The Ripper's Wife (12 page)

But Nanny Yapp always faced me, cool and indomitable as an iceberg in her white nightgown and cap, and said that Gladys already had all the earmarks of a nervous child and if I wanted her to grow up to be a timid, frightened woman, leaping out of bed and running to her and coddling her every time she cried was exactly the right way to ensure that unhappy outcome. Gladys, Nanny Yapp said, must learn that crying wasn’t the way to woo attention or win affection, and once she understood that she would sleep through the night without a single whimper.

I wanted to kick that awful, cold and unfeeling woman right down the stairs, but Nanny Yapp went running to Mrs. Briggs, just like she always did. Then they both went and had a talk with Jim. My husband called me into his study like he was the headmaster and I some troublemaking student and said mother love must be blinding me because Nanny Yapp was “quite right,” and had once again proven herself “an exemplary nanny any household would be blessed to employ” and that I should consider myself lucky to have her. “We would not be so fortunate to find her like again.” My first instinct was to shout,
Well, hallelujah, I sincerely hope God did break the mold after He made her!,
but I knew better.

“We do things differently here in England than you do in America, Bunny dear,” Jim said, kissing my check. “You’ll see. Nanny Yapp knows her business, and everything will turn out right in the end; isn’t that right, Matilda?”

“
Quite right,
Jim.” She nodded and moved to stand beside him, as if
she
were his wife and I was the enemy they were closing ranks against. “I took great pains to find you the perfect nanny, Florie. I’ve never seen such splendid references in my life, and I went over them
most
carefully; I was
determined
that you should have the best. So why
you,
a woman with no experience with children beyond the act of giving birth, feel the need to question and cast doubt upon her judgment at every turn . . . I cannot fathom. But, I do know this. If you are not careful, she’ll leave you and go to another family that will appreciate her. I suggest you apologize soon. . . .”

To my horror, Jim concurred. “The sooner the better, my dear.”

For the first time, I wanted to kick my husband down the stairs too. But I just nodded and forced a smile. What else could I do? I knew I couldn’t win, and, to my everlasting shame, I didn’t have the gumption to even try. I was just too tired.

T
he years passed, each marked by a new dress, a champagne toast, and a kiss shared with Jim at midnight. It was 1884, then 1885, 1886, 1887, and that curious year of the three eights that will never come again—thank heaven!

I was twenty-six. Outwardly, I possessed everything a well-bred young woman could want or wish for. I had a wonderful, loving, and attentive husband, handsome and well preserved for his forty-nine years; maybe there’s something to be said after all for arsenic as an embalming agent? I was a mother twice over, to a boy so beautiful the angels up in heaven must weep for missing him, and a little girl who was fast coming into her own fragile beauty. We were all dressed perfectly as Paris fashion plates, like we’d stepped straight out of the pages of
La Mode Illustrèe,
hand in hand, a smiling, happy family. We lived in one of the most beautiful houses in Liverpool. We were members of the Currant Jelly Set, leading a charmed life that revolved around society balls, dinners, race meets, card parties, and nights out at the theater. I had one brother-in-law who was world famous and cordially detested me, and another who was a charming wastrel, a loafer, who was my best friend and loved me more than he should have.

But it was all just a façade, like the sets for a stage play, just pretty, flat painted pictures, with no real substance behind, just a few sticks of lumber shoring it all up. The big bad wolf could have blown it all down in a single breath without even really exerting himself. At the slightest gust it would have all come down easier than the little pig’s house of straw.

There had been a drastic dip in the cotton market that forced Jim to close his offices in America and cease his travels across the sea. I didn’t rightly understand it; after all, didn’t the world need cotton just as much as ever? People weren’t wearing less clothes or using fewer handkerchiefs, or tablecloths and napkins. But I didn’t try too hard to; I was happy to have my husband home with me instead of gadding about Norfolk and New Orleans without me. I even told Jim I wouldn’t mind if we had to move into a smaller house with fewer servants; we could start implementing some measure of domestic economy right away by dismissing Nanny Yapp. Jim reacted to that as though I had poured a flagon of syrup over his head right in front of the Prince of Wales. He was
horrified
that I would even suggest it!

“Have you gone mad?” he demanded. “We would be
ruined
outright! All our creditors would see that we were in trouble and close in on us like sharks, each wanting the first bite, and that would be the end of us as far as the Currant Jelly Set is concerned. The most important thing we can do now is continue to keep up appearances. If we must retrench, we must make cuts
only
where it will not show.”

Jim started by drastically cutting my household budget. Oddly, that was the very thing to make Mrs. Briggs decide it was high time for me to take a more active role in managing my own household. She’d been neglecting her own far too long on my account. I discovered then that apparently my husband expected me to be some kind of miracle worker, able to wave a magic wand and conjure up money or stretch a pound note like taffy and make it go further than anyone else could.

I
tried
to keep a budget, but it was simply impossible. Jim said I mustn’t even
think
of cutting the servants’ wages or reducing the size of the staff; servants being such a gossipy sort, word would be sure to get out and we would be ruined in no time. But out of the new allowance he allotted me there just wasn’t enough left over to buy the usual provisions after their wages had been paid. And, as any housewife knows, little emergencies crop up all the time and they have a habit of doing so at the least convenient moments. The stove needed repairing, I cracked a tooth on a horehound drop, there was a leak in the roof, Bobo broke a finger, Bessie saw a spider and dropped a whole stack of our best china plates, one of the carriage horses tore a tendon, a pipe burst, and little Gladys was sick so often. Jim and I had to keep up with the Currant Jelly Set and be seen at all the most fashionable places, like balls at the Wellington Rooms, and keep boxes at the opera, theater, and races, and, of course, we had to keep up with the fashions. It all cost money, money we didn’t have. For all the good it was doing me, I might as well have been using my household ledger to press flowers. I soon exhausted my supply of red ink and had to buy more from the stationer’s shop—on credit.

I began buying more and more goods on credit and borrowing money from anyone who would lend it, even one hundred pounds from Mrs. Briggs, and then borrowing more from others to settle those little debts. Then I found myself making excuses, going up to London to visit an old friend or a maiden aunt who was stopping there, and taking pieces of jewelry I rarely wore to pawnshops where no one knew me, things Jim’s sharp eye would never notice missing. But it was only a matter of time before I ran through all those, then I began consorting with professional moneylenders, ruthless men with eyes like sharks, agreeing, in desperation, to exorbitant rates of interest. I was playing for time, just trying to keep our heads above the fast-rising water.

Soon I was writing, pouring out my anguished heart, to Mama:

Here I have to admit one of my great faults. When it all became too much, even though I knew I was only increasing our woes, I did what I’d been doing for so long—I went shopping. A new handbag with a cameo on the clasp or a pair of yellow satin high heels with diamanté buckles was to me like one of Jim’s arsenical “pick-me-up” tonics was to him. And, after all, Jim said we must act as though nothing had changed, so that meant continuing my sprees at Woollright’s; otherwise, people would talk.

Jim was now, I knew, stopping by the druggist for one of those tonics every morning on his way to his office, then three more times throughout the day, before having the fifth and final one on his way home, and he’d increased the dosage from five to seven drops of the arsenical solution. He’d actually boasted to me about that, as though it were something to be proud of, and that in addition to the white powder in his little silver box and the strychnine tablets he was popping into his mouth like peppermints.

Every time I saw my husband I was afraid it would be the last time. Every time the doorbell rang I was afraid it was either a bill collector or someone come to tell me that Jim had dropped dead on the Cotton Exchange floor after taking one strychnine tablet or pinch of arsenic too many. I’d tried talking to Dr. Hopper about it, and he said he’d make a note that we had had some conversation about it in case my husband should die suddenly. Frankly, I didn’t find that at all comforting and
begged
him to talk to Jim about it. Afterward, I wished I hadn’t. Jim’s anger was like that serpent slumbering in Cleopatra’s basket of figs. It was a week before I could show my face in public again. By that time, I’d already mastered the art of powdering and rouging over the worst of the bruises. I no longer believed him afterward when he wept, cradled and kissed me, and promised “never again.”

 

A day finally came when the doorbell
did
ring and I discovered a debt I never knew about, one that had nothing to do with hats and handbags. In fact, it wasn’t mine at all. It was a debt my husband had hidden from me, a debt dating back to before I was even born.

A blowsy fat woman with hair hennaed redder than a smallpox pustule was standing there, picking with gnawed-to-the-quick fingernails at a striped satin skirt that had clearly not known a laundress’s touch in some time. She stood there, fidgeting and hiccupping, fussing with her feathered hat’s drooping brim, and smelling like a saloon, excusing herself by saying she’d been drinking to get her courage up.

She said her name was
Mrs
. Sarah Maybrick and she’d come to see her husband—Mr. James Maybrick—to remind him that she and the children, all
five
of them, had not fallen off the face of the earth, they were still alive, in Whitechapel, where they had always been, and were in dire want of money and wanting to know what had become of the allowance he was accustomed to send. “You must excuse me for comin’ to your door like this,” she said. “I would’ve written ’im a letter, only I can’t write an’ I was too ashamed to ask anyone else to do it for me.”

That was the moment my world fell apart. As darkness engulfed me and I fell I saw it all break apart in myriad flying shards that could never be glued back together again.
This time,
I knew, when I opened my eyes again my world would
not
be all right. I’d not only lost my place in the world; I’d had it snatched right out from under my feet like a prankster had pulled a rug out from under me. I’d fallen hard and had all the breath knocked out of me and I lay there gasping and shattered. If that henna-haired slattern was Jim’s rightful wife, then who and
what
was I?
A kept woman, his mistress, his whore?

Unbeknownst to me, when I had been trying on my wedding gown there had already been a Mrs. Maybrick, hidden away in Whitechapel, the worst slum in London, sniveling over a soupbone simmering in a dented pot in a room over a watchmaker’s shop, trying to stretch it enough to feed herself and her children, who then numbered three. They’d come so late in her and Jim’s marriage she said she’d quite given up hope, but once she started she took to it like a rabbit and was popping them out right regular like, and, she patted her belly, she suspected she was expecting a sixth even now. The fourth and fifth, I would later discover, when my senses were restored enough for me to sit down and examine the dates, had been born
after
Jim married me—a boy two months before Bobo and a girl six months after Gladys.

I came to with my head cradled in the lap of that gaudy, grimy gown with those stubby pink fingers stroking my hair. She was saying that she could tell just by looking at me that I was “a good lady, a nice lady,” and begging me to, out of the goodness of my heart, intercede with my brother on her behalf, as he was apt to be forgetful and neglect them all from time to time, he was such a busy man with his cotton business and all, but that didn’t stop the children from growing or their bellies from grumbling.
My brother!
Jim had told her he was living in Liverpool with his sister!
He didn’t even have a sister!
They’d been married some thirty years, since 1858,
four years
before I was born! Our marriage was a sham! A lie! A sin! Jim was a bigamist and our children, our precious children, a pair of bast—all these years later I
still
cannot bring myself to write that foul and ugly word!

I don’t know how I got through it—I think I must have said something about feeling quite poorly—but I sent Mrs. Maybrick on her way, to catch the train back to London, promising I would indeed speak to Jim about her. I was still standing there reeling amidst the debris of my shattered marriage and life as I had known it up until the moment Sarah Maybrick knocked upon my door, when Edwin found me.

He crept up behind me and kissed the back of my neck. I didn’t resist him. I didn’t encourage him. But I didn’t
dis
courage him either. Edwin’s hands crept around to cup my breasts through my bottle-green bodice. The next thing I knew we were in the parlor and he was bending me over the back of a Chippendale chair. I heard my skirts rustling, layers of white ruffles and green damask shading my head like a parasol as he pushed them up and pulled my drawers down. He filled me at the moment in my life when I was feeling most empty. But I can’t even pretend to be grateful. The truth is, I didn’t feel a thing. I numbly, dumbly let something happen that never should. I stood there soulless as a dressmaker’s wooden dummy. My first act of adultery was devoid of passion. Edwin took advantage of the situation—choosing a moment of dumb, numb weakness when I felt like I had lost everything and was still too stunned to react. He was my best friend; he
must
have known something had to have happened to leave me in this stricken state, so utterly unlike my usual self. My eyes were vacant, I didn’t say one word, and my face must have been drained bloodless as one of Varney’s victims. But did Edwin ask me what was wrong or try to comfort me the way a
real
friend would? No, he did not. How could he even think that was the
right
method or moment to start a love affair?

Looking back now, I have to wonder: Did a little part of me—the angry heart of me—decide if I was indeed a whore then I was going to act like one, right there in my keeper’s parlor, and pay him back in kind? If so, I didn’t play the part very well. I didn’t squirm with delight or return Edwin’s kisses. I took no pleasure, feigned or actual, in our intercourse. I just stood there, silently slumped over the chair, with my skirts up over my head. I’d be the Dollar Princess I never really was today if I had a dime for every time I’ve asked myself that question, then shied away from it because I was afraid of the answer. After all, I had always liked Edwin immensely. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, or maybe the opposite is true. You, dear reader, will have to decide, but first take a moment to consider. Put on my shoes, if you will, and imagine that you lost everything you believed in and cherished in a single afternoon. Then, while you were still standing there, dazed and reeling, an amorously inclined man you’d always liked walked in and took you by the hand. What would
you
do?