nursery was to the left and Jim’s suite was on the right. This was exactly what I wanted, to keep my loved ones close to me, so that we might always be together. I wanted to be there for my husband whenever he might desire or have need of me, and for my children to be able to climb into bed and snuggle up to me if they had a bad dream and wake me eagerly on the morning of a special day we planned to spend together.
Unable to decide, I closed my eyes and spun around, stopped on the count of ten and opened them, and went to the door nearest me—the nursery. I gasped when I flung the door wide and found myself staring at an entirely empty room. Naked white walls, not the whimsical Mother Goose wallpaper I had envisioned, faced me on four sides, a blank white ceiling above my head and bare floorboards beneath my feet. There was not one stick of furniture. Even the windows I had pictured wearing sunny yellow and white gingham curtains trimmed with white eyelet lace and silk ribbons were naked.
Why had Mrs. Briggs left it barren? I was a young woman, and as passionate as these early days of my marriage had been, I felt it was a sure bet that I would soon be expecting. Or was I being unfair? Perhaps she thought that furnishing this particular room would be trespassing too far? Maybe she meant to be kind and leave me one room to decorate myself, to respect a mother’s right to choose the colors and toys and furniture her babies would see every day?
I decided to be charitable, and, with a smile, I spun gaily around and skipped back across the sky-blue expanse of my bedroom and into Jim’s suite. Here all was deep crimson plush, heavy red-tinged brown satin the color of dried blood, and dark mahogany with the muted shimmer of antiqued gilt. It was a dark, somber chamber, stifling and oppressive, with the curtains drawn tight, the kind that would make one prone to tiptoe and whisper. As I peeped through the velvet curtains at the perfectly made bed within, I sincerely hoped that whenever he felt amorous Jim would always come to me; I didn’t think I would like sleeping in his bed.
In the dressing room, I caressed and admired his clothes, watered and embroidered silk and brocaded waistcoats, silk and velvet neckties, shirts of the softest snow-white handkerchief linen, and nothing but the finest coats and suits Paris and Mayfair’s Savile Row had to offer. Impulsively, I wiggled out of my robe and bundled myself into one of his coats, though it was far too big for me and the sleeves flopped over my hands like a pair of black broadcloth puppets. Smiling, I playfully batted them against each other like Punch and Judy. I reached up to the top shelf, where Jim’s hats were kept, and plopped a shiny black silk topper onto my head, laughing when it sank down over my eyes and bumped the bridge of my nose. I hugged myself tightly, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply, trying to catch his scent. When I heard footsteps out in the hall I started guiltily, fearing one of the servants might be looking for me, and quickly put everything back where it belonged, though I would have liked nothing better than to go on wearing my husband’s coat all day long so that I might feel embraced by him in his absence.
In the masculine haven of his study, adjoining the bedroom, I found walls of watered champagne silk, oak paneling, discreet touches of antique gold, and heavy oak tables and chairs upholstered in cognac-colored leather with brass studs. There were shelves filled with gilt-embellished leather books, including works by Shakespeare and Dickens, a great globe of the world I delighted in spinning, glass cases filled with fascinating fossils, and cut-crystal decanters that shimmered like diamonds against the rich, warm golden and smoky topaz colors of the fine aged whiskey and brandy inside. The walls were decorated with ancient maps with unexplored territories marked “Here be Monsters,” with drawings of dragons and sea serpents, and a fine
Unable to decide, I closed my eyes and spun around, stopped on the count of ten and opened them, and went to the door nearest me—the nursery. I gasped when I flung the door wide and found myself staring at an entirely empty room. Naked white walls, not the whimsical Mother Goose wallpaper I had envisioned, faced me on four sides, a blank white ceiling above my head and bare floorboards beneath my feet. There was not one stick of furniture. Even the windows I had pictured wearing sunny yellow and white gingham curtains trimmed with white eyelet lace and silk ribbons were naked.
Why had Mrs. Briggs left it barren? I was a young woman, and as passionate as these early days of my marriage had been, I felt it was a sure bet that I would soon be expecting. Or was I being unfair? Perhaps she thought that furnishing this particular room would be trespassing too far? Maybe she meant to be kind and leave me one room to decorate myself, to respect a mother’s right to choose the colors and toys and furniture her babies would see every day?
I decided to be charitable, and, with a smile, I spun gaily around and skipped back across the sky-blue expanse of my bedroom and into Jim’s suite. Here all was deep crimson plush, heavy red-tinged brown satin the color of dried blood, and dark mahogany with the muted shimmer of antiqued gilt. It was a dark, somber chamber, stifling and oppressive, with the curtains drawn tight, the kind that would make one prone to tiptoe and whisper. As I peeped through the velvet curtains at the perfectly made bed within, I sincerely hoped that whenever he felt amorous Jim would always come to me; I didn’t think I would like sleeping in his bed.
In the dressing room, I caressed and admired his clothes, watered and embroidered silk and brocaded waistcoats, silk and velvet neckties, shirts of the softest snow-white handkerchief linen, and nothing but the finest coats and suits Paris and Mayfair’s Savile Row had to offer. Impulsively, I wiggled out of my robe and bundled myself into one of his coats, though it was far too big for me and the sleeves flopped over my hands like a pair of black broadcloth puppets. Smiling, I playfully batted them against each other like Punch and Judy. I reached up to the top shelf, where Jim’s hats were kept, and plopped a shiny black silk topper onto my head, laughing when it sank down over my eyes and bumped the bridge of my nose. I hugged myself tightly, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply, trying to catch his scent. When I heard footsteps out in the hall I started guiltily, fearing one of the servants might be looking for me, and quickly put everything back where it belonged, though I would have liked nothing better than to go on wearing my husband’s coat all day long so that I might feel embraced by him in his absence.
In the masculine haven of his study, adjoining the bedroom, I found walls of watered champagne silk, oak paneling, discreet touches of antique gold, and heavy oak tables and chairs upholstered in cognac-colored leather with brass studs. There were shelves filled with gilt-embellished leather books, including works by Shakespeare and Dickens, a great globe of the world I delighted in spinning, glass cases filled with fascinating fossils, and cut-crystal decanters that shimmered like diamonds against the rich, warm golden and smoky topaz colors of the fine aged whiskey and brandy inside. The walls were decorated with ancient maps with unexplored territories marked “Here be Monsters,” with drawings of dragons and sea serpents, and a fine
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