The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (9 page)

of his favorite ?ower—and don’t think I don’t know it. He began

drinking heavily this morning, the moment he was informed. I

can picture her: ?fteen or sixteen. Blond. Blue eyes. So much my

opposite. My husband lavishing gifts upon her. And she, spreading

her honey, a sweetness he cannot resist.

I am sick to my stomach with the thought. Sukeena believes my

nausea is related to my loss, but I know better. I am livid with

anger and resentment. Again I brood and consult the dark side

on how to punish John for never listening to me. Always ordering

me around like one of his foremen or ship captains. Again I

60

know that the power I lord over him is the presentation of an

heir. Without me he has only bastards. I offer him legitimacy.

Immortality.

Sukeena has eyes that smile as I explain this to her. “As long as

you angry, Miss Ellen, I know you to live.” She wants me to have a

raison d’être, afraid that my loss will throw me into a slump (for I

am certain she has seen this before in her tribal friends). So I

focus on punishing John, on denying him my womanhood,

denying him his child. Let him roam the streets for his girls, he

will never know love. He will never know family.

I conspire in my mind to hurt him, while at the same time

worshiping him. At times I hate myself for my devoted love of my

husband—is it the age that separates us? his success and

strength?—I treasure him, even while disliking him so fully, so

absolutely. If anything drives me insane, it will be these two

women who live inside me: one that loves, one that wants to hate;

one that prays to God to celebrate life, one that prays to Darkness

to punish my husband. How can I ever reconcile these two in the

same body, the same woman? I loathe him, I love him. I want his

attention, and yet I now grieve because he wouldn’t leave me to

rest; I want independence, separation, and yet I long for our life

together at the grand house—a family. I want to punish him, I

want to serve him. Who am I, Dear Diary, that I can be so vexed?

And so, for the next ten days, I shall mourn the passing of this

almost-child. I shall beg to be given back the gift of God’s gracious

blessing. I shall resent my husband, so very much, if he

takes my in?rmity as opportunity.

I cannot ?nd peace. I cannot sleep. I am not hungry. My body

purges. Sukeena nurses me like a sister. My belief builds that if

God has allowed me to lose this child, there is some hidden reason

behind it. Why else would He put me through such loss and

agony, anxiety and pain? Is it perhaps not yet time for John’s

heir? Are there more tests upon us to come? Or am I de?cient in

61

some way, unable to deliver what every other woman delivers so

naturally?

How, if ever, will I now ?nd internal peace? How, if ever, will

I recover my soul? For I fear it has ?ed with this almost-child—

his little heir running from his father before even entering his

world. And as I read back what I’ve written, I know that the

answer to these questions is itself a dichotomy: motherhood.

That which I seek to deny him is itself the solution to my grief

and anxieties. I am so confused. Tired now, I must rest. I must

close my eyes, even if sleep won’t come. I will listen to Sukeena

humming by my side, those tribal melodies and rhythms. I will

fall under her spell, this enchanting woman who loves me and

cares for me like a sister. Where would I be without my dear

Sukeena? We are bonded now, the two of us. And it shall remain

so, forever.

62

9 december 1908—seattle, washington

After nearly a year away, John and I returned to Seattle to-day by

train. Met at the station by my mother and my former governess

(who now works as my mother’s secretary), I threw myself into

Mother’s arms like a schoolgirl returning from summer camp. I

had written home at least a letter a week, and so it is that my

mother is quite aware of both the pregnancy and the miscarriage.

She greeted Sukeena, not like a Negro kitchen maid, as I feared

she might, but as a member of the family, with kisses and the

warmest of welcomes. This, above all else, meant so much to me.

My mother took Sukeena to her home. We are to live apart for

a short time, until John and I are moved into the grand house, an

event that is expected to take place within a matter of days but may

stretch out a few weeks due to the holiday season. Oh, how grand

it is to see this city I love so. Muddy roads and all. Gray, wet skies

and all. The lush green is a welcome relief to eyes that have

looked out train windows for days as we crossed the wheat ?elds of

Kansas and Colorado and the barren reaches of Idaho and eastern

Washington. These endless rains are not without their lush

rewards.

John and I took to his rooms. Sukeena met me later in the day

and together we began the arduous task of unpacking my twelve

steamers. Added to our burden is the job of overseeing the

inventorying of the goods shipped home over the past year. They

have been assembled in a downtown warehouse—crate upon crate

upon crate. Some are to be unpacked, some will wait for relocation

to the grand house, but all are to be counted and accounted

for. It is a task that will occupy both Sukeena and me for weeks to

come, as by my count no fewer than ninety-?ve shipments should

have arrived. Rugs, furs, John’s African shooting trophies, urns,

vases, lights—the list is nearly endless. Christmas indeed. I have

63

never been so excited as to unwrap these treasures. I am like a little

girl under the tree.

The long train trip afforded me the opportunity to refuse

John’s advances time and time again. I gloated in the pleasure of

it. Con?ned as we were, he had no opportunity to take to the

streets. Instead, day by day, he became both more frustrated with

me and more subservient. I had him serving my every need, calling

for porters, for dining service, acting as manservant to me.

What a sensation! I cannot explain it here, it is the ?rst time I’ve

felt so since the loss of the child. He wilted under my glare. He

trembled when at night we took to bed and I pressed my warm

body against him, only to deny him the ultimate prize. I will surrender,

of course. It is hard for me to deny myself his pleasures as

well (though I never indicate this!). And now that we return to a

place he can ?nd such satisfactions without me, it is time I give

in, hoping to stem that tide. I prepare myself for that eventuality.

John and I spent much of the train trip writing a list of guests to

be invited to the opening of the grand house. We have scheduled

a party for January the ?fteenth, allowing several extra weeks in

case of a holiday slowdown. ( John will devote himself to the

house fully when not engaged in his oil business. He has already

left for a meeting with Douglas Posey, his oil partner, to discuss

the events of the past week, during which time we were isolated on

the train.) A packet of photographs awaited us at the Ritz in New

York upon our arrival there by steamer. Oh, such grandeur! The

facade is brick, the house contained behind a wrought-iron fence

and a twin set of stone pillars over which hangs the Rimbauer

crest. The driveway hosts an island, home to one of the many

statuettes we purchased in Italy. There must be thirty windows or

more on the front of the house, a half dozen chimneys rising

from its myriad of rooftops. The interior pictures, of the Grand

Stair and the Entry Hall, leave me breathless. Oh, to think of this

64

magni?cent place as my home! I can’t imagine! (But I shall soon

enough!) In the Parlor, I saw that the suit of armor (from

England), the brown bear (shot by John in the Swiss Alps) and

the pipe organ (from Bavaria) are already installed! How impressive

a sight it is—these souvenirs and treasures from our year

abroad. I thrill at the thought of taking tea in my Parlor!

The party—our homecoming and the dedication of the

house—is to be a lavish affair: local politicians, entertainers,

friends and businessmen, perhaps three hundred in all. My

mother has been overseeing much of the preparation in advance

of our arrival. John sent nearly ?fty cases of champagne from

France and another several hundred cases of wine, many of which

will go to the celebration, the rest to be housed in our Wine

Cellar ( John wants to boast the largest private wine cellar on the

West Coast). Beef has been shipped from Chicago and Kansas

65

City. Pork from Nebraska. Fresh ?sh is to be delivered from

dockside on the day of the grand affair. Chocolate from

Switzerland. Tea from England. Cigars from Cuba. John is leaving

nothing to chance. This is a party no one in Seattle will ever

forget.

And if I have my way—and indeed I will—it is a party we shall

repeat annually. A party to dwarf any New Year’s Eve event. The

Rimbauer Party. It shall go down in the society pages for years to

come. The biggest party in the biggest house.

I feel myself on track again. I am glad our long journey is

over.

Another is just beginning.

66

christmas eve, 1908—seattle

For two painful weeks, John has denied me a visit to our grand

home as workers complete the ?nal touches. We shall formally

move into our home on January the ?fteenth, the day of our

homecoming party ( John has scheduled our “arrival” with a

greeting by the staff on that day). After repeated requests on my

part to tour our new home, so that I might orchestrate the delivery

of our personal items well in advance of our formal arrival,

John drove me up Spring Street in his new Cadillac this afternoon,

a trip I remember well from my ?rst journey here so many

months ago.

The city is still in the grips of various stages of the regrade,

accounting for some very silly sights. Some families have elected

to challenge in court the city’s right to lower certain streets by as

much as seventy feet, while ?lling in various gulches that make

passage nearly impossible. This effort, ongoing now for nearly a

decade, has been a bitter battle. Those families that have brought

legal suit against the city have not been required to lower their

homes, leaving some lots and the houses atop them isolated on

forty- or ?fty-foot “pinnacles,” earthen towers rising from the

new street level (muddy as it is). The homes are completely inaccessible,

leaving the families without residence. It is quite obvious

that at some point these families will capitulate, but oh what a

sight in the meantime! It seems as if nearly every building in this

eastern part of the city is on scaffolding of some kind, and intermixed,

these “pinnacles” rising over ?ve stories into the gray,

dreary sky.

Our arrival at the gates of the Rimbauer mansion (for it is

nothing less!) left me breathless. All these months of reviewing

plans, moving walls, changing windows, even the photos delivered

in New York, did nothing to prepare me for this moment! She is

spectacular! Pretentious! Gorgeous!

67

The front of our stone and brick home stretches hundreds of

feet, north to south, presenting one with a formidable wall of

brick, roof, glass and chimney. If impression is what John was

after, impression he accomplished. I could go on and on in my

description—and perhaps I will when I am less tired—but for now,

I wish to describe just one or two rooms, rooms that as wife to