Dip, dop…dop, dip, dip…dip...dop. The rain hit the umbrella softly at first and then as she walked further out into the fields it bloomed into a regular spring shower. Growing up in London Victoria did not mind the rain. However, the sun helped warm the day and now that it had hidden itself behind the clouds the temperature had fallen. She brought her woolen cloak with her and as she pulled it on she felt instantly better. She was in her own world imagining a grand garden that would be planted come May. She wanted box hedges and roses and hydrangeas, lilies and chrysanthemums, azaleas, camellias, gardenias and daisies. As she walked out through the yellow grass she could see exactly where she would plant certain flowers and the design of the hedges. She wanted a labyrinth made of living things. It had to be five times larger than the one at Chartres Cathedral that her mother introduced her to when she was a small girl. They walked the seven circuits into the center, tiphareth. Gazing up at the vaulted ceiling of the mystical homage to the great sacred it would be forever burned into her memory as an exalted moment of true presence. “The nature of truth is the absence of contradiction and the agreement of information. The nature of beauty is the absence of discordance and the existence of resonance through the senses. They are one and the same.” The carved inscription made perfect sense to her even at that young age but she did not understand it on a deeply sensual level until she stood at the altar exchanging vows with Richard nine months before. He brought out the best in her and he inspired her to greater heights of imagination and creativity. He was opposite her in every way but like the moon he reflected back her own potency and strength. She was forever surprised and amazed at the things she learned about herself through her love and compassion for him.
She learned the origins of the labyrinth from Richard one afternoon at tea when he was first introduced to her in London. It was during an appointment when he was sketching her likeness for her commissioned portrait. The first labyrinth was designed by Daedalus for the King of Crete. It imprisoned a terrible ferocious creature---half man half bull called a minotaur at the center. Blood sacrifices in the form of young boys and girls were offered to the monster at certain astrological times. Concerned about the sacrifice of youth, the king hired Theseus to slay the demon. In order to navigate his way back through the Labyrinth the king’s daughter, Ariadne, gave him a skein of twine. Perhaps Victoria was the thread that kept Richard together in those very trying times in London. When Victoria felt a spell of nervousness come over her just before giving a speech, she would remember that story, that moment and her importance in the machine of life. In the center she felt calm but some people come face to face with the beast from within. It was not until she grew older that she fully understood what this entity was and that it is as evident as the shadow self, walking along side one on a sunny day. She knew that she would have to understand this being on a deeply conscious level in order to render its terror ineffective and to be free enough to create change in the world. It became her mission and mantra since she would be bringing a new life to their family.
Other than the harmonious architecture and design of the manor this garden would be the spiritual center of her estate. She could see it in full bloom in her mind’s eye and there, walking the path with her, was Richard donning a linen suit and a smart felt hat. Her child would be born sometime mid July and she imagined the baby’s first introduction to nature by the brilliant colors of the blooming flowers and the paintings that Richard would create outside. She wanted fountains and small Japanese pools with red, black and gold fish. She wanted Cherry blossoms to line the property and she wanted at least two easels for the outside and three for Richard’s studio on the second floor.
She had met Fredrick Law Olmsted while giving a lecture at Harvard University a few years back. She admired his work beyond words and he was impressed with her ideas about the psychological effect that landscape has on the culture of a city. They talked at great length afterward. He was a landscape designer and not a gardener and so he would not be of help to Victoria in that way. But he held her rapt attention with his progressive ideas and philosophy of the natural world. His voice was raspy and kind and he spoke low with an air of humility. In a way he reminded her of her father. She only had a handful of memories of him but they were treasured. She remembered his soft deep voice and his side whiskers. Everything else about him seemed fuzzy like a dream. He was sent as a commander to fight in the Prussian war. Being of German decent he felt it his duty and obligation and so he left his child and young bride for the front where he contracted Cholera and died. Sometimes as Victoria was just about to fall asleep she could hear his voice and she would wake again wondering if his spirit was near.
The dark clouds moved in and the rain shower turned into a hard downpour. She was out about a mile or so in the field in her walking boots. The soggy ground snagged her heels in the mud. The drops were cold and again the temperature seemed to fall a few degrees. When the water hit her bare skin it stung with a wintry chill. Although she was lost in her visions she thought perhaps it might be prudent to make her way back to the house. The rain seeped through her leather boots and her feet were wet. A chill began to overtake her and so she quickened her pace. She could not afford to catch cold while pregnant. Her feet sunk into the mud and grass and she remembered her trip to Boston the week before. It was bitterly cold and she had been given the terrible news that her friend, celebrated writer and pillar of the suffrage movement had passed away unexpectedly. Louisa May Alcott was fifty-six and in declining health but she was still writing when Victoria had visited her a year before. Over twelve years ago at the annual Astor ball, Caroline Astor introduced Victoria to Ms. Alcott. The two became fast friends and Louisa found in Victoria a vibrant formidable fighter in reform for women in particular and she knew that Victoria would carry on with the important work that women of that gilded age set out to do. Vote. Victoria cherished the letters she shared with Louisa and kept them in safe place preserved for the next generations. Her grandmother had given her a copy of Little Women when she was nine and Victoria could not put the novel down. She was fascinated with that particular time in American History and she wanted to be just like Jo when she got older. She wanted to be the captain of her own ship and she thought that was what she was doing when she agreed to marry Charles. He gave her so much freedom that she had want of nothing. And she loved him for that and she was devoted to their friendship. It was not until she saw Richard in the wintry street on that fateful night that she realized she was the proverbial bird in the gilded cage. Not that Charles imprisoned her, no, that would be the last thing he would want as he did not want that for himself. She had unknowingly fashioned her own prison bars constructed with great care and safety. But they kept out passion and the kind of love that has no words---that can only be felt in a tender taken silence---in the shared breath of her beloved and the warm touch of a soulmate.
The wind gusts nearly blew her down in the field. Her skirt was soggy from the blowing rain and a half spill into the grass. As she straitened herself up she realized that suddenly the rain turned into snow. Big wet lumpy flakes began to fall sideways to the ground. She looked toward the house but could not see it. She was too far away and the white snow and the wind obscured her vision. A shiver shot through her and she realized that perhaps she was in real danger. She was unsure what direction she was walking in and if she walked the wrong way a mile then she would surely freeze to death before reaching the house. And then there was the big empty manor with no fire and no servants. Not that she couldn’t build a fire for herself, but the time it would take to heat even the small sitting parlor would render her physically exhausted. Her instincts told her to press on and so she began trying to walk in the snowy clipper. She wished she had not insisted that Mr. Jones leave. Certainly he was back at the house by now, she thought. He must be on his way. Surely he’s out looking for her. And where was Richard? Had he not found her note? Had he not been back to the house yet? Or was he trying to make his way to her as well? All she knew was that she had to do everything she could to ensure the safety of her unborn child. The fighter deep inside cultivated her resolve. She would not be found dead in a field in the flatlands of Brooklyn. Before she knew it two inches had covered the ground. She was in a whiteout. The snow was falling so fast she could barely see two feet in front of her. The wind was so furious that she was blown to the ground twice. She did not bring gloves and her bare hands stung in the icy, wet snow. They were red and inflamed and she tried to keep them tucked into her cloak but she needed to shield her eyes. She stopped for a moment to get her bearings. There was nothing but silence and the low hum of the wind as it blew across the fields. Then suddenly out of nowhere a bull appeared. It lumbered a few feet and it’s grey apparition through the storm brought about terrible thoughts. Perhaps it was lost as well. Victoria did not own livestock that she knew of. Certainly it had broken free from a neighbor’s farm. It stood there like a statue or an omen. She thought that maybe if she followed it the beast might lead her to shelter. Even if it were the neighbor’s barn she would be out of the weather. It lowed and then began its lumbering pace and for a few moments disappeared in the white gusts. She could not feel her hands. The cold had taken her sensation. And she felt sick and cold. She tried to keep her eye on the wandering bovine but it disappeared like a dream. She stopped and vomited furiously. Not much came up but the convulsion rocked her body. She had to get home---she had to get some food inside of her. She thanked god that Mrs. Hopkins had the foresight to pack a picnic basket. Even though her appetite had vanished she would force the food down to keep her strength. Another wave of nausea engulfed Victoria and she thought that if she could calm herself down she would be able to follow the animal and not expel what sustenance she might have left. The grey beast appeared again and walked with purpose. She kept it in her sights as she moved little by little through the mounting snow.
Mrs. Hopkins stood like a sentinel at the front bay window of the townhouse on Grove Street. She watched the snow come down with fury and the gray sky turn white.
“Nell.” She called. There was a low shuffle on the back staircase and the small Irish lass appeared in the parlor.
“Mum.” She answered.
“Has Mr. Rhys arrived?” Mrs. Hopkins asked.
“No, mum. No one has.” She said.
Mrs. Hopkins pulled a note from her apron. “I will need for you to go to the Players Club on Twentieth Street and inquire after Mr. Rhys please.” And she extended her hand with the note.
“And dress warm. I will need all the help well in this house.” She added. “No one can afford to be ill. There will a lot of work in the coming days.”
Nell went to the ground floor foyer and wrapped herself in a thick wool cape and hat. She stuffed the note in her pocket and was out the door in a flash. Mrs. Hopkins stood at the window watching as Nell disappeared into the storm. Nell was expendable, Mrs. Hopkins thought. Not that she was hard and uncaring but if Nell did not return it would be upsetting yet she could still conduct the business of the house without too much interruption. She could hear Margaret in the kitchen preparing for tea and Mr. Watkins, the butler, was quietly adjusting the clocks in the house to reflect the correct time by his Swiss pocket watch. Mrs. Hopkins steely reserve began to melt. The color in her face leeched out and she was pale and her concern turned to fright and dread. As Mr. Watkins quietly entered the parlor Mrs. Hopkins turned to hide her face.
“Any word?” He said almost whispering. Mrs. Hopkins response lodged in her throat and instead of answering with a steadfast ‘no’. She began to slowly crumble from the inside out. The tears began to stream down her face and her body slowly reverberated with emotion. Mr. Watkins quickly moved to her and she fell into his arms. She could no longer pretend to be as strong as she projected.
“There, there. There, there, now. You’ll worry yourself sick.” He said softly and pulled out a crisp handkerchief to dab away her tears.
“She’s my only child.” Mrs. Hopkins whispered.
“Yes. She’s everyone’s only child.” He replied. “She’s with Mr. Jones. He’s a hearty Scotsman as you know. He would not let anything happen to her. Come now, Miriam. Let’s have our tea.” And he escorted her to the large kitchen where Margaret had prepared the servant’s afternoon meal.
The beef stew at the Court Street Inn was hearty and hot and Mr. Jones had almost finished his second bowl while sitting in the back room. A glass of beer and a basket of butter rolls accompanied the only meal he might get today.
“Will you be needing a room, Mr. Jones?” Jack the Innkeeper asked.
“Are you daft? I have to go back to the manor when I finish.” He said. He sat in the back windowless room where there was a raging fire on the huge hearth.
“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere today or even tomorrow.” Jack said and he wandered into the front of the Inn with Mr. Jones following close behind.
“What the Sam hell?” He murmured. “When did this start?” He asked anxiously as he quickly gathered his hat and coat.
“About a quarter ago. It came on fast like a squall.” Jack replied.
“I have to go!” Mr. Jones said and he was almost out the door and into the blinding storm when Jack grabbed his arm.
“You’ll freeze!”
“Let go!” Ian said.
“Don’t you have a heavier coat or a scarf?” Jack asked.
“Of course not---it was spring when I woke up this morning. I have to fetch Mrs. Rhys!” He snapped and leaned into the blistering cold. Jack followed close behind with a wool muff and a long tweed coat.
“Don’t be an idiot! Take these.” And he handed the extra clothing to Ian and ran back into the Inn. “Good Luck.” Ian heard Jack say through the roar of wind. The livery stable was only a few blocks away and Mr. Jones hoped that the stableman, seeing the state of the weather, would have unhitched the horses from the landau. He turned the corner and only a few men clutching their thin frock coats scrambled through the streets trying to reach their destinations before freezing. Mr. Jones was confident that Victoria had found her way back to the kitchen at the house and stoked the small fire for some comfort. He had stacked a small cord of kindling for that fireplace. He was angry at himself for not hauling in more wood when he was there earlier. What wood there was lined the outside of the house and would be frozen and hard to burn. He knocked on the carriage doors and a teenaged boy poked his head through a window.
“Let me in. I need my horse.” Mr. Jones commanded. After a moment a large Irishman slid the door open momentarily for Ian to slip inside. The stablemen had a fire lit in an old barrel at the corner of the barn.
“I need my bay mare.” Mr. Jones said. The Irishman, Ned, looked at him aghast.
“You can’t be takin’ that poor animal out into this blizzard.” He said quietly.
“I have to get to me lady. She’s alone in the flatlands at the manor.” Ian pleaded.
“You can’t even see to the corner, man!” He exclaimed. “Do ye even know which way to go?”
“”I have to get to her!” Mr. Jones said. “She’s alone…with child.”
Ned looked at him long and hard. Then he turned to the boy, “Saddle her up.”
“But Ned---“ the boy said surprised.
“Do what the man said! Saddle the mare up!” Ned ordered. Ian warmed his hands by the lit barrel and in a minute or so the boy led the mare out into the front. Ian moved close to the horse and patted the animal lovingly. He shoved a few coins into the boy’s hand. Then he mounted the mare and signaled for Ned to slide the carriage doors open. The horse backed itself up and needed to be coaxed into the weather. Ian handled her and eased her out into the white ‘no man’s land’. Within seconds Mr. Jones and the mare disappeared. The boy slid the doors shut and Ned shook his head.
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