The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red by Ellen Rimbauer
Authors: Ellen Rimbauer
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about that
globe than my dear friend Melissa Ray. “You really should not
handle that globe.”
And now, I swear to you, Dear Diary, did that woman’s head
turn all of its own accord—as if unattached from the body itself.
It did rotate toward us, and that woman ?xed her maniacal gaze
on us with reddened eyes and twisted lips. But what most astonished
us both was the ashen quality of her facial skin. Mrs.
Fauxmanteur arrived under the burden of a great deal of rouge
she did not need. And yet, as she turned to face us, none of this
cosmetic remained. Her skin seemed nearly translucent, the blue
veins showing like a tangle of knitting yarn, her lips bloodless and
cracking like ice.
“Step away please, dear woman,” I called out.
Connie Fauxmanteur did in fact step back and away from that
globe. And as she did, the globe’s rotation began to slow, and for
the ?rst time I noticed a noise, like a single high note of a children’s
choir, dissipating in volume. I had not noticed this music
until it left the room. Mrs. Fauxmanteur left the room with it,
81
stepping through to the Central Hall West (I believe). I thought
perhaps she might be searching for the powder room, and so I
called out to her that I would be happy to show her the way. At
this point, Melissa, I suppose because of my pregnancy (everyone
is making much too much of my condition!), rose herself and
motioned for me to stay seated. Melissa did not appear in full
possession of her senses, I must say, clearly taken aback by that
translucent apparition of our dear friend. For a woman of such
poise and grace, she did hurry to the door to the gallery through
which Mrs. Fauxmanteur had just that moment passed.
I recall quite vividly that I smelled something bitter in the air,
could almost taste it—carried as it was with the wind of that swinging
door to the gallery. Whatever the source of that ?avor, it did
give me chills and rose the hackles on the nape of my neck. I had
tasted that same air in the Ocean Star when the great wind entered
our cabin. Despite the admonishment of my friend, I rose from
my chair and followed upon Melissa’s heels.
“Connie?” I heard Melissa call out.
A moment later, I too stood in the Central Hall West, alongside
Melissa.
The magni?cent room was empty of all but its oil paintings,
cherry and maple benches and some marble sculpture from
Rome. Mrs. Fauxmanteur had apparently run to the far end and
left before Melissa had herself reached the gallery.
“Mrs. Fauxmanteur,” I called out, “I would be pleased to show
you the way.” For she had it all wrong. The nearest toilet was
through the Banquet Hall and off a small corridor that connected
the Grand Stair. The far end of the Central Hall West connected
again with the Entry Hall and would only serve to lead her in a
circle. That is, unless by chance she had ventured upon one of
the room’s many false panels, one or two of which led to storage,
and another that offered “secret” passage between the Central
Hall West and the Kitchen, allowing servants more direct access
82
during our entertaining. Now that I viewed the Central Hall West
in this light—indeed the whole house is a veritable warren of such
false passages—I realized what opportunity existed for a person to
become brie?y lost in its complexity.
“Connie!” This time Melissa’s voice carried the concern that
already beat in my own heart.
“You take the Entry Hall,” I instructed my friend, pointing to
a closed door at the end of the long gallery. At the same time, I
stepped to the wall and pulled on the servants’ cord, summoning
whoever was on duty at this hour. I had my own eye on the door
to the Banquet Hall, believing it the closest to the Parlor and
therefore, given that little time had elapsed, the most likely explanation
for Mrs. Fauxmanteur’s quick disappearance.
As I pulled open the door to the Banquet Hall, I found myself
face to
globe than my dear friend Melissa Ray. “You really should not
handle that globe.”
And now, I swear to you, Dear Diary, did that woman’s head
turn all of its own accord—as if unattached from the body itself.
It did rotate toward us, and that woman ?xed her maniacal gaze
on us with reddened eyes and twisted lips. But what most astonished
us both was the ashen quality of her facial skin. Mrs.
Fauxmanteur arrived under the burden of a great deal of rouge
she did not need. And yet, as she turned to face us, none of this
cosmetic remained. Her skin seemed nearly translucent, the blue
veins showing like a tangle of knitting yarn, her lips bloodless and
cracking like ice.
“Step away please, dear woman,” I called out.
Connie Fauxmanteur did in fact step back and away from that
globe. And as she did, the globe’s rotation began to slow, and for
the ?rst time I noticed a noise, like a single high note of a children’s
choir, dissipating in volume. I had not noticed this music
until it left the room. Mrs. Fauxmanteur left the room with it,
81
stepping through to the Central Hall West (I believe). I thought
perhaps she might be searching for the powder room, and so I
called out to her that I would be happy to show her the way. At
this point, Melissa, I suppose because of my pregnancy (everyone
is making much too much of my condition!), rose herself and
motioned for me to stay seated. Melissa did not appear in full
possession of her senses, I must say, clearly taken aback by that
translucent apparition of our dear friend. For a woman of such
poise and grace, she did hurry to the door to the gallery through
which Mrs. Fauxmanteur had just that moment passed.
I recall quite vividly that I smelled something bitter in the air,
could almost taste it—carried as it was with the wind of that swinging
door to the gallery. Whatever the source of that ?avor, it did
give me chills and rose the hackles on the nape of my neck. I had
tasted that same air in the Ocean Star when the great wind entered
our cabin. Despite the admonishment of my friend, I rose from
my chair and followed upon Melissa’s heels.
“Connie?” I heard Melissa call out.
A moment later, I too stood in the Central Hall West, alongside
Melissa.
The magni?cent room was empty of all but its oil paintings,
cherry and maple benches and some marble sculpture from
Rome. Mrs. Fauxmanteur had apparently run to the far end and
left before Melissa had herself reached the gallery.
“Mrs. Fauxmanteur,” I called out, “I would be pleased to show
you the way.” For she had it all wrong. The nearest toilet was
through the Banquet Hall and off a small corridor that connected
the Grand Stair. The far end of the Central Hall West connected
again with the Entry Hall and would only serve to lead her in a
circle. That is, unless by chance she had ventured upon one of
the room’s many false panels, one or two of which led to storage,
and another that offered “secret” passage between the Central
Hall West and the Kitchen, allowing servants more direct access
82
during our entertaining. Now that I viewed the Central Hall West
in this light—indeed the whole house is a veritable warren of such
false passages—I realized what opportunity existed for a person to
become brie?y lost in its complexity.
“Connie!” This time Melissa’s voice carried the concern that
already beat in my own heart.
“You take the Entry Hall,” I instructed my friend, pointing to
a closed door at the end of the long gallery. At the same time, I
stepped to the wall and pulled on the servants’ cord, summoning
whoever was on duty at this hour. I had my own eye on the door
to the Banquet Hall, believing it the closest to the Parlor and
therefore, given that little time had elapsed, the most likely explanation
for Mrs. Fauxmanteur’s quick disappearance.
As I pulled open the door to the Banquet Hall, I found myself
face to
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