Over the River and Through the Woods

She peeled off her long wool cloak and set it beside her in the Landau.  The air was so agreeable that she opened the glass to let the breeze inside.  The clip clop of the bay mare was easy and hypnotic and Victoria sat back and let her thoughts wander.  It was one of those beautiful days that reminded her of the first carriage ride she had taken with Richard through Hampstead Heath.  He was unusually quiet taking in the air and the company with his intense gaze.  Sometimes when he looked at her that way she felt as though he could see her very thoughts, her soul completely bare and it made her uneasy.  Not that he could. Nor would he use any information gleaned to harm her in any way.  It was that at times she did not want to live so transparent.  There were things she wanted to cloak and keep all to herself---private musings and fantastical dreams.  Travel in invisible realms that kept her very spirit alive.  Then at other times she wanted to share everything with him even her very breath.  There was an awkward push and pull between them at first; Richard with his piercing intuition and Victoria with her effervescent excitement of a shared future.   When she was blissful, he was distracted.  When he was instinctive, she would hide---withdraw emotionally and perpetually redirect focus on current affairs or work or art. Her method worked for a time as art was always the junction to which their paths crossed.  With time he would figure out it was a ruse to leave her to her own feelings and, perhaps, disengage for a bit until she felt safe.  Safe within herself.  Those moments when they were both completely engaged it felt as if time had stopped.  It could only be for brief periods, as they would exhaust each other --- burning white hot like the sun.  Without some sort of balance the very life force within them running unbidden toward each other could bring about an untimely demise.  She knew this.  She read about it and she may have possibly seen the effects first hand.  Queen Victoria herself upon her first meeting with Prince Albert was swept up into a whirlwind of profound ecstasy, as was he.  Their lives together only lasted twenty years and she still mourned his loss going on nearly forty. With Marriage Victoria became steadfast in her desires and her ability to leave herself open.  The kind of intimacy they now shared did not make room for self-protection.  It was non-existent and extraneous.  They created a kind of invisible shell around themselves and they protected each other from the outside.  In this way they were symbiotic and beyond the world. 

As the carriage turned down Broadway Victoria tried hard to remember her life before meeting Richard.  It seemed like a faded tintype.  It almost felt like another lifetime ago barely visible in the distance.  And she could not imagine life without Richard. The thought sent a shiver through her and a soft wave of nausea welled up from her gut.  She let her hands rest on her belly softly cooing to the child inside that all was well.  This life was something they created together inside and out.  It was the most profound, and yet simply natural thing she had ever done.  The moment she realized she was pregnant she could not help but imagine combined characteristics of this magical child.  Would he have Richard’s eyes and her nose?  Would he have her mouth and his hair?  Would she be dark and exotic like her father or fair and graceful like Victoria?  The musings made Victoria smile and as the weeks and months would pass her excitement grew like a child awaiting Christmas morning.

They moved along Canal Street and turned down a lane that led straight through the five points.  It was the most impoverished part of New York City.  At that time most seamstresses lived and tried to eek out a living in the overcrowded boarding houses, pubs and brothels.  Life was so miserable in this part of the city that even foreigners took tours of the abominable filth and human degradation.  It was worse than the Whitechapel area in London. Charles Dickens himself walked through parts of the five points writing how profoundly desperate the situation was and that the city must do something to try and ease their suffering.  It was a place of great consideration to Victoria.  She knew many of the seamstresses and dressmakers.  She had talked to several women, invisible leaders in the community who had somehow been able to subsist on overwork for meager pennies.  She had tried to persuade the women to unite and form a union.  If the women could refuse to work unless they were paid an even and consistent wage --- in a word, strike, then change and reform could take place.  Women with money could set up businesses and keep the community on a progressive track.  They would be more inclined toward education in order to bring their children more opportunity.  However, without the support of the philanthropic community and some sort of grass roots activism it would be impossible for Victoria to rally enough people to the cause.  She was also very aware of Richard Croker and his Tammany Hall cronies.  They would not welcome progress as they profited from the miseries of the poor.  Croker succeeded John Kelly who succeeded the infamous Boss Tweed and continued the tradition of kick-backs, bribes and voter fraud.  It was a dangerous business going against the grain of Tammany Hall and Victoria knew it.  Other reformers who had tried their hand at rescuing the Five Points had simply given up.   She would not be easily swayed.  The stench of urine and sewage wafted up from the street.  For a moment the miasma seemed to overtake Victoria but she took in a deep breath and held it for a moment reaching for the cloak to shield her nose. Working men stumbled out of pubs and desperate women advertised their services. Teenagers black with soot carrying chimney brushes walked from one dingy building to another working for a coin or two and risking their lives getting stuck in flues.  Some were mistaken for negroes and roughed up in the streets by Irish ne’erdowells and bullies.  Dirty children ran about the street playing or rag picking or selling flowers, matches and brooms.  The sight made Victoria pensive and restless and she almost turned the carriage around and asked Mr. Jones to take her directly to the Orphans hospital.  But being in her delicate situation she knew better to continue on course.  The row houses and clapboard shanties opened up and she could see the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.  As the Landau made its way through the sea of people she noticed the high thin clouds moving like feathers across the crisp blue sky.  Finally the familiar scent of the river removed the spoiled residue of human existence.  Climbing the great stone span made her feel like she might actually fly.  The bird’s eye view of the East River was stunning.  Large chunks of ice moved quickly towards Hell’s Gate and out to sea.  The wind was brisk and she draped her cloak about her and closed the glass.  It was then that she noticed that Mrs. Hopkins had left a picnic basket filled with food just under the opposite seat.  She opened the one side and found a small note: Dear Mrs. Rhys, I do hope that you and Mr. Rhys enjoy yourselves in the country. Please do take good care of yourself.  I shall be expecting you tomorrow by lunchtime.  The staff will be prepared for your arrival.  Sincerely, Mrs. Hopkins.  There was fresh baked bread, apples, smoked Ham wrapped in paper, bread pudding, cooked potatoes in a silver dish and a partial block of cheese along with carefully packaged tea leaves in brown paper. 

When she looked up again she could see a line on the horizon.  It looked as though there might be a brief shower. 

“Did you bring a bumpershoot, Mrs. Rhys?”  She heard Mr. Jones say.

“I’m afraid I did not.”  She replied.

“I packed one in back for just such an occasion.  We Londoners are used to changeable weather, right?”  He said.

“You are right.  I find I am a bit absent minded these days.”  She said.

“Don’t you worry about one little thing, Mrs. Rhys.  That’s what I am here for.”  He replied and he gave the horses an ‘eee-up’.  The carriage lurched forward a bit and they moved at a quicker pace.  Down on Flatbush there were dozens of carriages out for a Spring day ride.  People were walking about the newly formed downtown Brooklyn area taking in the air and the sun.  They passed by the Brooklyn Rail Terminal where trains were taking passengers from downtown out to the boardwalks of Coney Island and Manhattan Beach.  Crowds of women with light wraps and parasols escorted by gentleman in spats and felt hats boarded the cars looking forward to a day of leisure and strolling.  The difference between the Five Points and the area about Flatbush was like night and day.  If Five Points represented the very worst of human misery then Brooklyn seemed to represent the very affluent.  Even the horses seemed shiny and fat with an energetic stride.  Before long they made their way past Prospect Park.  Clumps of snow from the last dusting remained unmelted in the shade.  Victoria adored Prospect Park and spent as much time as she could there while the Manor was being renovated. She liked it far better than Central Park as it felt more organic and in tune with her spirit. On the opposite side of the park were fallow cornfields.  Brown sprigs of stalks poked up through the patchy blanket of snowfall that was quickly disappearing from the sun.  They rounded Ocean Avenue and the long drive to the manor was in sight.  As the house slowly began to appear in the landscape Victoria remembered first meeting Stanford White in London during a birthday gala in Charles’ honor.  He was handsome and charming and Victoria seemed to become smitten with him as she noticed his elegant figure move gracefully across the ballroom floor.  When introduced to him she was a bit spellbound but managed to recover quickly.  He was a student working with one of the greatest American architects of the time, Henry Hobson Richardson.  He remarked that he was touring Europe for the year to educate himself on all sorts of design and structural aesthetics.  She engaged him quickly in a conversation about how architecture affects the community to which it serves.  Their views were similar and on point and both were gratified to be in the company of the other.  Once he left Europe for America they continued to correspond on important occasions and holidays.  On their extended trips to New York the Thorntons would invite Mr. White to dinner parties of artists, actors and poets.  It was at this time that Victoria realized that Stanford would remain a good friend and nothing more.  When Victoria requested Helen Pratt’s help in securing the old farm in the flatlands she also contacted Stanford who was working on an important monument at the time to be erected in Washington Square.  He graciously took a meeting with her and weeks later Mr. Jones drove the two out to the old ruin.  Upon seeing the farm Stanford quickly dug out his small sketchbook and began drawing ideas for the reconstruction of the grand house.  Victoria had exquisite taste as did Mr. White and so the drawings remained virtually unchanged from the first rendering.  However, it was a secret and no one was to know of the plans until after the wedding.  Stanford swore he would not breathe a word.  When Victoria found herself in Richard’s company she almost had to clasp both hands across her mouth to keep from spoiling the surprise.  She was giddy like a young girl and Richard seemed bewildered and yet found her ebullience humorous and endearing.  Inside the grand hall and the airy rooms she would hang Richard’s paintings along with her own extensive art collection and it would be her own private museum.  Once the structural aspects of the house were in place by October the workmen rushed against the weather to finish the renovation by Christmas.  It was to be her gift to Richard and she organized an elegant affair to which the most affluent, political and philanthropic would attend.  It rivaled The Mrs. Astor’s annual ball.  And though she knew Caroline Astor and was one of the infamous 400 people to be invited to her various functions, Victoria was a progressive and inclusive type of person.  Exclusivity did not sit well with her and time would force a changing of the guard in society so why not let it be her, she thought to herself. 

The carriage stopped at the great Doric columns of the mansion.  Mr. Jones opened the carriage door and extended his hand.  When she stepped down and on to the ground the landscape seemed to breathe fresh life into her.  She wanted to begin walking immediately.  Mr. Jones opened the house and began unpacking the landau.  When she wandered inside everything was covered in canvas and the dust from winter swirled about in the sunlight. 

“It’s a fine day to be in the country, so it is.”  He said as he put various bags and such in their respective places.

“And when do you expect Mr. Rhys?”  He asked innocently.

“About supper time.”  She replied in a bit of a daze.

“That’s a while away.  Shall I unpack the basket that Mrs. Hopkins sent?”  He asked.

“Oh, no.  That will not be necessary.  I had quite a large breakfast this morning and I’m not very hungry anyway.”  She replied.

“Alright then.  I’ll just stoke the fire here in the kitchen.”

She wandered into the grand parlor and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains to let the sun in and warm the room.  She noticed that the clouds that threatened rain seemed to be passing north and that the day would remain fine.

“Mr. Jones, why don’t you take the Landau back downtown, put it in livery and treat yourself to a hot meal for lunch.”  Victoria suggested.

“Oh, no, mum.  I couldn’t do that.  I couldn’t leave you alone here by yourself.”  He said.

“It would just be for lunch.  Ride back afterwards if you feel you must.  I assure you I shall be just fine.”  She replied.

“I tell you, I don’t like this and neither would Mrs. Hopkins---“

“I am the only one here and I hope that you would abide by my wishes.”

“I would like to add that I don’t think Mr. Rhys would be too keen on this idea either.”  Mr. Jones added.

“I don’t like your tone or your presumption.”  She said.

“I’m sorry, mum.  I am.  But I am truly concerned for your wellbeing.  Please forgive me.”

She pulled some money from her purse and handed it to Mr. Jones.

“No, mum.  Thank you, but I can procure lunch for myself.  Very kind of you, though.”  He said.  He tipped his hat and gathered his coat and in a wink he was out the door.  She heard the carriage as it echoed around the drive and slowly dissipated down the long road.  Then all was silent except for a gentle breeze.

The Appointment

When he was a boy he would stay up all night pinching and stealing food on the streets of London and then disappear during the daylight hours to a small cubbyhole in the bottom of a blacksmith’s shop near Mitre Square.  He was a self-described rat of the streets like thousands of other orphans of the time.  He was swarthy with black hair and dark eyes and the coal bin that sometimes doubled as his bed stained him even darker.  At times he was mistaken for a Bangladeshi child. If the blacksmith caught him sleeping in the bin he’d get a beating.  More than once he sustained bruised ribs inflicted by an iron poker that ached in the cold and the rain. Those were the worst of days when a moldy piece of bread was a prize and a pair of socks a luxury.  His life began to turn for the better when he teamed up with a sympathetic tosher and stole a ball of strong twine from a bookmaker in the same week. He could earn enough for food and a possible bed or floor for the night by scavenging the Thames at low tide.  Discarded pieces of tin, copper and iron could fetch a good price and every once in a while if he focused his concentration he could uncover fallen farthings and bits from the mud lost long ago by drunken sailors or fumbling gentry.   Those were the times when day was night and night was day. He drank and slept a good amount of his life away in his youth missing the nuances and the tiny miracles that seemed to bloom in the morning. But his new life made him almost reverent for the rising sun, and perhaps the American work ethic of rising at dawn to begin a productive days work. He still kept late hours but it was due to a cycle of inspiration and the optimal time to paint and to be carried by a kind of ecstasy into his art. He did not question it and neither did his wife. He inhaled fully and watched as the walls and ceiling of the Grove street townhouse began to change from a deep Prussian blue to a lighter almost moonglow blue that reminded him of his early childhood in a small fishing village in Ireland.  Those scant memories of which he only had a handful penetrated him to his core and made him yearn for those innocent times when things seemed simple. Victoria was fast asleep beside him.  It was at these quiet almost mystical moments that he had to pinch himself to prove that he was awake and not dreaming.  The circumstances of his life predicted his steady course of poverty and hardship.  He was clever and industrious and even a bit of a dodger and that gave him an edge.  His true saving grace and gift from the heavens came from his ability to draw.  That alone rescued him from obscurity and it was instrumental in captivating the one unattainable woman in his world.  He moved close and wrapped his arm about her.  She inched into him, threaded her fingers into his and resumed her peaceful slumber.  She was about four months along now and he let his arm rest along the curve of her slightly protruding belly.  She was exceedingly warm and he could feel a slight twitch within that let him know that their child was indeed growing.  He lay for some time watching silently as the subtle shades of blue shifted lighter and lighter along the walls until his restlessness got the better of him and he quietly got up and donned his robe.  He gazed out of the window into the courtyard and as the first bits of day sprinkled down between the buildings he could see flowers beginning to open in the garden.  He lit a small candle and descended the stairs to the first floor where the kitchen was located.  He noticed the soft glow of the morning fire crackling and recognized the slight figure in the corner of the room preparing for the day’s chores.

“You’re up quite early, Mr. Rhys.  May I prepare a cup of tea for you?”  Mrs. Hopkins asked quietly.

“That would be good of you.” Richard replied.  Mrs. Hopkins commenced with tea making and preparing something for a morning meal.  Richard wandered outside into the courtyard taking a small paring knife with him.  It was still.  Not even a breeze moved the bare trees.  He carefully cut the delicate yellow flowers at an angle on the stem.  Fresh dew beaded up on his hands as he carried them inside.  He studied how the growing light played in the convex reflection of the water drop.  There was something quite fragile yet everlasting in that minute portion of condensation, the mingling of heaven and earth.

“Mrs. Hopkins, would you be so good as to point me in the direction of a vase.”  Richard requested.

Mrs. Hopkins nodded and began to walk away.

“No, no, I shall get it myself, just tell me where it might be stored.”  He asked.

“In the parlor, the corner cabinet, second shelf.”  Mrs. Hopkins replied cheerfully and she resumed her preparations.

As he knotted his tie and attached the watch fob to his vest he paid careful attention to his appearance.  He had an early appointment with a gentleman whom he had heard and read about many times throughout his life.   This man was as famous in Britain as he was in America.  The fascinating aspect that seemed to capture Richard’s rapt almost obsessive consideration was not so much his grasp of Shakespearean oration or his various characters created for the stage, it was the man’s brother.  He was long dead but a fixture of American History and a villain for all time.  Richard smoothed down his wavy hair and carefully crept into the bedroom leaving the vase of yellow crocus for Victoria.  As he made his way to the foyer Mrs. Hopkins seemed surprised to see him ready for the day.

“Will you not be having breakfast with us, Mr. Rhys?”  She asked.

“No, Mrs. Hopkins, I have a very important appointment in Gramercy Park.”  He replied.

“Will you return for tea, then?”  She probed.

“I’m not sure.  Please do not wait for me---oh, and tell Victoria I will see her later this evening.” He answered.  And before any expression could form on her face he was outside and walking quickly up Grove Street.  It was unseasonably warm for March, and after a few blocks he had to peel off his wool coat.  He noticed many inhabitants shedding their dark parlors for the winter respite.  People were smiling and walking with a pronounced bounce to their gait.  As he weaved his way up the increasingly bustling Seventh Avenue and onto Fourteenth street his mind drifted back to a crisp day in October. As they were enjoying an intimate dinner at Delmonicos Victoria invited him along with her to tour Washington DC for she was to appear before the United States Congress on behalf of Women’s Suffrage.  He had seen her speak to small church groups and give lectures at Columbia University and Princeton.  She was also invited to speak at salons hosted by the Morgans, the Vanderbilts and the Goulds on various topics such as the impact of architecture on culture and the community.  Her eloquence, passion and knowledge enchanted him and he drew closer to her charming public persona.  In private she seemed a bit reluctant to speak on these matters, perhaps because he was not an educated man, but he did not let his ignorance and past color his thirst for ideas, truths and principles especially the ones that ignited her.  She never talked down to him and he appreciated her authenticity.  Since their private wedding Victoria had been preoccupied with the design and rebuilding of their country house in the flatlands of Brooklyn so they postponed their honeymoon until the structural engineering on the manor had been completed.  By October they were both in need of a change in scenery.  They had ventured to Philadelphia first by carriage and then boarded a train from there to the nation’s capital.  Arriving in the late afternoon they took tea at their lodgings. As they strolled back to their suites Victoria playfully took his hand and quickly walked him to a waiting hansom cab.

“Tenth Street between E and F, Please.”  She said to the driver.”

“I thought we are to dine with Mr. DePew this evening.”  He said bewildered.

“I’ve made other arrangements.”  She said cryptically with a hint of glee.

“Where are we going?”  He asked.

“Somewhere special.  A place that you might find incredibly interesting.”  She replied.

The hansom moved quickly through the streets and the Federal style buildings passed by as sentinels on guard by the low glow of the gas lamps.  Finally the coach stopped and they disembarked in front of what looked like an old church.  The plaque out front read ‘War Department’.  It was closed up and dark.  A fine mist began to roll in off the Potomac.  Richard was confused.  He did not know if he should know where they were and fake surprise and wonder for the sake of his bride or to simply ask outright why she had brought him here.

“Tis Ford’s Theatre, darling.”  She said softly and a kind of emotion rose up from his gut. It was perhaps the first time his wife had seen him visibly cry.  He moved to the Brick walls and placed his hands there as if the building itself could explain why a martyr had been taken.  The fog reminded him of London and of Martin Smollett, the tosher that taught him a trade.  Martin was fascinated with the American Civil War and collected every tidbit of information on the subject.  Richard paid his doss to sleep on Martin’s floor and soon Martin began to share his knowledge of the great war with his pupil. Being a dodger and an amateur actor himself he was fascinated with John Wilkes Booth.  It felt as though they shared the same sort of shadow life.  Richard had certainly killed a man before.  And he would do it again in the name of self-defense, but he would never tell Victoria of his most offensive sin.  Only if she confronted him with it would he be truthful.  Had Mr. Booth felt that same sort of threat from the President and more importantly his policies?  Richard could only imagine the kind of thoughts the assassin might have entertained to justify murder. 

He felt his wife take his arm and slowly she led him to the walkway and they ventured silently for some time through the streets of Washington.

After a moment he asked softly, “How did you know?”

“The books you read.  When you send away for them they are almost always about this country’s war.”  She replied.  “Or about Lincoln.”

He stopped and took her hands in his and then he kissed her and pulled her close.  “Thank you.” He whispered and his voice wavered.

“Poor dear, you’re hungry.  Let’s fetch something to eat, shall we?  I think this may have been a bit disagreeable for you.” She said.

He waved down another hansom cab. 

“The Morrison Clarke Hotel.”  He instructed.  As they rode along the foggy streets he reached for her hand and clasped it tightly unsure of how to process this most fervent of wishes.  When they arrived Victoria called for Madeline Irving the Hotel’s owner and requested that their supper be delivered to their suite and that they should not be disturbed until the following morning.  They changed into their respective dressing robe and smoking jacket for a private meal.  When the food arrived Richard felt his appetite wane and he was not sure why these strange feelings had such a stranglehold.  He was not even an American.  He had no ties to this country.  Most of the time he felt quite foreign yet comfortable.  The only thing he had in common with most Americans is that he had come from humble beginnings. 

“I’m afraid I’m a bit pensive and I apologize, Victoria.”  He said quietly.  She removed her napkin and moved close to him.  She put her arms about him and her cheek was warm next to his.  They remained there for some time in utter silence tucked into each other and then she kissed him softly.  He lost himself for a moment and his worries and heavy feelings dropped away like rain and the only thing he saw was the radiant face of his beloved.  He could feel himself aroused just like the first time they had consummated their relationship.  She began by unbuttoning his shirt and she let her soft palm rest against his chest.  He could feel his heartbeat quicken. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed and as their passion grew he could see the expectancy, the longing and the love in her eyes.  Motherhood would become her.

 

He was jolted out of his memory suddenly by a pushcart on Fifth Avenue.  The vendor was Belgian and selling coffee and fresh waffles.  Just then a wave of hunger raged inside of him and he quickly procured breakfast.  He made his way to Union Square where he found a bench to enjoy his meal.  The Jewish peddlers with their rag wagons and flatbeds filled with ironworks shouted their wares.  The raggedy newspaper boys tried to yell above the din selling the Times and Herald and the New York Sun.  Richard checked his pocket watch and timed his arrival carefully.  At half past Seven he rounded the corner of Irving place and found himself in front of the Players Club.  Stepping down in to the entrance a large black man donning what looked like a British military officer’s uniform nodded.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Edwin Booth.”  He said confidently.

“Your name and business?”  The servant asked.

“I’m the portraitist, Richard Rhys.” He replied.  And he was ushered into the grand Victorian townhouse.

“One moment please.”  The servant commanded.  And he disappeared up the mahogany staircase.

March Hare

A vase of delicate yellow crocus had been placed on the nightstand close to the bed. The fragrance was faint yet aromatic enough to drift on the mild drafts that seemed to spiral down the chimney flue of the townhouse that stood on Grove Street in lower Manhattan. She slowly opened her eyes as the last vestiges of an escaping dream taking place in an English garden faded quickly. The room came into sharp focus and the smell of coffee and eggs dominated the house. The soft padding of footsteps on the back stairway alluded to the servant’s daily chores and the beginning of the day. The weather had been uncharacteristically mild for early March so much so that spring flowers had started to bloom prematurely in the courtyard. She rolled onto her back and let her hands slowly caress her round belly letting her mind wonder whether she would have a girl or a boy. The anticipation left a permanent smile on her face even when she was doing mundane tasks or attempting to find solutions to such daunting issues as poverty and hunger, women’s rights and the plight of orphaned children. Somehow her expectancy revealed a deeper well of resolve than she ever could have imagined and she was deeply thankful to the unborn soul that would unknowingly guide her through the rest of her life.

There was a slight tap on the bedroom door. The sound brought Victoria back from her semi-conscious reverie.

“Come in.” She said softly clearing away the sleep from her throat. Mrs. Hopkins entered carefully carrying a silver tray with eggs sunnyside up, a few slices of fresh Irish bread toasted and a cup of Italian coffee. Mrs. Hopkins was a slight woman with an iron will and an intense devotion to her service and her charge. She moved like a dancer and could easily be rendered into one of Edgar Degas’ paintings. Stealth was an attribute for Mrs. Hopkins as she seemed to glide through the house hardly ever making a sound and in her furtiveness was capable of running the manor with absolute efficiency and loyalty. She expected, almost commanded this from any maid or butler that served as her staff.

“I’m not sure Italian coffee is good for you.” Mrs. Hopkins said softly.

“It’s my first pleasure of the day.” Victoria replied. “Is Mr. Rhys downstairs?”

“No, mum. Mr. Rhys said he had an appointment at the Player's Club.” She glanced over at the flowers in the vase. “He was up at daybreak.” She said stopping abruptly and a faint smile crept a cross her face. “Will that be all Mrs. Rhys?”

Victoria nodded as she reached for her dressing gown “Thank you, Mrs. Hopkins.”

And as quick as a cat Mrs. Hopkins had vanished through the door. Victoria moved slowly toward the small breakfast table that was situated near the window. The faint sounds of carriages and horse drawn wagons on cobblestones drifted up to her third floor balcony. The sun was bright and it had that white yellow color that seemed to foretell the vernal equinox. From her perch Victoria could look out over the small house and town homes that dotted Grove Street. Across the way, The Church of Saint Luke in the Fields with its quaint courtyard and simplistic architecture was within sight. June 9^th. It seemed like only yesterday that she had conferred with the current minister about performing a private wedding ceremony. Because Victoria was part of the Astor Family and a loyal subject of Queen Victoria herself her activities both public and private seemed to be published every other day in the newspapers. Rumors began to spread throughout society circles about impending nuptials. Requests to be included on the invitation list began to arrive daily as early as last Christmas. The coordination of such an event became overwhelming. Parties begat more parties and social affairs until the whole idea began to spiral out of control. Her marriage to Charles was a royal event and although Victoria was grateful for the celebration and the pomp and circumstance, the guests and her entire extended family, her commitment to Richard was to protect him somehow from the glare and judgment of the crowds, reporters and blueblood snobs. She and Charles had both grown up in the public eye and so they were agile enough to dodge the pitfalls of celebrity. Yet Richard, hardened by poverty and the mean streets of dickinsian London, was incredibly sensitive. That spark of complete vulnerability is what compelled Victoria to know him in the first place…and perhaps his irresistible charm. He was a good enough actor to imitate the speech and carriage of a gentleman and pass himself off as such in various circles. The rest was inborn. It would be easy to dismantle his carefully constructed self by the bloodlines of the rich and powerful and so the wolves would be kept at bay by Victoria’s incredible fortitude. She sipped the hot Italian coffee and nibbled at the toast. She could feel her unborn child move in her belly and it brought on a kind of hypnotic grace. She looked over at the full-length mirror standing in the corner of her room and for a moment she could see him, his reflection from that momentous day last Spring. He was handsome in his formal tuxedo with opera vest and white tie. He ran his hands through his hair more from nerves than from any kind of attempt at style. She came up behind him and he recalled that tradition dictated that the bride not see the groom on their wedding day until she is presented at the church. She smiled, shook her head silently and embraced him. The plan would be simple. She would exit the front of the house in a beautiful bustle gown that she might wear to a charity function. He would exit the back gate wearing a full workman’s duster to cover his formal wear. They would each walk about the opposite block. Richard would arrive at the church a few moments before Victoria. Victoria would meet her two confidants and witnesses on the corner of Christopher Street. If anyone inquired they were on their way to a speaking engagement at a local charity. Mrs. Hopkins had been instructed to have the driver, Mr. Ian Jones pull the carriage in front of the church at exactly half past 1:00PM. She recalled walking down Hudson street with Helen Pratt on one side and Louisa Morgan on the other. She had exacted sworn secrecy from both and the women, romantic in nature, enjoyed the idea of pulling off a secret wedding. As they rounded the bend from the street onto the small path through the church courtyard Victoria almost felt her legs give way. She had dreamed of this moment for so long and it seemed completely out of the realm of possibility only eighteen months ago. She was married and content with Charles at the time. She was ferociously committed to her social work and philanthropy. It was fulfilling and gratifying to know that she could be instrumental in making life better for those born less fortunate. She felt close to the divine when she worked and fought on behalf of orphans, factory workers and fallen women. She gave them her all, every breath. Unbeknownst to her there was a dormant place hidden someplace deep within that could only be awakened and tended to by an intimate, soulful, prescient being. As she crossed the threshold she remembered seeing him at the altar chatting amiably with the minister as if they were school chums sharing a smoke. Yet as he turned to greet her it felt as if the world stood still. She lost her breath for a moment as if reuniting with her first great love from another time. His face seemed ephemeral, his countenance shining with anticipation and tenderness. She gently took his arm as they faced the clergyman. She had heard the liturgy before and studied Richard as he earnestly took in every word, answering the last promise with a soft, “I do.” And he looked at her with such intensity that she knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. And then the words fell again upon her but this time she heard the various dimensions of truth as the vows were spoken. And she could feel a soft tide rise as it made its way through her and outward and formed the sound “I do.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The minister boomed joyously. “Mr. and Mrs. Rhys.” Richard moved close and kissed her and for the first time she could feel her independence. She was a woman of her own making. This was her choice, a deeply personal choice and she chose him. She could feel his gratitude and his humility and his abiding passion for her in their seemingly watery embrace. They were suspended and intertwined yet moving swiftly towards the future. Helen tiptoed to the church door and peeked through. She waved to Victoria. Mr. Jones was out front. A few people had begun to gather wondering why the church was closed at midday. A crowd of ruffled older women in black Victorian bustle gowns seemed perturbed that the routine of their day had been interrupted. Victoria took his hand and quickly whisked their way through the small courtyard and into the carriage. “We’re going to Brooklyn, Mr. Jones.” Victoria said as she laughed and situated herself.

“Yes ma’am. Eeeeyup!” and the carriage pulled away quickly, the team gaining momentum as it sped up Hudson Street and then crossed town to the east side via Perry Street.

“What’s in Brooklyn?” Richard asked as he pulled his new wife to him.

“It’s a surprise! You’ll see.” Victoria replied as she kissed him again and again.

Helen Pratt was the daughter of Charles Pratt who had founded and opened a new school, Pratt Institute for artists and tradesman in the borough of Brooklyn. She was elemental in helping Victoria secure a tract of land near the Lefferts farm. The original structure would have to be renovated and redesigned to Victoria’s tastes before it would be habitable. Before long the Brooklyn Bridge was in sight and their foray into the countryside was just beginning.

The memory was palpable. She gazed over at the vase of crocus and in her introspection the eggs grew cold on her plate. She took a bite or two and then restlessness overcame her.

“Nell!” She called out. In an instant a pretty girl of nineteen appeared at her door.

“Tell Mrs. Hopkins I will be going out today---I’ll need the carriage.”

The girl nodded and gave a half courtesy and was almost down the hall when Victoria called again.

“Nell! Will you help me dress?”

Nell skittered back to the doorway. “Shall I fetch Mrs. Hopkins, ma’am?” She asked.

“Yes, yes, of course. Then you’ll help.” Victoria replied.

She moved the breakfast dishes to one side and pulled out her writing accoutrements. In the interim she would pen a note to Richard.

Dearest, The weather is so exceedingly agreeable that I have taken the Landau across the bridge to the country house. When you are finished with your appointments please join me there as I wish to walk the grounds with you before the weather turns cold again. Love, Victoria.

Nell appeared in the doorway and Mrs. Hopkins followed close behind.

“Will you be back for tea, Mrs. Rhys?” Mrs. Hopkins inquired.

“No. No. I am going to the country house.” Victoria answered.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but the house is closed. There is no one there and no one to help---“

“I am well aware, Mrs. Hopkins. I would like to walk the grounds while the weather is fine.” Victoria interrupted.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to take Nellie with you in case you need assistance.” Mrs. Hopkins added.

“That will not be necessary. I am leaving a note for Mr. Rhys. He will join me later this afternoon.”

Mrs. Hopkins nodded to Nell and Nell vanished quickly down the stairwell.

“Victoria. I would feel so much better if you took someone with you. The weather is changeable and Mr. Rhys did not say when he would return.” Mrs. Hopkins reiterated.

“I know you mean well. But all of my life I have had people hovering about me and now I am feeling the need to be self-sufficient. I shall be alright.” She said and she touched her belly lightly. “This time it is going to be alright.” She said knowingly.

Mrs. Hopkins struggled with Victoria’s decision. She could only gaze at the floor as she replied, “I’ll let Mr. Jones know.” And like a shadow she was gone.