my every well moment, my every well thought—and

let the servants think what they think. No person should be made

to endure such fevers—and I fear my April, who also suffers horrible

ills, shall die of my husband’s vile poison if I don’t seek a

solution outside of what medicine can offer.

For her part, Sukeena is my sister now—having taken the place

of your pages these past several years, listening for hours on end

to my complaints, my fears and my loves. It has brought us closer

than I ever imagined two people could come. She knows my every

thought before I think it, anticipates my every need before I voice

it. If I did not know better, I should think this dear woman is

reading my mind.

The reason for my taking up my pen, the news that I write of

here is this: after nearly three years of waiting, three years of

repeated appeals, my wishes have been heard. Madame Stravinski

is to hold a séance, in this house, this very evening. I am so excited!

We have invited eight guests including the Poseys. John has

resigned himself to participation (I believe the curiosity is killing

him). Needless to say, of those invited, all women save John and

Douglas, some may believe such an endeavor foolish—a necessity,

in my opinion, for I wish to judge their reactions. Should

Madame Stravinski connect with the other side, I wish to measure

my own beliefs against those around me. Sukeena has openly

expressed her hostility for the Madame Stravinskis and the

Madame Lus of this world. (Sukeena’s powers and abilities in this

regard are beyond question.) Partly because of Sukeena’s distrust,

I have invited only dear friends whose opinions I can rely upon,

whether believers in the supernatural or not. Time will tell how

we judge this enterprise. Excitement ?lls the air. All but four ser-

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vants have been asked to remain in the dorms or dwellings.

(Madame Stravinski does not want any human disturbance inside

this house when she attempts to make contact.)

I await this evening in the way April or Adam awaits what lies

beneath the Christmas tree.

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4 september 1914—rose red, evening . . .

I had to run back upstairs and jot down this note because I do not

want to lose these thoughts to the séance that is scheduled to start

momentarily. The event is to take place in the Ladies Library, to

the north of the Grand Stair, beyond which lies the Billiard

Room (we should have never designed such a feminine space to

adjoin any such male haven, even if not connected by a doorway!).

Sukeena and I were checking up on Madame Stravinski, a

withered old woman dressed in colorful silks and shawls and

wearing excessive jewelry about her wrists that clatters with every

twitch of the hand, as she had asked to spend time in the room

alone “preparing” herself for the séance. (Sukeena suggests she is

“preparing” the room as well, the implication of fraud apparent.)

As we reentered to check up on her, I did overhear my husband’s

shrill complaints to Douglas Posey through the bookshelves and

wall that are shared with the Billiard Room. John made it quite

clear to Posey that their “interests” were no longer the same, that

war presented unparalleled opportunities, and that not to exploit

such times out of a fear of being seen as ruthless was to miss the

point of war entirely. “War is born of pro?t and loss,” he thundered,

“in varying degrees, whether speaking economically or in

terms of human life. Pro?t and loss! Which side of the equation

would you suggest we fall on? Yes, we’re strangling the competition.

Yes, we’ve cut deals with the Europeans. But not the

Germans, Douglas. We are not turncoats! We are businessmen.

Holding down supply, on the one hand, while pro?ting greatly in

the other.”

“And costing our own military in the process,” Posey complained.

“Pro?ting by denying a free market, pro?ting from government

war money while controlling that market for ourselves. I

won’t have it. I won’t be a part of it.”

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“Business! Pro?t and loss. An oil company is in business to

make money.”

“I want out. I’m going to sell my shares.”

“No.”

“I have every right. Read the partnership papers.”

“You sell your shares now, and people will question the stability

of the company. It’s always the case. Now, of all times. No,

Douglas. You mustn’t.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“I’ll buy them from you.”

“What?” Posey’s shock registered.

“The partnership also provides for that.”

“With what? We have every cent into that Texas pipeline.”

“Leave that to me,” my husband said. I confess, I feel John is

making a huge mistake. Douglas Posey’s shares have to be worth

millions. John will have to go to every banker he knows. He might

bankrupt us. “I will pay cash, and though we must report the sale

to regulators, we will make nothing of it in the press. Neither

you, nor I. You owe me that, Douglas. Where would you be without