All the kindling and most of the wood next to the kitchen window had been consumed in the wood burning stove. It had been stoked since midmorning by Mr. Jones and except for the hours lost in the snow that afternoon it had been fed consistently to keep the drafty room warm. Victoria huddled next to the stove under a blanket, tired and worried. She had vowed not to let her mind wander to morbid thoughts or frightful outcomes. When she found herself at the precipice of grief she closed her eyes and let her hands caress her soft belly and the promise of life. She was four months along and she was not showing in her clothing, but undressed her abdomen protruded with expectancy. It made her smile and her breath was filled with a new kind of joy. Mr. Jones had not wound any of the timepieces in the house so she did not know the hour. The clocks stopped within minutes of each other long ago and so it felt as though the last day on earth had escaped. All she knew is that she spent several hours under darkness. With the exception of a candle and two lanterns the house was filled with shadows that seemed to crowd her. She rationed the food in the picnic basket only eating when she felt truly hungry. She had about a third of the food left that would have to keep until tomorrow. Surely the storm would be over by then. The fury of a blizzard such as this was something completely foreign. Nor’easters were not common in England and the harshness of the this tempest made her feel as though she were far from civilization making her way through a new world. She nibbled on a bit of cheese and a piece of bread. The wind howled and knocked the shutters against the house. She stopped to listen to the noise and thought she had most certainly heard voices. She jumped up and moved to the window but all she could see was a swirl of blue flakes against the pitch black of night. There was the faint sound of drumming and it seemed as though the rhythm was in sync with her heartbeat. Confined in a solitary place she thought perhaps she was hallucinating. And then the drumming was accompanied by some kind of vocalization. A Chanting of sorts. Victoria put down the basket and gathered her courage. She grabbed a lantern, threw open the pocket doors and wandered into the cold darkness of the house. It rattled and shook in the wind. It creaked and made odd sounds throughout and she felt as though there was a chorus of unseen visitors following her and her small bit of light. Candles. She needed lots of candles. Something reflective. Yes, glass or a mirror would do. She went down into the pantry where these things were stored. It was damp and earthy and held the scent of a cavern. A few potatoes and yams were left in a wood basket. She dumped the vegetables and scooped up nearly twenty candles. From there she took her tiny light and ascended the staircase up to the second floor. The rooms were covered in drop cloths of canvas and filled with cobwebs. It seemed as though the house had sat empty for years. As she moved the dust kicked up and created a small cloud of particulates that shimmered in the soft glow. As she neared the end of the long great hallway she was startled by the face of a man and nearly dropped her light. He was six feet tall and silent as he stood there anchored to his place. Her heart raced and the adrenalin made her move quickly into another room. She peered out around the corner and realized it was the Tammany Indian carved in wood that she and Richard bought when they stopped over in Philadelphia before making their honey-moon journey to Washington DC. Richard was fascinated with the statue. His studio was at the end of the hall and sometimes he would stand there for extended periods studying the effigy. He had done several studies of the great Tammanend, Chief of the Delawares. He was the leader of the Lenni-Lenape nation and a lover of peace and friendship. He established peaceful relations between the Indians and the English settlers of Pennsylvania and was quoted as saying, “that all would live in peace as long as the waters flowed in the rivers and creeks and as long as the stars and moon endure.” Richard vowed someday he would paint a grand portrait on the scale of Courbet in tribute to the great Indian.
Victoria moved to her sitting room and rummaged through the drawers of her desk. She set the candle down for a moment as she searched for shiny surfaces. Nothing. The faint drumming resumed and she moved to the second floor window to see if she could find the source. Again, nothing but the dim blue of snow and wind and darkness. As she turned back around she could see the face of the Indian in the mirror. It was not Tammany but Sitting Bull. She was so frightened she grabbed a book and hurled it at her desk shattering the large mirror that hung on the wall above it. The drumming stopped suddenly. She was now in complete and utter darkness. The candle extinguished, she pulled the large velvet curtain back from the window. The snow with its white/blue reflective qualities offered a very dim glow so that she could try and collect her things. As the pieces of the mirror lay scattered about the floor Victoria’s fear turned into a compulsive ingenuity. She carefully gathered the broken bits and placed them in the basket of candles. Virtually blind she carried the basket in one hand and felt her way out of the room with the other. As she entered the great hallway she could hear chanting again in a foreign gibberish. The pit of her stomach contracted and a wave of fear moved over her. Where was it coming from? She bumped her way through the hall until finally at the edge of the staircase she could see the faint flicker of her candles in the kitchen off the parlor. She moved quickly down the stairs and into the small room. She emptied the basket of shards and candles and then stepped on the basket breaking it down into manageable pieces for the stove. The fire crackled with its new tinder. Victoria busied herself by lighting candles, melting the bottoms so they would stick to her planned surface and placing a mirror shard behind it. The drumming and the chanting seemed to grow closer but she did not let her fear overcome her. She decided she would match the notes of the chant and she sung right along with the disincarnated voices all the while creating a shrine of light. With twenty candles and the magnifying properties of the mirror shards the room was filled with light. A beautiful, soothing almost divine glow. Her mind raced with ideas and she took another lantern into the pantry looking for twine. Nothing. Then she remembered that Margaret liked to knit in her spare hours and so she gathered her courage once again, climbed the stares, nodded to Tammany in the hallway, climbed the servant stairs to the third floor and there in the chifferobe was a basket filled with colored yarn. She grabbed it and darted back down the two sets of stairs and into the kitchen. She pushed more of the broken basket into the stove to heat the room, pulled on her cloak and hat and prepared to make her way outside. She made sure to close the pocket doors so that the candles wouldn’t blow out. As she opened the door to the outside she was blown back. She would not give in. She tied the end of the yarn to the back door, picked up the two lanterns and began to unwind the string as she struggled through the snow. If she could make it to the broken column in the yard then perhaps anyone passing by might see the lantern light and know that someone was at the manor. She would create a beacon for Mr. Jones and for Richard if he were lost in the whiteout. The snow was falling so hard she could not see two feet in front of her. She looked back toward the house and the kitchen glowed like a giant ember casting its yellow brilliance across the yard. The cold wind stung and almost took her breath away. Suddenly something darted past her. It was large and quick and most definitely an animal. As she turned she could see that it was a deer. It hopped twice and disappeared into the darkness. She thought it odd that Brooklyn still had wildlife since it had so many buildings and neighborhoods and now a train system. But, the manor was located in the farmlands not yet acquired by planners and developers. She did not know where she was within the yard. But she knew she could always pull herself back to the house by the twine. A dark figure moved about stealthily and she thought maybe it was a predator. If there were deer in Brooklyn then there might also be wolves. She took a deep breath and tried to ease her anxiety. The shadow grew closer and she thought it might be a good idea to follow the yarn back to the house. She stopped her momentum and realized whatever the figure was it stood upright like a man. Upon further study she recognized Mr. Jones’ deerhunter cap.
“Mr. Jones!?” She said loudly trying to communicate over the rush of wind.
Mr. Jones!!!” She yelled. The figure kept walking towards her silently. Then her thoughts moved to more nightmarish scenarios. She, too, had heard of bands of thieves living in the flatlands. Maybe Mr. Jones had been overtaken by a ne’erdowell. Why does not the man answer? She thought. She turned quickly and tried to make her way back to the light---back to the house and then---
“Victoria!”
She heard the man say. His voice was unmistakable. She faced the cold shadow and his piercing eyes peeked out over the scarf.
“Richard?” She said and she almost fainted there in the snow. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears and she choked back tears. He threw open the magnificent bison robe and engulfed her in a warm and safe embrace.
“I was so worried.” She tried to say through her sobs. Then he kissed her long and passionately.
“Shhhhh. Shhhh. It’s alright.” He whispered.
Then he guided her under his arm and they followed the red yarn up through the frozen yard and into the house.
Margaret sat in the basement reciting verses from the Song of Songs. A few candles dotted the perimeter as Nell was laid out on an old oak door. It had been placed atop two saw horses. It was a make-shift wake and it was all the servants could muster in the midst of the storm. Mrs. Hopkins and Mr. Watkins would come down at intervals to relieve Margaret for a few minutes at a time. Since the butler and the governess were originally part of the London household they were of Lutheran and Presbyterian faith. Much different than the Irish Catholic persuasion that Margaret and Nell shared. So the customs and prayers and vigils seemed foreign to them. Nell was quite new to her position and so her employers, while sympathetic to her loss, did not know her well enough to feel the intense sadness that accompanies the loss of a close friend.
“She’s up in heaven now with Saint Brigit, sure.” Margaret said to no one in particular. “I’ll have to be finding ye’re kinfolk when the storm subsides. Don’t you fret. I’ll make sure the news arrives to ye’re family in Kenmare and that they know exactly where ye’ll be buried.”
“Where will she be buried?” Mr. Hopkins inquired quietly.
“I’m not sure. Probably the potter’s field downtown---but don’t say it out loud.” Margaret whispered. “I doubt if she has enough income for a respectable plot, sure.” Margaret added.
“Why are we whispering?” Mr. Watkins asked bewildered.
“I don’t want her to hear us, naturally.” Margaret replied a bit condescending.
“Oh.” Was all that Mr. Watkins could muster. He turned to Mrs. Hopkins who looked just as confused and shrugged her shoulders before quietly excusing herself from the room. Henry tried to remember the stations of the cross from the one mass he had attended years ago but gave up, bowed awkwardly and mounted the stairs to the first floor. Miriam was sitting by the kitchen fire with a cup of tea. She had already prepared one for Henry and slid the cup and saucer his way as he entered. He sat and sipped quietly. Miriam was pensive as usual. He slid his hand onto hers and she was taken out of her deep contemplation.
“Only God knows when it’s time to go, dear.” He said softly. And for some reason the words rang clear this time. He had finally reached her. Broken through her tough skin to her softness just below. She smiled and her spirit became light and at that moment she knew that wherever Victoria was, she would be alright. It would be right with the world. Seeing Miriam smile Mr. Watkins leaned in and kissed her very softly on the lips. She was surprised and pleased and stunned and amused all at the same time. Then he turned and took the last sip of tea, placed the dishes on the sideboard and walked to the doorway.
“It’s going to be a long night. I’ll be in my chambers.” Then he vanished quietly leaving Miriam astounded at the chain of events of the day.
He shivered as he neared the stove. Victoria filled a bucket with snow from outside and set it atop the iron burner for tea. He was not cold, though. The robe had kept him warm when everything around him had frozen solid. He trembled from the feelings that welled up from deep inside. He shook at the quest he undertook and survived. Just like a sinewy branch caught in the wind he was acutely aware of the forces of nature and even more conscious of some supernatural force that vowed to reunite him with his wife. His face was ruddy from windburn and exposure and he looked like an Indian as he sat there covered in buffalo fur. He was in a daze while the fire crackled and popped. She pulled a chair up close to him and drank in his countenance. She could not pull her gaze away.
“You’re chilled.” She said softly. But he shook his head and slowly bent down and let it rest in her lap against her belly. His body quivered against her and she kissed the top of his head again and again and let her fingers get lost in his thick hair. She noticed the buffalo robe and she realized that her prayers had drifted to some shamanic place in the ethers and someone or something had heeded her thoughts and wishes. She had finally been answered. After a moment Richard looked up.
“I found Mr. Jones.” He said. She knew what he meant and she shuddered. She had known Mr. Jones since she was with Charles. He was a wonderful footman and driver and she would miss him greatly. Her eyes filled up and she wiped them away quickly. She did not want to cry. She was too happy now for sad news. She wanted to bask in the warmth of her husband. There would be another time for mourning.
“I also found the bay…alive.” Richard added.
“Where?” She asked alarmed.
“Somewhere near the drive taking refuge near a tree.” He replied. Then he took the robe and wrapped it about her. For the first time since that morning she was finally warm. He wrapped his arms around her and took her in. He could hear the rhythm of her heart and it felt precisely in sync with his. He could stay there with her forever but he knew that tasks had to be done before he could rest. Richard stood and surveyed the room.
“We can’t huddle around this stove all night. I’ll find some wood even if I have to chop up the furniture and build a large fire in the parlor. We’ll close off the rest of the house and stay the night in the main room.” He said.
“What about the bay?” Victoria asked.
“Once I get the fire going I’ll go out and see if I can find her. Hopefully the wind will have died down by then.” He replied and he went down into the cellar to find a hatchet. She sat quietly enjoying the warmth and even though the storm raged outside the tempest inside was over and she was calm and humbled by the power of love.
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