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.
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