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.