The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer

by Joyce Reardon

  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 fixed 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 first 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, 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 flavor, 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 magnificent 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 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 briefly 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 insignificance. 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 floor.

  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?—terrified. She stood by the globe, still slowly spinning. She wore the same red handkerchief over her head as a scarf, a long blue work 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.

  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 five-course 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, and I for one am considering bringing charges against the woman when they catch her. And mark my word, they will catch her.”

  “No, they won’t catch her, John. They won’t even find her. And if they do, it shall be in this house, and by now I fear they shall find her dead.”

  “Good God, woman! Whatever’s gotten into you?”

  “Rose Red, dear husband. It’s gotten into us all.”

  “The house? You don’t subscribe to that garbage, do you? Dear soul, do not fret over this, do not risk your condition in any way. I am so angry at this Fauxmanteur woman, I cannot tell you! You are doing so well of late. Please, my dear Ellen, do not spend another minute thinking about it.”

  “I want this child most of all.”

  “Of course. As do I. Most of all.”

  “But I promise you, she never left this house.” I added, “Do you remember the guests at the inaugural? The ones who said how quickly they’d become lost in Rose Red? What of that? What do you make of that?”

  “You mean as it relates to Mrs. Fauxmanteur?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “I see positively no connection between the two. Besides, dear woman, let us not forget all of
our guests at the inaugural are accounted for.”

  “You’re making light of it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “At my expense.”

  “Never. I assure you, it was not my intention.”

  “Guests complain of getting lost and then two months later, one does get lost. She disappears. Coincidence?”

  “I hear it in your voice, dear. Do not trouble yourself over this. I tell you, it is simply that we’ve been made to look bad by a woman who chose us and our home for her ill-conceived plans. The child … please … do not trouble yourself.”

  “The child is fine.”

  “Yes … but before …”

  “Before I was made seriously ill either by our social calendar or by exposure to an unfortunate malady.” I left it at that. I might as well have taken out my bread knife and thrust it through him. I know not why I raised this issue again, so long after we’d both laid it to rest.

  John cleaned his chin with his napkin and stood at his end of the long table. He dismissed the servants. I felt the heat of dread and regret. I had awakened the sleeping monster in him. His eyes burned with disfavor for me. We had never discussed this directly.

  “At the age of eighteen I joined the Army and remained enlisted for six years. I took certain liberties that many young men of that age take, and I bear the punishment for those liberties even to-day. It is rarely with me, this curse, and I regret terribly my misspent youth. I can only hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me my past sins, my dear. But I will not have my wife speaking to me in this manner. Not ever. And until you are prepared to apologize, you shall not see me. Not for meals, nor social engagements.”

  Though I believed little of his explanation, I apologized to him forthwith, before he could leave the room and make even more of this by requiring me to chase him down. I explained that my visitor’s disappearance had greatly upset me and that I had misspoken just now. The police wandering the house did nothing to make me feel at ease.

  “Then I shall drive them out,” John said.

  “No, dear.”

  “Of course I shall. Whatever is necessary to your continued good health!”

  As I had ascertained back in Africa: the heir meant more to John than anything in this life.

  He stormed out of the Banquet Hall shouting commands at servants, police and anyone who happened to be in his way. (The house is busy with workers day in and day out as the construction continues unabated. No one of society can quite believe that the Rimbauer Mansion, as it’s also known outside these walls, is in a constant and continuing state of construction.) Within ten minutes or so, John had used his considerable presence, as well as his keen sense of negotiation, to arrange for all but two police to leave Rose Red. These two remained in the hunt for Mrs. Fauxmanteur, though I must confess I had already given up hope. (Not that I believed John’s explanation for even a minute! The problem being that neither John nor I would likely understand the other’s position—thus is the scourge of marriage, there are those points that will never be resolved because opposite opinions cannot resolve themselves; they can either be overlooked entirely or tolerated, occasionally respected, though if true opposites, even this middle ground is unlikely.)

  I telephoned Tina Coleman to consult her on the disappearance and embarrassed myself by breaking into tears in the middle of our brief discussion. Tina advised me to consult a “seer” in hopes of locating Mrs. Fauxmanteur in places that the police were unlikely to find her. This only served to further upset me, and I ended the call as quickly as possible, somewhat concerned the woman at the exchange may have been listening in, a practice that is rampant these days. Our family was always well off, but John Rimbauer can only be said to be wealthy, and as his bride I have experienced firsthand the loss of privacy that accompanies the life of the rich. It seems someone is always watching, always listening, whether a servant, a maid, a driver or the public. People point at John and me as we leave the motorcar for a dinner or to attend a performance. They whisper, not bothering to even disguise their alarm at having seen us. We live under a magnifying glass, day in and day out, and I find the overall effect of this close inspection exhausting. John, who has lived with it for so many years now, seems either not to notice it or not to care. He conducts himself the same way, in public or not—a bit brash yet charming, smooth yet easily agitated, a man who takes control of any situation the moment he enters it, even parties thrown by our closest friends! It is the consistency in him that I believe makes him such a formidable businessman. This sense of power he bestows that both men and women find attractive, even seductive, though for different reasons. John Rimbauer entertains as he frightens. None would dare cross him; few dare challenge him.

  And so it is that he must find marriage to me a considerably vexing proposition.

  Tina suggested I consult a medium.

  As I hung up from that call, the police collecting outside and finally dispersing some of the press, I came to consider her suggestion more thoughtfully. If a medium was what was required, then what was holding me back?

  16 MARCH 1909—SEATTLE

  Dare I confess this? (I think I shall order Sukeena to destroy you, Dear Diary, if I should pass at childbirth, or in any way for that matter, for the secrets I confide here should never reach another’s eyes.) I lied to my husband to-day—for what was, I believe, the very first time. (There have been little white lies, of course—telling him I don’t mind his coming home late; pretending to enjoy a bedroom encounter when in fact it repulsed me; defending some action of his to his face when behind his back I believe he handled it incorrectly—but never a lie of this magnitude!)

  This afternoon I told him that Tina Coleman was taking me shopping for the nursery. Sukeena was to accompany me and we were to return home well after tea, as we planned to take tea at the hotel, or possibly even at the bank with my father. John bid me farewell barely taking notice of my mention, consumed as he was with problems concerning the construction. I have begged to add a central tower onto Rose Red. John has denied me. I will get my way someday. (It is to hold an exquisite stained-glass window I ordered from an artisan while in London. We received a cable earlier this week that the window was put on a ship bound for New York and is therefore on its way. Now, to convince John!)

  There was no shopping planned, of course. No nursery in my mind. The truth was that my dearest Tina had arranged for me to meet Madame Lu—a Chinese woman who is said to possess extraordinary conjuring powers. And oh, what a day!

  Tina sent her carriage at half past one, insisting we accept this offer as her driver knew the way into the underbelly of the city where we might find Madame Lu. Just the thought of this journey gave me gooseflesh! One hears stories about the China district—the use of opium is said to be rampant, the young women available for pennies, disease and poverty everywhere for those the railroads left behind once the laying of railroad track reached the ocean. The Chinese ended up here in Seattle, tens of thousands of them, without work and desperate. I am well aware that some of our husbands “gambled” here—that perhaps part of that gambling was with their pants down—and that still others took opium, or young boys. But I was completely unaware of any Caucasian women venturing into the China district, much less the likes of Tina Coleman, one of the most respected women in the community.

  Sure enough, the carriage picked up Sukeena and me, returned to the Coleman residence where we refreshed ourselves, and then the four of us (Tina brought along her maid, Gwen, a Swedish girl of astonishing beauty) returned to the carriage and set out south of the city.

  The dirt road went quickly to a thick mud as we left the familiar part of town, the stone buildings of center city giving way to wooden shacks crowded together, mud, crates and trash in evidence. Narrow, dark lanes of mud ran between these shacks, small children, half naked even in the cold rain, running side by side engaged in games with balls and sticks, their small yellow bodies so thin from hunger. Plumes of wood smoke rose from meta
l stovepipes and cooking fires open to the air, sheltered from the rain by tarpaulins or woven bamboo. It is a world only minutes from my own and yet one I have never known existed except in places like Egypt and the Indias where John and I have traveled.

  My heart was in my throat by the time the carriage arrived at a two-story wooden building deep in the heart of the China district. I expected at any moment for a Chinaman to leap out of the shadows wielding a double-edged knife with a sinister curved blade. (I’ve read of such people in Kipling.) I expected our purses to be robbed, or worse, the one crime any woman dreads above all others: violation. But to my surprise, no such deed presented itself. Instead, the driver helped us down to a boardwalk, which we crossed, and we entered the building in question.

  The air smelled of sandalwood incense, a fragrance I recognized immediately from our year abroad. This first room was dark, lit by candle, not gas, as the gas lines do not run this far south. It was not a particularly sturdy structure; the wind found its way through cracks, moving the small candle flames and throwing shifting shadows across the walls. An eerie and disconcerting environment. Sukeena pulled lightly on my elbow and shook her blue-black face back and forth indicating her disapproval. I trust Sukeena so much in these matters—she has a prescience for anticipating the unexpected. She sensed something wrong here—terribly wrong—and even I could feel this along with her: a dark, foreboding presence. Sinister and unforgiving.

  “Are you sure?” I asked Tina.

  “A bit dramatic, isn’t it?” she said. “I tell you, Ellen, Madame Lu is nothing like this room, this building. I think it to be a matter of commerce. The Chinese, who make up a majority of her clientele, expect ambience, and she gives them what they pay for. They expect something other-worldly, and Madame Lu is only too happy to oblige. I tell you, friend, she is nothing like this. You will find her to be noble, infinitely patient and accommodating. Gwen was most troubled, the first time I brought her.” The pale young beauty nodded her agreement. I considered the stark contrast between her and my Sukeena—one so pale and translucent, one so dark and opaque. And I wondered, had this lovely girl’s hiring been Tina’s idea, or that of her husband? Many a housemaid in this city had bastard children to show for their service. “But now she is as comfortable as I, for she too has met the incomparable madame and knows there is nothing to worry about. Remember, dear soul, that these seers are often as much show as they are reality. Madame Lu is no phony, I’m happy to report. But she must compete with those who are, and that competition requires her to invest in the show along with the best of them.”