The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (4 page)

vengeance. They will stop at nothing to see you fail. I would

attribute a great deal of the rumor to this and this alone.”

“But not all,” I said.

“John Rimbauer is a respected businessman, a man at the very

peak of society. For me, or any others, to color him this way or

that without any ?rsthand knowledge is undigni?ed and without

call. He is twenty years our senior, yours and mine. A man of the

world. What are we to expect of him? That he spent these past two

decades in a monastery? Clearly he did not. I would not trouble

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myself over his past. His future is with you, dear child, and a

bright future I should think. Very bright indeed.”

“But you’ve heard things.”

“Words is all. Words can be so destructive, especially when

they are just so much ?ction.”

“But we don’t know that. I don’t know that,” I said.

“I have been married three years. I have given birth to two

children in that time. One lived. One did not. My husband is a

brilliant surgeon, a ?ne man and a loving husband. He does not

always come home when he says he will. Sometimes it is with the

smell of liquor on his clothes. Not perfume, thank God, but a

woman’s imagination can paint many a dif?cult picture, can it

not? I love my husband, Ellen. He is not perfect. Neither am I.

Neither is John Rimbauer. I’m certain of it. But these are challenging

times. We live in a challenging part of the country—some

still refer to it as the frontier. Can you imagine? I trust my husband’s

love, even if at times I question his actions. Never to his

face. Never aloud. A woman’s heart is much stronger than a

man’s. They are weak creatures, dear. Weak, and often far more

insecure than they present on the outside. Trust your love, child.

The rest will follow.”

“What is it you’ve heard?” I asked.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes, and I appreciate your sound advice more than I can tell

you. But I simply must know what is being said behind my back,

behind the back of my future husband, or am I to be the laughingstock?”

“There are women who can see the past, and some even the

future. Have you ever consulted such a medium, my child?”

“A séance?”

“They take all forms.”

I felt ?ushed with excitement. “Have you ever consulted such a

person?”

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“Oh, I do so regularly. Not always with my husband’s knowledge,

you understand. So you see two can play at this game of

carefully guarded secrets. I am trusting you not to betray our

friendship and share any of this with John Rimbauer.”

“Of course not.” I felt giddy. A medium. I’d read news

reports, but I had never met anyone who had actually attended

such a séance. “What can I expect from such an experience?”

“Remarkable. Profound. Transcendental. You have never

experienced anything quite like it. For all my heightened anticipation

of the union of a husband and wife, I must admit to you

now, dear friend, that I ?nd a séance quite a good deal more

stimulating.” She showed her teeth when she laughed. She had

gold work throughout. She appreciated her little joke more than I

did, implying that I would be let down by the culmination of my

forthcoming marriage, the anticipated union of which, only here

in your pages, can I admit my honest excitement.

“Is it true the mediums can see to the other side?”

“I do not know what to believe, but I imagine they can, yes.

That is, I have experienced such a connection myself, during a

séance, and I must confess . . .”

I found her timidity provocative. She teased me with her

reluctance to divulge all, begging my curiosity. I gripped my

teacup with both hands and caught myself leaning into her every

breath, wanting more. “Yes?”

“I think it far wiser for you to make your own estimations,

dear friend. My experience . . . Well, you see . . . That is, I

believe each of us . . . either the connection with the other world

is there or not. And for me it was . . . is . . . and as to whether it

might be for you.”

“But I know it is,” I said, clearly startling her. “My prayers are

answered, you see.”

“Yes, well . . . prayers . . . There is more to the netherworld,

dear friend, than one can possibly imagine. And it would be

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improper and wrong of me to imply it all has to do with angels

and prayer. Some of what is revealed is most unpleasant. Not at

all the stuff of prayers.” She placed down her own cup and craned

forward. When she spoke, it was less a voice than a cold wind. Less

a woman than a presence. The curtains behind me ruf?ed as if

that window were open, which it was not. The crystal of the chandelier

tinkled. I swear the temperature of the room dropped a

dozen or more degrees. I could see her breath as she spoke.

“Many of the dead are still living. Whether you believe this or

not, that is not my concern.” She waved her long ?ngers dismissively.

She looked pale, almost gray. “One does not attempt to

make contact with the other side without a certain . . . shall we

say . . . personal investment.” A wry smile. She was consumed. I

shuddered from the sudden cold, longing for a shawl or a throw

over my shoulders. “One does not approach this lightly.” She

leaned back.

The curtain stopped moving, as did the chandelier. The color

returned to her cheeks and the temperature of the parlor was

restored. I am certain I must have looked the idiot, my mouth

sagging open in abject horror. For a minute, I swear to you, Dear

Diary, Tina Coleman was not in that room. It was someone—

something—else entirely. And I will also tell you this: I am a

believer. Nothing in that room was of the world I know. Nor can

I perceive that place from which it came. But I am fascinated and

intrigued, as curious as a person can be about something so

unknown.

I wanted to ask her for the name of her medium right there

and then, but something prevented me from doing so. Fear?

Guilt? Was it John looking over my shoulder and cautioning me

that “no wife of John Rimbauer will be found to be engaged in

such sinful activities.”

For I have no doubt as to its sinful nature. None whatsoever.

God, whoever and however He may be, was nowhere to be found

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in that room this afternoon. And I would be lying if I did not

admit to a certain amount of enthrallment, dare I say attraction,

to whatever occupied my new friend for those brief few seconds.

A power greater than any I have known. A power that both ?lled

me with a numbing cold and an unspeakable heat that penetrated

the depths of my soul. This is a friend I long to visit with once

again. A power I yearn to feel again. To glimpse such a formidable

presence is one thing. To taste it, to drink of it, yet another.

To be owned by it—what must that be like? And how soon until I

can ?nd out?

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12 november 1907—seattle

I am sitting in my mother’s dressing room and parlor, a room in

which I doubt my father has ever set foot. I am here, in front of

the mirror where for years I have watched her brush her red hair

before bed. I am perplexed, and nearly in a state, some moments

giddy, some pensive, some nearly in tears, clothed in my wedding

gown, a garment at once both splendid and lush, yet fetching (or

so I hope). My maid of honor, dear Penelope Strait, has gone off

to inspect the route of my descent to the front door and the team

of two black geldings who shall deliver me to the church in royal

fashion. She said she would arrange tea to be delivered, and given

this small break, this moment alone, it is to you, Dear Diary, that

I now turn.

I feel a bit like the young girlish child who once picked at

daisies reciting, “I love him, I love him not.” Petal by petal my

poor heart labors over my decision to marry John Rimbauer. I

feel both passion for John and reservation, cloaked as I am under

the uncertainties that rise to the lips of my friends. The caution

in their eyes that greets me whenever John’s name is mentioned. I

fear that in a very short time, I am to marry a ladies’ man, I am to

be both pitied and scorned by my peers. And I shiver with the

thought. “Deliver me from evil and leadeth me not into temptation.”

Why do I ?nd it so dif?cult to move on from these

thoughts? Why do I weep now at my mother’s mirror, knowing I

shall never live in this home again?

Following the reception, John and I are to take the

Presidential Suite at the Grand, where we shall stay but a single

night prior to our departure on the Ocean Star, bound for the

Paci?c Atolls. I am told the native women go bare-breasted there,

and the men wear loincloths and the water is as clear as an old

man’s eyes. Much has been made in Europe about the changing

face of ?ne art, and the in?uence these islands have had, and

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John would like to experience this part of the world ?rsthand.

Oil is not used on the islands, and he claims he might consider

starting a small business there, but these islands are said to be

rustic and quite taken to debauchery and even open fornication,

and I don’t know whether to believe this or not. If true, what kind

of a place is it for a woman? Why would John bring his new wife

to such a place? And is this trip of ours to be made as husband

and wife, or businessman and wife? I harbor all these questions,

but I ask nothing of John, for it riles him so when I challenge his

decisions. He takes it for criticism instead of the curiosity it is.

And so more tears fall here upon your pages, for I know not what

I have gotten myself into. Wealth. Position. A darkly handsome

man who has caught the eye of many an eligible girl. But twenty

years my senior, moody and private. About our trip overseas he

has only told me “to pack for a long trip. A year or more.

Warmth, cold. Prepare for it all.”

“But where are we going, my dearest?”

“To the islands ?rst, as we’ve discussed. India, perhaps.

Burma or Tibet if we can ?nd passage. The British have long

since installed magni?cent rail lines in this part of the world, and

how far behind can an oil-burning locomotive be? I tell you,

Ellen, Omicron is in a position to be an international supplier.

We have the jump on the Far East because of our base here in

Seattle. And after that? Persia. I’d like to see Persia. And then on

to Africa as the seas blow cold and that continent warms with

summer winds. East Africa, of course. Good hunting. And

around the Cape and up the coast to Spain, France and Britain,

if war doesn’t prevent us. New York. Philadelphia. And then by

rail again. Chicago? Denver? Who’s to know? The world is ours,

my dear. Five star. The best cabins, coaches and the ?nest suites

at the grandest hotels, train cars all to ourselves. Six months? A

year? Long enough for the completion of the grand house, so

that we have that magni?cent structure to which to return. A

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place of our own. A place to raise the children that I hope you’ll

be carrying before our return. A family, Ellen. Just think of it.”

Said with such passion and enthusiasm. Who was I to cut in

with the voice of reason? To intrude upon my husband’s shining

moment. Never mind the insects that came to mind, the disease

carried by every living creature in such places, never mind the

rumors of bare-breasted heathens (it seemed he had chosen only

primitive locations). Never mind that I might have preferred San

Francisco, Paris and London. A year in Paris, Venice or Rome—

now there was a honeymoon! Long hours spent languishing in

bed under a down comforter with room service a bell pull away,

hot bubble baths with Parisian soaps and my husband to guide me

through the pleasures of being husband and wife. But for him,

hunting. Natives. Exploration. Elephants, diamond mines and

the Iron Horse.

I kept my thoughts to myself the ?rst time he mentioned the

trip. And the second. And the third. Always telling myself there

would be plenty of time to set the course straight. That course

now starts to-morrow. Pier 47. We steam to Victoria, switch ships

and board for the Tahitian Islands. I see in myself this hesitation

to confront John, a reluctance to spoil his good moods, or dare

to enter his bad ones. He lives on these giant swings, like an ape,

back and forth, high to low. Perhaps the great Sigmund Freud,

about whom everyone is talking (his publication on the sexual

theory is under translation into English but is said by Germans

who have read it to be quite scandalous and intriguing), would

have some way to quantify John’s moods. For me they are dif?cult

to read, and dangerous to intrude upon. At his most elevated

moments, he is so exciting and stimulating to be around: animated,

courteous and entertaining; at his low points he is sullied,

dark and brooding. I fear him. I anticipate violence at times,

though have yet to see—and I hope I never will!—this side of him