There were a few shriveled potatoes left in the wooden box on the back wall of the pantry. He moved some empty crates and discovered a stash of vintage Russian vodka with a slightly aged note attached signed, “In celebration of your blessed nuptials. Warmest Regards Grand Duke Nicholas Romanov”. A foreign dignitary that Richard had no knowledge of and yet the liquor was tempting and he felt grateful for the gift. However, food was the priority. Perhaps later when the dimming of the day began he might partake of a nip. As he moved the cases of enticing spirits he was startled to find more crates filled with preserves in mason jars, more wedding gifts from Americans to the South, no doubt. He pulled pickled beets, and squash and pumpkin. Peach preserves, strawberries and pears and all sorts of jams as well as chutney. Unsure what to feed the horse he opted to give Michelangelo the pumpkin. If the poor bay died from it then he would not have to kill her for her meat. The discovery was a boon and he knew they could subsist for days on the peaches and jams if need be. He looked in on Victoria and she was resting comfortably under the Bison hide. Quietly he moved up to the second floor and brought down the accoutrements of her privy. He pulled a full screen from her bedroom and set it up in the large parlor to give her privacy and then he made another trip up to the second floor opening trunks and sorting through the warmest quilts and bed coverings. He hauled an armload of linens down to the first floor then tip toed into the parlor and stoked the fire. As he stood there silently jabbing the embers into a flame he tried to think of other chores that might be done in order to make their hermitage more comfortable. Perhaps he might collect some books from the immense library in the other wing to pass the time. He had hauled in about a half-day’s worth of fuel to burn earlier that morning. He was glad not to have to go back into the cold for several more hours. Victoria slept soundly and so he made his way back into the kitchen and opened a jar of jam. It was the first sustenance he had had since the night before. There was nothing to spread it on so he found a spoon and ate the sweet jelly right out of its container. As he sat just a few feet from the horse now enjoying its own delicacy of pickled pumpkin he remembered the cold desperate days of his youth in London living at times on the floor of a blacksmith’s shop eating scraps of gristle and mutton. It was rare that a vegetable or a fruit in ripe condition would pass his lips as a child. He ate garbage since that was the only sustenance available. He pondered the moment diving into the subtleties of such irony. Here he was married to one of the wealthiest women in the western world and he was eating jam from a jar in a cold kitchen that had become a temporary stable. He had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Expensive gifts from around the world adorned the walls and closets of the grand manor and yet the most valuable item in the entire place was wood and a simple jar of jam. Man can build castles but the universe can tear them down in the blink of an eye. And as the quiet pervaded the house he realized the grandest part of human existence is the sincerity exchanged between two people, the importance of the truth and the lingering profundity of emotional bliss. ‘You are as good as your word’, Martin had wisely counseled and though Richard had been a bit of dodger, he was not a liar. There was a kind of code in the streets of the East End. If he was apprehended by the police then lying was permitted. But lying among thieves was an entirely different game. You could lose your life or body parts for such offenses. And climbing the ranks of that hierarchy required earning the respect and awe of the others culminating in most certain violence. He was a lover, not a fighter and so his goals were found elsewhere with the fairer sex. He noticed that the bay had finished her pumpkin delight and left ample proof on the floor. He gathered the offending apples and tossed them into the snow. He resealed the mason jar of jam and placed the spoon in the slop sink close to the back door. He had a craving for tobacco and realized he might have some in a pouch stashed away upstairs in his studio. As he climbed the stairs to the second floor landing he saw the wise visage of the great Tamanend standing stoically at the end of the hall. He moved into his studio and found some stale tobacco in a lap drawer of his desk. He rolled the dried leaves and struck a match. The earthy scent of smoke wafted through the air and it brought on a pleasant kind of serenity. From the top floor window he gazed out over the white terrain. He imagined that the Russian tundra might not look much different. It was a white wonderland encased in silent fury. The snow continued to fall but the wind had abated and so the scene was filled with nostalgia and wonder. He half hoped to see children with sleds riding over the low undulating hills or horses pulling a sleigh with great blankets and bells to ring in the fun. His expectations were met with stillness that seemed to echo his insides. He moved back to the threshold of his studio and he gazed at the great Indian chief. He moved around the sculpture slowly and began to wave the smoke over him. He remembered seeing such a ritual at Buffalo Bill’s Wild West when the spectacular event was presented for Queen Victoria’s jubilee in London the year before. The dark natives smoked their peace pipes and then bathed themselves in the cleansing white fumes. It fascinated him and somehow made sense. Being an orphan, Richard was not raised in any particular religious belief and so the whole world offered up a kind of hodge podge of cosmic justice. Sadistic priests, cruel vicars and mean preachers had eradicated any belief in a savior. Richard’s evolving process of the spirit meant that one can only save one’s self. The proof would be in the actions taken and the causes served and the people changed for the good. There was something keenly familiar in the tribal practices of the Indians that Richard felt a kinship with and though he did not believe in saints or idols he thought it might not hurt to try and pray. Perhaps the Great Tammany could intervene on his behalf. He stood in front of the great carving and submitted himself by bowing his head. The rhythmic sounds of faint drums could be heard and it resounded in the thick walls of the house. He wondered if he was hallucinating. Perhaps his fervor was so great that he manifested real sounds from nowhere. He kept his eyes closed and imagined the great chief coming to life. And so he formed these words in his head: Great Tamanend I humbly ask you to intercede with the Great Spirit on my behalf. With utter humility and profound gratitude I pray that my beloved wife recover and that our child live. And I shall remain indebted to you and the almighty forever and ever.
At that moment he heard the unmistakable sound of an owl. It sounded like a cat in heat but nevertheless, he moved quickly to the window and searching the landscape he found nothing. He cocked his head and gazed upward and just under the eve of the third floor he saw the white spotted owl. It hooted once more and then took flight. Its wingspan reaching at least six feet across. It was magnificent and the air lifted it with great ease. It soared for a moment on the snow-laced wind and Richard could see that it had its prey clutched firmly in its talons. A weasel or ferret of some kind had been disemboweled, its bright red entrails dangling in the air scattering droplets of blood in the pristine snow below. The great bird landed and perched across the yard in a naked oak tree continuing to tear into the rodent. He contemplated the owl for a moment and wondered if it might be the same owl that led him through Prospect Park the night before.
Victoria stirred and after a moment realized Richard must be outside or in another part of the house. Her back ached again and she had to make water. She carefully lifted herself and used her arms to preserve her abdominal muscles. When she sat up she was surprised to find the room in order with all of her things close by. After a moment she got up on her feet and peered behind the screen to find her privy and she hastily moved over it and relieved herself. She averted her eyes for as long as she could until she absolutely had to look and the water was clear. Upon closer inspection she found that there was no trace of blood or other discharge. She was so happy she felt as though she could squeal with delight but she kept her head about her and moved back to the pallet. Once there she realized that Richard had prepared one of the couches for her, draping several blankets and positioning a few pillows. She opted for the cushion of the couch even though the bison hide held strong sentiment. They would sleep together under the buffalo robe when night fell but for now she would convalesce on the furniture. She settled in under the quilts and bedcovers and she was immediately warm and comfortable. She could not wait to tell Richard the good news. There was no guarantee that it would not happen again, though, and so she took every precaution to be still and recumbent preserving the peace within. She noticed that Richard had also brought down a small stack of books and one title caught her eye. She had read it before but she had the unquestionable urge to reread the pages perhaps discovering something new within the story. It was Washington Irving’s The Last of the Mohicans. She thumbed through the pages and old engravings and illustrations leapt out of the binding further inciting her curiosity. She heard a rhythmic beat that she attributed to her vivid imagination. But the drumming seemed to grow and she wondered if it came from the same source the night before. It seemed to happen when she was alone and lost in thought. Perhaps it was her heartbeat reverberating through her head and ringing through her ears. But then suddenly the rhythm would change and it would not reflect the heart but something deeper that had no structure or order. It was as if she was listening to nature itself, the very source that ruled the earthly plane. Her eyes settled upon the image of a Mohican man and for a moment the man resembled Richard. She mused at the idea of Richard dressed in Native costume. He was more American than he knew. He would adapt well to his new country, possibly better than she. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. He could excel here and achieve much more than he could in Europe. He could reach his goals faster and with more grace and skill. And she was proud of him and felt the unquenchable need to nurture his dreams.
Mrs. Hopkins woke up late. It was quite unusual for her as she routinely rose with the sun and sometimes before that. It was mid morning and she dressed herself quickly wondering how the house operated without her. Her cheeks grew flushed with shame that she had disappointed not only herself, but also the rest of the servants. Thump, thump, thump and she made her way down the stairs at lightning speed. She rounded the corner of the servant’s kitchen to find breakfast ready and Margaret, Henry and two Irish workers drinking tea.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Hopkins.” Mrs. McBride said cheerfully.
“Morning.” She replied sheepishly. She took a seat at the table and seemed heavy with guilt.
“It’s still snowing.” Henry said softly.
“Must be two meters, sure.” One of the Irishmen added.
“Pass the milk, please.” Miriam requested and Margaret exchanged a look with Henry. One of the Irishmen gladly moved to pass the cream as Henry leaned in close.
“You mustn’t be hard on yourself. You needed the rest. We all did.” He said whispering.
“I shall pay a visit to the undertaker today.” Miriam said.
“It’s still blowin’ there, sure.” The other Irishman warned.
“No one has any reason to leave this house until the weather changes for the better.” Henry stated taking command. “It would be a danger.”
“We cannot keep Nell in the cellar---“ She began.
“Why not? It’s cold down there. She’ll keep.” Mrs. McBride replied.
“I don’t think she’ll mind much either.” One of the Irishmen added.
“Have you no remorse---have you no decency or sense of reverence for the dead!” Mrs. Hopkins exploded. She stood as she made her point and the entire table was stunned into silence.
“She’s dead.” Miriam said. Then she sat down slowly and her nerves were raw and her senses overwhelmed and her grief ripened. “..because of me.” She whispered and then a wave of despair washed over her and the tears flowed with such ease that her face turned pink and her nose ran and her eyes seemed to swell shut.
“There, there, now…There, there.” Margaret cooed. “’Tis no one’s fault. No one can be blamed for it, sure. An unfortunate accident, it was.”
“Sure. T’was most unfortunate.” The Irishman echoed. “It was her time.”
“She was so young----“ Mrs. Hopkins cried.
“Tink of it this way, missus. If she hadn’t gone out be herself in the snow. Then she might’ve fallen down the stairs and broken her neck.” The Irishman offered.
“Or she might’ve caught herself on fire here in the kitchen---and burned up.” The other Irishman said. “A most gruesome end, sure.”
“Or she might’ve choked on a piece of bread and fallen right here on this very spot.” Mrs. McBride added. The horror on Mrs. Hopkins face seemed etched to her very core. She clutched at her chest and tried to find her breath. She could not believe what she was hearing from people who knew and loved Nell.
“The city is paying a good wage to shovel the snow and clear the streets so we’ll be making our way to the sanitation offices.” The large Irishman said. His partner nodded as they collected their winter coats and caps and thanked Margaret for her kindness.
Miriam moved quickly into the parlor hoping to find peace in her solitude but it would be short-lived. Mr. Watkins followed close behind.
“I’d very much like to be alone, if you please.” Miriam said.
“No you wouldn’t.” Henry said and he sat down beside her as his hand rested compassionately on her back. “This is about Mrs. Rhys, isn’t it?” He asked quietly. Miriam sobbed and buried her head in his chest. “Well then. You must believe.”
Richard deftly removed the open book from Victoria’s chest. He glanced at the spine and a smile spread across his face. Then as he was about to put the book away he saw her soft doe eyes gazing at him. She held out her hand and he sat on the edge of the couch.
“How are you feeling?” He whispered. She did not answer but drank in his countenance. She pulled him close to her and she bathed in his presence, her hand lovingly caressing his cheek. The moment rife with something infinite, the soft pad of her finger brushed his lower lip lingering there with a potent sensuality. And he could feel everything in his being rise as if lifted up by the sacred force that brings about night and day. He had the overwhelming urge to kiss her…passionately. But then he was afraid he might miss something important and so he trained his rapt attention to every detail of her movement, every facet of her being. “I shall know you again.” She said cryptically. And he was not sure what she meant by ‘know’. His face revealed his perplexity. Perhaps she meant ‘know’ in the biblical sense and that there would be more children.
“I shall know you again in the future in a different time and a different place.” And the words took his breath away because her belief intimated eternity. That they would always find each other somehow and continue the potent, soulful relationship that was born before time and that could not be broken no matter how hard the external circumstances and fears. Words like ‘destiny’, ‘fate’ and ‘justice’ flitted through his mind and he felt a kind of expansion as if the house had suddenly become the whole world. He felt inexplicably triumphant. Everything spread outward and encompassed the whole of feeling. Perhaps they really could defy death, he thought and then it turned into an esoteric knowing. And a sublime calm pervaded their discourse. She turned away for a moment caught up in her thoughts.
“What is it?” He asked.
“I like to dance…but Charles did not and he wasn’t very good at it.” She said almost to herself filing through memories from the past.
“I’ll dance.” He said and he smiled a large Cheshire cat grin. Then the drumming returned and it was evident that she heard the same rhythm.
“Where is it coming from?” She whispered and they tried to pinpoint the source. Then suddenly Richard jumped up and strode quickly out of the room and bound up the stairs to the second floor. He stopped at the landing and studied the huge wooden carving of the Indian Chief anchored at the end of the hall. And as he gazed at the statue the clouds broke and a faint ray of sunlight crept in and stretched across the floor at Tammany’s feet. As fast as it had appeared it disappeared under cover of clouds and the wind picked up and pushed violently against the house and the snow fell hard again, the outside obscured in a white fury. He had witnessed a sliver of hope manifesting in sight and sound. No matter what might happen they would endure.
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