The bay shivered as Richard led the poor animal to the kitchen. He threw open the door and tried to coerce the equine inside. The small opening startled the horse but with a firm slap to the rump it moved across the threshold, its shod hooves clattering against the flagstone floor. Richard tied the bay to the iron stove and the animal seemed relieved to be out of the weather. The wind continued to howl and the snow fell infinitely. Although potatoes aren’t the best food to feed a mare he gave her the old roots that were no longer fit for human consumption. She nibbled at them happy to have something to eat. He closed off the pocket doors to the small room and wandered into the main parlor. He had built a roaring fire in the huge hearth. Victoria had placed her small candles with the mirror shards all around the space. Coupled with the flames that jumped in the fireplace the room looked like a Buddhist temple or a Hindu shrine consecrated to a festival of light. It was warm and inviting so much so that it seemed that Richard and Victoria co-created this room specifically with the idea that they might never leave. She sat near the fire stirring a large iron pot. Richard had found onions, potatoes, yams and a few carrots fit to eat. They chopped them and added water and let the stew simmer over the flames. Victoria had spread the bison robe on the floor under her and sat near the exquisite fire. The room was so warm that Richard shed his coat and waistcoat immediately. He sat close to her on the buffalo hide.
“Is she alright?” Victoria asked.
“She’ll be fine. She’s having what we’re having.” He joked.
She gave the stew a quick stir and tasted the broth from the wooden spoon.
“Mmmm. I think it’s better than Delmonicos.” She giggled. He smiled and touched her face and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear.
“Did you rest?” He asked. She looked away and nodded. But she had not slept at all. Secretly she was afraid that if she went to sleep even for a few moments she would wake up and realize that the whole thing had been a dream. That perhaps Richard had not arrived in the driving snow and she was still alone in the ghostly manor house to fend for herself. He took the spoon and gave it a quick taste.
“Needs more pepper.” He said and she laughed and gave him a playful shove.
“What are you saying? It’s perfect!” She answered and she glared at him playfully.
“Perfect.” He echoed as he gazed at her.
“Those clothes are wet.” She said concerned as she wiped her hands on her skirt. She got up quickly and took the ball of yarn and fixed it to one side of the room and then tied it off on the corner of a high backed chair. She doubled, even quadrupled it for strength. Richard watched in amused fascination.
“What are you doing?” He asked.
“You have to take those clothes off.” She said.
“And what do you suggest I wear?” He replied laughing.
“Nothing.” She retorted. Then she grew serious. “You’ll catch cold if you stay in those sweaty clothes. So take them off.”
“Now?” He asked.
“Yes. Right now.” She said seriously. He tentatively began to unbutton his shirt. In London he was thin and sinewy yet strong and formidable. She remembered she could see his tendons and veins and he looked like other pale Londoners that seemed under nourished and somewhat unhealthy. It was also the London air. It always seemed dank and thick with smoke and soot. The miasma of British city living could make even the most robust of men and women sickly. When he arrived in America she had asked Mrs. Hopkins and Margaret to fatten him up. There was an endless supply of hearty Irish dishes and the two servants hovered over him like mother hens ensuring that he eat every bite they placed before him. New York was bright and sunny and usually dry. There was never a constant fog that hung like a wet curtain cloaking the inhabitants with illness. New York was a frontier and as a result Richard was muscular and fit and his pallor ripened with color. His belly was no longer concave but flat and filled out. He looked like an American. He looked like a warrior. She draped his shirt over the yarn clothesline.
“Your trousers.” She said matter-of-factly. She noticed the fine black hair that swirled from the center of his chest outward and made a faint line down the center of his stomach to his abdomen his pectoral muscles plump from exercise and strenuous activities. She had been an advocate of health and exercise from hearing the lectures of Dr. Kellogg, a well-regarded health practitioner from Michigan. So she installed a small punching bag in the cellar of the Grove street house and invited boxers to teach Richard the martial art. She insisted he go riding every other day so that he could get used to breathing clear country air. She engaged in regular activities that would benefit her health as well like boating and bicycling. He handed over his trousers and stood there in his long cotton underwear. After a moment she let her fingers slip beneath the drawstring.
“Those are moist as well.” She said softly. “Better give them to me.” And she turned away to give him some privacy.
“What do you propose I wear?” He asked as he slipped the cotton drawers off and handed them to her.
“Nothing.” She giggled. Then she turned to him and said, “Wear what God gave you.”
He was as naked as a newborn and he stood by the fire and felt infinitely better. His cheeks reddened and he pulled his hands around to cover himself.
He was wonderfully endowed even in the cold and the quick sight of him sent a rush through her. She turned away, her cheeks flushed and her mind racing. He turned and took a quilt from one of the couches and wrapped it about his waist. Then he took a seat on the Bison robe and let the warmth of the fire and heat of the moment envelop him.
She found her place next to him and began to ladle out some stew. They took a few bites in silence. The sensual tension between them was molten.
“I’m afraid I might hurt you or…” He said softly. He could be extremely restrictive with himself and his will power amazed her but she acted like a tonic, a spell on him and so his modesty and his restraint were no match for her simple touch or an erotic glance.
“If we’re careful.” She whispered. And her eyes betrayed a longing and a kind of ache that was more emotional than physical. They had been so careful about her pregnancy. Every precaution had been taken to ensure that she would carry the child to term. One of the foresights was abstinence. She was not to engage in anything physically strenuous or emotionally stressful. However, she had endured the stress and extreme physical aspects of the blizzard and found herself no worse for wear. All through the day she let her hands rest on her belly and she knew the unborn baby was alive and well and moving with expectation. She no longer felt sick and her exhaustion vanished when Richard arrived. As they continued to eat their stew Victoria’s mind wandered. The image of him fully naked in the firelight burned into her thoughts. She had never really seen him before. All the other times they had been intimate it was dark or they were under blankets and sheets and consumed with the act of closeness. There was a sense of propriety and perhaps modesty up until now. Where it came from she did not know. Maybe it was his way of showing respect or maybe he did not want her to think him vulgar or loose. Or rather he did not want her to think that he thought of her in a vulgar or loose way. But she wanted to know every aspect of him even the animalistic side that he seemed to hide. She took him in as she sipped her broth and he seemed so innocent at that moment. He was not at all conscious of himself. He was a completely different person than the man most people spoke about. She knew that he let her see his true nature. It was her belief that all humans are born with the innate sense to do good. And he was inherently good. She saw it in the way he gazed at her, cared for her, inquired about her health and made every effort to ensure she felt comfortable. He entertained her and he loved to make her laugh. But most of all it was in his skill and inspired talent as a painter that she found the most pure part of him. She often wondered how he perceived light and life. Was it one large masterpiece with various strokes and colors on certain parts of the artistic plane or were there little paintings within a greater framework each with their own style and expression that formed a great body of work. A colorful animation of a profound and exceptional life.
She took a few more bites of the hearty stew and it restored her beyond expectation. It truly was the source of vitality at that moment. She could taste the earth and the rain and it made her feel so much better. Perhaps she had a craving for the root vegetables since she was carrying another being that needed to be fed. She recalled the sexual exploits of her cousin Catherine. It was through Catherine Burroughs, the famous or infamous grand dame of the British stage, that Victoria was even introduced to Richard. As an actress she was eclipsed only by Ellen Terry and the great Sarah Bernhardt. When Charles wanted to hire a portraitist to paint Victoria’s image is was Catherine who recommended Mr. Rhys. Theirs was a volatile almost abusive relationship that Victoria did not understand. Catherine would regale Victoria with her sexual escapades and most of them had been with Richard, although she did not realize it at the time. True to her word, Catherine did not kiss and tell. She omitted names but left enough clues for her audience to figure out. Eventually Victoria did figure it out but it was well after she had gotten to know Mr. Rhys and so the rumor and innuendo seemed like an afterthought and truly it had nothing to do with their budding friendship.
Victoria was good at being friends. She was attentive, compassionate and giving yet required reciprocation or the balance and harmony that she worked hard to nurture might tip and that could bring about an abrupt end. Charles was her cousin and they were great friends and even though they agreed to an arranged marriage they had never consummated their vows. Come to think of it Victoria had never seen Charles in the nude. He was respectful and conscientious and most of all devoted to their bond. It was like living with one’s brother. He was good to her and that’s all she asked of him.
As a child Victoria was rebellious bucking the conservative views of her parents and wanting very much to create her own life. If she found a partner that would be fine but she would not spend her time looking for a husband. That was the last thing on her mind yet it was the main concern of her wealthy parents. Marriages were like businesses or even alliances and she refused to be a pawn sold off to make the hollow appearances of the family more esteemed. Most of the suitors that had been brought before her were either scrawny adolescent boys so thin and stringy that she thought she might break them if she accidentally bumped into one. The other type were older, portly men with rough whiskers and tobacco breath. They either outlived a first wife or were nearing the end of sowing their wild oats, her being the last oat. They leered at her nubile form in polite and respectable ways but she could see the beastly darkness that resided just behind their eyes. A common practice of the time was to pair up adolescent girls and let them practice with each other in hopes of having some sense of romance when a suitable gentleman came along. She was sent to the Lansdowne estate of Sybil Grant one summer. They were both fifteen and they became fast friends. They compared notes of the awful suitors that came calling looking for an easy marriage with a young girl who most certainly would shake her head yes and remain silent when talk of business or world affairs began. They vowed they would never let themselves be sold into marriage that way. In their bond they found a kind of freedom and trust. And so when Sybil kissed Victoria for the first time on a splendid summer night she rather enjoyed it. She was young and soft and she had never explored her own body before. Somehow it all seemed rather innocent. They were taught that it was impossible for two women to have sex and that practicing on another girl made perfect sense and there was nothing wrong or bad about it whatsoever. And so they became affectionate and stole sweet kisses in the gardens and at grand parties and functions. They would steal away from formal dinners and keep their own company in an upstairs drawing room or in the library or in Sybil’s room. They learned things about their bodies---sensations that were natural and stimulating. That was the extent of Victoria’s exploits until she met Richard. She was twenty-seven when he made love to her for the first time. She had never experienced anything with a man before that night. After the first painful entrance her whole world opened up and she was aware that he was the ‘one’.
As she gazed at him in the firelight there was something about Richard that was androgynous. He was most certainly male and his energy was intoxicating but the way he made love to her she felt as though she had the best of both worlds. He moved in ways that brought about sheer ecstasy. He was gentle yet assertive. He was sensitive yet bold. It was as if he knew every inch of her body before he ever touched her. And he knew exactly how and when to touch her or to move a certain way or to thrust so that the impact was most enjoyable. They were completely alone now. There were no servants down the hall or bells ringing or the need to be quiet for fear someone might hear them. He set his bowl down and gazed at the dancing flames. The wind shook the house and the magnificent structure creaked and moaned under the intensity of the wind. But they were warm and full and together. She reached over and touched his stomach. He smiled, took her hand and kissed her fingers. After a moment she pulled her hand away and gently unwrapped the quilt that was about his waist.
“I want to see you.” She whispered and her gaze was filled with sensual curiosity. He was perfect. Everything in exact proportion. He was shy at first but after a moment he settled into his seated position and drank in her penetrating study. She had seen Greek and Roman statues and pictures in books but nothing compared to the real thing. It wasn’t just his manhood it was his entire body and how he moved. It was his piercing hazel eyes, his generous smile, his strong hands, the fine hair on his forearms, the olive color of his skin and the thick dark mane that framed his face. It was his neatly kempt beard, his soft lips, his soothing voice and his sweet scent. Something about the way he smelled sent her. When he was out of the house and late upon returning she would collect one of his shirts and fall asleep with it. It was a consolation. She drank in every part of him and her gaze was like a ripple in a pond. Each ring emanating outward. He blushed and his body reacted and he pulled the quilt over him.
“I want to see.” She whispered as she caught his arm and moved the quilt away. He was aroused and his breath betrayed his desire. She was entranced and she could barely contain herself. He glistened by the heat of the fire and she could feel herself moving from being pleasantly warm to heated excitement. She leaned into him and touched his leg. She let her hand rest there for a moment. He could not help himself and he kissed her tenderly restraining the rest of himself forcefully. Then out of sheer courage she let her fingers wrap around him and he bowed his head closed his eyes and exhaled deeply in a kind of delirious rapture. She could feel his strength and vitality. And his heart raced with expectation and his breath betrayed a spiraling tension of release. She could hear the drums again and she was not sure if she were lost in a dream, hallucinating or if she perceived the interior sounds of the rhythmic movement they found themselves in. He took her hand away and held it close to his chest. He drank her in. She could tell he did not want to be satisfied just yet.
“There are other ways.” She whispered. “Show me.”
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