The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (5 page)

rise to the surface. If John ever does become violent with me, I

27

tremble at the thought. He is a big man, strong and imposing. I

fear he could crush me like an insect.

I read the last few paragraphs and wonder that I could put

such thoughts to ink on our wedding day, of all days. My mother

tells me that she too had reservations prior to her wedding (she

told me other things as well, concerning what to expect on my

wedding night, but they are best left between mother and daughter),

that it is not uncommon for a woman to question her decision

and that men go through much the same thing. I must admit

that John, bless his heart, has never for an instant voiced anything

but total support for, and faith in, our union. In fact, one of the

great ironies here is that the concern is all mine. John, for his

part, seems absolutely giddy with the marriage. He has been a

saint throughout its planning (has ?nanced a good deal of the

reception and celebration, a much appreciated gesture from my

father) and has often been boyish with glee about the approaching

date. Now he waits for me at the church. I can picture him there,

in his ?nest London-tailored tails, white gloves clasped behind

his back like a general awaiting his army. In this case my arm, not

an arm-me. (I annoy John with my puns, but what liberties I have

here!) Standing there at the altar, an occasional grin steals its way

onto his otherwise composed expression. He is a man of great

vision, and I know that he sees much ahead for us, and I trust him

to make the most of it. Yes, it is true that at times I fear he

regards me more as a brood mare than a mate, that as a man

turned forty with a sizable fortune he is looking more for an heir

than a companion. That—dare I say it?—women of pleasure are

there to pleasure, and a wife is there to bear and raise children.

He will want a son, of course. Will not stop breeding me until I

throw one for him. I see all this in his eyes, hear all this between

the lines of his reasoning. As long as the love is there as well—and

it is, it is!!—I am not deterred by his intentions. Love, true love,

28

provides an abundance of good. I go in just a matter of minutes

to profess that same love before God, family and all our friends.

And oh, how I do love my John Rimbauer. I go with courage. I go

with faith. Great anticipation. I go without doubt or expectation.

Let love carry us where it may. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready.

29

13 november 1907—aboard ss OCEANSTAR

Oh, my. Where to start? The marriage? The reception? Dare I

ever put in these pages a recounting of the marriage night itself?

(The pain? The pleasure? The ful?llment of dreams? The fear?

The feeling of overwhelming consumption, as if possessed by

him?) Another time perhaps, although some things are better left

to blossom in memory rather than wither in re?ection.

Here we are aboard the Ocean Star, a luxurious steamer bound

for Tahiti, in a presidential stateroom ?t for a king and queen

(three rooms and a full bath with WC). We dine at the captain’s

table tonight (black tie and evening dress) and begin our Paci?c

crossing. If the rest of the trip is anything like our ?rst few hours,

it is to be spent in the union of marital bliss—we have been

together twice already, and only on the ship for four hours! John

has gone topside for a cigar and to hope to collect telegraphs he’s

expecting concerning both business and the construction out at

30

the grand house. The complexity of the project has continued to

consume him. To my knowledge the only day he was completely

away from it was our wedding day, and for all I know he had one

of his many business associates keeping him current even then.

He has informed me that he wants the house decorated to re?ect

our travels, to remind him of our various ports of call, and that it

is my duty to spend as much money as possible to that end! Yes,

he was kidding, of course. But his eyes twinkled in such a way as to

tell me he was serious as well. Even now I am only beginning to

glimpse how wealthy we are. Comments like the one to which I

refer would have seemed something ?t for one of the tawdry novels

I read, not for a serious comment from my husband. The

house alone is costing a fortune—literally. This trip, another fortune

entirely. And yet I sense these fortunes are but mere play

toys to John. Could there be a bottomless well from which John

draws our funds? Is such a possibility anything more than pure

fancy? Whatever the case, I am thrilled with this challenge of his.

I expect to collect many objets d’art, decorations and furnishings,

so that he shall never forget our voyage. (Without John’s knowledge,

I paid for and kept the sheets from our marriage bed at the

hotel, crimson stains and all. I wanted a souvenir of that night as

badly as he wants souvenirs of our trip. I carry them with me in

one of my six steamer trunks, wrapped in tissue paper and a red

bow. Something feels so shameful about this action, especially

preserving my virgin blood, and I hesitate to think of John’s

anger if he were to ever ?nd out. And so it is that we start our

marriage with secrets. We start our marriage holding on to some

small part of ourselves, treasured and kept private. Is this wrong?

I ask myself. Or does a woman have to hold on to something in

the face of such overwhelming surrender? He climbs on top of

me, and he possesses me in a way I never imagined could be true.

Inside me. Occupying me. Pleasure, and pain. And I wonder,

will I ever get used to it?)

31

Teak from the islands; ivory from the dark continent. I have

begun to make lists in my head. Thankfully John has brought

along a complete set of plans to the grand house, allowing me to

anticipate placement of our forthcoming collection. Now, not

just John, but husband and wife shall be poring over those plans

day and night. Now, ?nally, the project can consume us both! I

have become a part of that great house that owns so much of my

dear husband. I feel myself inside its walls. He enters me. He

resides in me. I sweat and I writhe in his presence. My walls shudder.

My mind reels.

He comes and goes from our stateroom, having not invited me to

join him topside. Returning just now smelling of liquor and

cigar, he pulls the underclothes from my trembling body, lifts my

skirts and drives me against the far wall, the sound of the ocean

and the rumble of the ship. He lifts me from the ?oor, pulling

my legs around his waist, and I am carried away to the point of

frenzy, the point that any shard of ladylike behavior is lost to his

lust, his penetration. My lipstick smeared, my breast exposed and

the object of his attention, I can no longer maintain my composure.

I cry out into the stateroom, “Oh, John. Dear John!” my

?ngers raking the back of his dress shirt, “Dear God in Heaven! I

have never . . . I have never . . .” And all my shameful release so

unexpectedly serves to engorge him, to send him into a fevered

pitch, a furious, frantic pace where the thumping of my bare bottom

on the wall runs up my spine and ?lls my ears like drumming.

He pins my arms to that same wall, his face a crimson cry,

and I wail behind his release like some wounded animal, humiliated

and reduced to a trembling, panting state of spent excitement.

And he loves it.

He leaves the stateroom yet again, neglecting to offer me his

company. Me, ruf?ed, sitting quietly on a chair, awaiting his

32

departure so as I can tend to my toilet. He, his eyes ?ashing, his

white teeth grinning at me, and without a word, he departs. The

air is no longer tainted with liquor and cigar, but with our commingled

scents—dark and somewhat sour. I freshen it with perfume.

I open the doors to the balcony. I stand with the wind

whipping my hair, ?ushed with a woman’s satisfaction, embarrassed

with myself, and yet exhilarated. I am a wife. I have made

the transition.

33

19 november 1907—aboard ss OCEANSTAR

A brief note in an effort to keep myself company. I have torn out

and discarded many of your pages, Dear Diary, small knots of

white paper in the trash as I attempt to come to terms with my

position. Dearest John is quick to display me at dinner or lunch,

or an evening reception offered by one guest or another, but the

remainder of my time on board this ship resembles more prison

than honeymoon as he con?nes me to our stateroom, where I

34

must admit, I am taken to nausea in the early winter seas that we

encounter. I have begged to go topside to relieve myself of this

condition, for fresh air and a ?rm horizon can do wonders to

steady my stomach, but my husband steadfastly refuses me, saying

that he doesn’t want any “displays” on deck. He points to the balcony

off the stateroom and suggests its use for my purposes. He is

afraid I might vomit, or show my pale face, I suppose. (“No

Rimbauer ever shows weakness!”) He uses me as a charm on his

bracelet while claiming that the less others see of me, the more

mystery, the more power I hold over them at the captain’s table,

afternoon teas and cocktail parties. When he does visit me in my

con?nement it is to take of me his pleasure. With no other trustworthy

woman in whom to con?de, I have no idea if this is normal

or not, though I must admit it is thoroughly exhausting, if in

no other way in terms of bathing and dressing. I must spend half

my day being undressed by him, later bathing and ?nding new

wardrobes to replace the last. What appetites he has!

I ?nd myself at least a bit unstable, with the only attentions

his, and these so clearly physical. Only this morning did it occur

to me, from something he said, that he is hiding me from the

other men on board, the silliest boyish notion I can imagine.

John, jealous? The conversation went something like this:

John asked me, “Did you notice Mr. Jamerson, last evening?”

“Notice how, dear?”

“Does the word notice escape your comprehension, Ellen?”

His tone immediately sharp and coercive. I feel myself being

drawn into a ?ght, and worse, I ?nd myself willing to go. Why? I

wonder. Because he locks me in this stateroom, a captive, readying

myself for his next ?t of womanly satisfaction?

“It does not. Taken literally, I most certainly did notice Mr.

Jamerson. He sat immediately to my right, as you will recall.”

“And the captain placed you to his right for the fourth dinner

in a row.” He pauses, strutting now about the stateroom. “The

35

chair of highest honor on a ship, its occupation to be rotated

night to night through a variety of guests.”

“I am honored.”

“You are the most beautiful woman on this ship, Ellen, by a

factor of ten.”

“You ?atter me.”

“I caution you,” he said. “A ship is a lonely place.”

“What are you saying?”

“You needn’t take to their humor quite so vigorously. Your

endowments, my dear . . . ,” he indicates his own chest, meaning

mine, of course, “quite an eyeful when you laugh like that.”

I blush, for I can feel it in my face. Not from embarrassment,

as he must suspect, but anger. Is he implying that I am purposefully

being vulgar in such company? Is this the kind of thing husbands

and wives argue over? “May I remind you that it is you,

dear husband, who bids me to remove my shawl at the dinner

table. Such as my bosom may be, and I might remind you—as if

it’s necessary—that Miss Pauling, our ship’s entertainer, and a

guest I notice who has come to address you most informally,

John, has a substantially greater bosom than I, and is in a mood

to display her wares in what I consider, quite frankly, a most

inappropriate and lascivious way. Moreover, my gowns are crafted

by the ?nest San Francisco seamstresses and fashioned to designs

created by Paul Poiret himself, and that all of this was at your

request. These gowns were ordered because you heard of them,

or saw them for all I know, on that business trip last August. I

take great umbrage at any implication from you that I have

behaved in any way unbecoming. I was born, bred and raised a

lady, dear sir, and you will kindly remember that fact before leveling

such accusations at me.”

“I meant only—”

“You meant to say that when I laugh my bosom is on display,

and believe me this fact does not escape me. I have nearly come

36

out of my gown. I am terribly aware of that fact. So perhaps your

indignation might give way in favor of allowing a woman to wear

her shawl when she sees ?t, rather than forcing her into compromising

moments of great embarrassment. Now, leave me alone!

Go do whatever it is you do on this dreadful ship. But if you

return with Miss Pauling’s perfume on you, John, as you did two

nights ago—oh yes! you thought I missed that? how could I? It’s a

dreadful scent!—then there will be hell to pay!”