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.
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