The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red by Ellen Rimbauer Page A
Authors: Ellen Rimbauer
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days ago, worth sharing
here. In studying the plans with John, he was pointing out the
Breakfast Room, a well-intentioned space left of the Banquet
46
Hall and below the Kitchen on our plans, and one obviously
thought up by a man. I’m annoyed with its placement, as its only
windows face west into the garden, and any woman knows that it is
the morning’s east light that so pleases the morning soul. John
argues that I may take my breakfast wherever it pleases me,
including the Parlor, which does, in fact, face east and south, but
with an uninspired view of the driveway. He reminds me that the
home will be staffed with over thirty, and that if I wish to have
breakfast in bed every day of my life, so be it. But he misses the
point, of course, of the aesthetics of the placement of the
Breakfast Room and my belief that it shall go virtually unused
because of it. No matter. What was astonishing was this: in the
course of our heated discussion, John pointed to a second of the
room’s windows in the plans. I told him no, that the window had
been lost, as the architect had only recently discovered a need to
relocate the pantry from north to south, to provide better access
to cold storage and the china storage in the basement below,
access to which was to the north of the Kitchen. He’d heard
nothing of this, he reminded me, even taking the time to sort
through his many telegraphs. But you see, I knew, quite clearly,
that this change had been made. I had “seen” the wall being
erected already, the bricks laid in place, the trowels tossing the
mortar. I knew, and no one had ever told me. When John
received a telegraph late that evening, he came to our rooms
somewhat ashen. He passed me the telegraph and said, “Explain
this, Ellen.”
“A premonition is all, my love.”
“A premonition?”
“Exactly so.”
“Concerning the house,” he said.
“This particular time, yes.”
“You’ve had others, then?”
“The world is opening up to me, dear husband, just as you
47
said it would. This voyage of ours has already proved most . . .
illuminating. One might even say, enlightening.”
“And what else do you . . . ‘see,’ if I may ask.”
“You dare not ask, I would suggest.”
“Me? Is it ever me?” He looked nervous, visibly upset.
“And if it was?”
“I don’t believe in such rubbish.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, dear soul.”
“Do not call me that.”
“I see you with women,” I answered. “Young women, barely
budding. I see you performing unspeakable acts with these dark
women with whom we’ve surrounded ourselves since we left
home.” I was crying now, but trying so hard not to. I’m sure I
must have looked the fool.
He blanched. “Ridiculous!” A hoarse, dry whisper that I fear
even he did not believe. Void of the usual ?are of temper, he left
our rooms in quietude.
To my surprise, he returned later, sober and unusually considerate
and polite. That night he was husband to me as gentle as
our wedding night. He luxuriated me in my own pleasures as he
has never done before, and later I heard him crying in his sleep.
It’s the heir, Dear Diary, the all-important heir. I am now the
vehicle through which to deliver him his lineage, and any other
will be bastard. (I fear we have left a string behind us on this trip
already!) He needs me in this endeavor, my willingness to take to
bed with him, or this dream of passing along his fortune will
never take light. It is this need that compels him to treat me with
respect and dignity, no matter what the truth of our union be. I
do believe I have struck the fear of God in him. But truth be
known, it is the Devil, for who else invoked in me such a lie as I
told him that night, having never had such visions of him with
others. Suspicions, to be sure. But brought forward as images, I
do believe that he brie?y saw them as well, reliving his unfaithful-
48
ness, and that perhaps these
here. In studying the plans with John, he was pointing out the
Breakfast Room, a well-intentioned space left of the Banquet
46
Hall and below the Kitchen on our plans, and one obviously
thought up by a man. I’m annoyed with its placement, as its only
windows face west into the garden, and any woman knows that it is
the morning’s east light that so pleases the morning soul. John
argues that I may take my breakfast wherever it pleases me,
including the Parlor, which does, in fact, face east and south, but
with an uninspired view of the driveway. He reminds me that the
home will be staffed with over thirty, and that if I wish to have
breakfast in bed every day of my life, so be it. But he misses the
point, of course, of the aesthetics of the placement of the
Breakfast Room and my belief that it shall go virtually unused
because of it. No matter. What was astonishing was this: in the
course of our heated discussion, John pointed to a second of the
room’s windows in the plans. I told him no, that the window had
been lost, as the architect had only recently discovered a need to
relocate the pantry from north to south, to provide better access
to cold storage and the china storage in the basement below,
access to which was to the north of the Kitchen. He’d heard
nothing of this, he reminded me, even taking the time to sort
through his many telegraphs. But you see, I knew, quite clearly,
that this change had been made. I had “seen” the wall being
erected already, the bricks laid in place, the trowels tossing the
mortar. I knew, and no one had ever told me. When John
received a telegraph late that evening, he came to our rooms
somewhat ashen. He passed me the telegraph and said, “Explain
this, Ellen.”
“A premonition is all, my love.”
“A premonition?”
“Exactly so.”
“Concerning the house,” he said.
“This particular time, yes.”
“You’ve had others, then?”
“The world is opening up to me, dear husband, just as you
47
said it would. This voyage of ours has already proved most . . .
illuminating. One might even say, enlightening.”
“And what else do you . . . ‘see,’ if I may ask.”
“You dare not ask, I would suggest.”
“Me? Is it ever me?” He looked nervous, visibly upset.
“And if it was?”
“I don’t believe in such rubbish.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about, dear soul.”
“Do not call me that.”
“I see you with women,” I answered. “Young women, barely
budding. I see you performing unspeakable acts with these dark
women with whom we’ve surrounded ourselves since we left
home.” I was crying now, but trying so hard not to. I’m sure I
must have looked the fool.
He blanched. “Ridiculous!” A hoarse, dry whisper that I fear
even he did not believe. Void of the usual ?are of temper, he left
our rooms in quietude.
To my surprise, he returned later, sober and unusually considerate
and polite. That night he was husband to me as gentle as
our wedding night. He luxuriated me in my own pleasures as he
has never done before, and later I heard him crying in his sleep.
It’s the heir, Dear Diary, the all-important heir. I am now the
vehicle through which to deliver him his lineage, and any other
will be bastard. (I fear we have left a string behind us on this trip
already!) He needs me in this endeavor, my willingness to take to
bed with him, or this dream of passing along his fortune will
never take light. It is this need that compels him to treat me with
respect and dignity, no matter what the truth of our union be. I
do believe I have struck the fear of God in him. But truth be
known, it is the Devil, for who else invoked in me such a lie as I
told him that night, having never had such visions of him with
others. Suspicions, to be sure. But brought forward as images, I
do believe that he brie?y saw them as well, reliving his unfaithful-
48
ness, and that perhaps these
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