Margaret had fallen asleep, the Bible resting precariously on the edge of her lap. There was a rattling sound and she opened her sleepy eyes. Nell was laid out for the make shift wake and the candles had burned down so low they flickered dimly casting bizarre shadows on the cellar walls. The storm still swirled and churned outside. She could hear the old townhouse move restlessly on its foundations. Sitting on the other side of Nell was an old woman. She had white hair and dark skin. Margaret thought perhaps an old Italian lady who had become acquainted with Nell had braved the weather to pay her respects. The ancient woman prayed and her head was bowed. Then Margaret noticed that the woman was not dressed in typical city fashion. She wore a deerskin bodice with intricate beading and dyes that outlined primitive pictograms. The hide of another bovine draped across her shoulders to keep the chill at bay. Margaret studied her calmly and as the woman lifted her head to the candlelight she was not Italian at all. She must be a ‘celestial’ as she had high cheekbones and her eyes seemed buried in the folds of her skin. The old woman noticed Margaret and she smiled kindly and put her palms up as if to pray. She clasped her hands fingers intertwined and shook them as if to communicate. “You must say ‘Thank you Ansa.” The woman whispered.
“Thank you Ansa.” Margaret mimicked weakly.
“Thank you Ansa, please.” The crone corrected.
Thank you Ansa, please.” Margaret echoed. She grew anxious and as she formed her lips to call Mrs. Hopkins she jumped and found herself completely awake and out of breath, the ancient woman a memory from some soul wandering of a previous dream. She got up and inspected the body to find everything as it was. But the image played in her mind and she thought maybe the vision was a sign. Perhaps Mr. Rhys had arrived at his destination and found company with Victoria at the manor house. Her heart raced for a moment and she was pleasantly warm and somehow she knew that her body was telling her that her dream was correct. But who was Ansa and why did they need to be thanked? She quickly moved up the stairs to the first floor. Everything was quiet except for the fierce wind blowing against the windows. Everyone in the house had retired. Driven by her curiosity Margaret climbed to the top floor and gently rapped on Mr. Watkins’ door. She was aware that Henry had taught Latin to schoolboys in his youth and also spent time in India serving in the British Army. Perhaps he might have some clue as to the meaning of the word or name. After a moment he opened his door bleary-eyed.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Watkins.” She said.
“It is after midnight, Mrs. McBride. Has something happened?” He asked perking up.
“No—no. I just had a question that I thought you might answer.” She said cheerfully. He glared at her.
“Who or what is Ansa?” She asked. He seemed confused for a moment and then resigned he said, “You’d better come in.”
Richard reclined on the bison robe spread out in front of the great fire the hair like rich, fine grass rooted to the hide that was earth. The candlelight flickered and glistened and the room felt sacred as if they were alone in the holy of holies fashioning their own covenant made from the ethers that gently moved in and out like bellows strengthening the fire. He was shy before his wife. Perhaps because his feelings ran so deep and touched those things that move like water far below. He resisted covering himself again and Victoria took in every inch of his physique mapping out those places where her emotions kindled. Places that might seem unimportant like the bend of his arm, his bicep, the back of his neck and the cowlick that twisted and curled on the left side. She let her hand glide across his ankle and find its way over his arch and under his instep finally resting near his middle toe. He watched her as she spent a long time perusing the muscles, sinews and tendons of his hand. An entire personality might reside there in its grace and beauty. How he held her, the way he expressed himself, and the delicate poise with which he painted all lay right there in the intricate foundation of their union. She moved close to the fireplace and stood looking at the flames her form slight with a small protrusion at her belly. He watched as she began to unbutton her bodice. She was so lovely that he almost had to avert his eyes. She hung her bodice on the yarn clothesline turned, caught his eye and with a kind of deliberate sensuality slipped off her camisole and let the firelight spill across her chest. She was ample and taut with expectancy. She was small and pink in the center and round and fleshy beyond. He held her gaze and her eyes betrayed a smoky allure. He could not help himself and he got up and let his eyes rest on her belly. Then he softly laid his hands on her abdomen in hopes of feeling the life within move and tumble in her fluid. He kissed her neck and he could feel her bare breasts against his chest and he let his hands cup them tenderly. She was full and she was aroused and her breathlessness betrayed her desire. A wave of excitement engulfed him and his hips automatically moved of their own accord into her and he found himself tangled in the folds of her skirt. She discovered him and held him for a moment in order to find a rhythm and he lost himself in her lips and her hair and he thought he might take her right then and there. And she would let him. But he remembered what Mrs. Hopkins had said. That she was delicate and she had been advised not to conceive. To have a child could quite possibly take her life. He would not let his desire of the moment endanger his life-long passion: To be with her until they were at the end of their existence. He held her close and let her handle him as it seemed to fill her with an unstoppable passion. To keep himself from reaching his peak he let his mind wander and the memory of reuniting with her at the edge of a lake in late autumn sent him reeling with sentiment and profound knowing.
“So much has happened. I did not know that I could feel something so profoundly, beyond all my expectations…” She had said. And she asked him to marry her. It was completely unconventional but he was without means, an immigrant in a new land with nothing to offer. She was everything. And for the first time he could empathize with the plight of women trying to make their way in a world that was built by men for men. What he did not know at that time was that she had been pregnant and lost the child and nearly died from the experience. Months before they had consummated their affair in London. Then suddenly Victoria left for New York and he could not understand why. She claimed that she and Charles were obligated by their reform work. Victoria was trying to save everyone but herself. Avoiding a scandal she planned to spend her pregnancy in America. When Richard was made aware that he had been a father-to-be and then lost, he could feel his insides cave in the ground beneath him shook and he heaved with grief. Mrs. Hopkins swore him to secrecy and Victoria never told Richard she had lost their first child. It would be too hard for her to speak of it and it would be too grievous for him to hear it. He felt that from then on parental responsibility would rest on his shoulders.
On Little Christmas of 1888 Victoria dressed in a formal midnight blue ball gown and was escorted by Richard to the Metropolitan Opera. During intermission they nodded to familiar acquaintances and smiled to family friends from their orchestra seats. Then Victoria leaned in and whispered, “I’m with child.” Her smile was filled with light and anticipation and adventure. She adored him and the new baby would make her regard deepen into an indescribable reverence. He kissed her and his eyes welled up and then he said, “I think I might take in the night air for a moment.” He left and stood out in front of the theatre, smoked a cigarette and told every stranger passing by that night that he was going to be a father. Then he resumed his seat beside her and held her hand for the entire second act. He noticed that her hand was trembling but when he watched her as she enjoyed the performance she was as steady as a stone.
Martin the tosher was a collector. Some would have called him a horder, rag picker, mudlark, dodger or junk man but he had amassed an amazing collection of objects de art and books. Some of them had only a few pages still attached to the binding. To anyone else it might seem like a piece of trash kept only to light fires. To Martin there was always a treasure to be found within words and random pages. Besides the serials of Charles Dickens and the Civil War accounts in Harper’s Weekly and the London Times articles of the Indian wars in America, he had a section of shelves that he kept behind a screen that he rigged with a crude lock. The odd books and pages he had accumulated related to the art of alchemy. Richard had always thought it impossible to actually create gold from lead. It was a fairy tale passed on by generations hoping for a better life. Afterall they had entered into the Age of Reason with science being the religion of choice. Martin explained that the true prize is in the recipe…the doing, the acting, the thought that goes into the task. The musings were the luxury of the leisure class, Richard thought until Martin began to describe ten hidden suns behind the sun we see every day. This was intriguing. From then on Richard always wondered what lie beyond the golden orb. It was so bright that no one could see a thing. What does it mean to ‘see’? To ‘see’ beyond the sun? Martin asked and that was the tiny fishhook that slowly reeled Richard in. Because Martin routinely collected his treasures from the mud of the Thames at low tide the other toshers and bone pickers referred to him as the Fisher King. The last Richard saw of Martin was on a wintry day when he had pinched a German grimoire from a bookshop near Drury Lane. He was caught and imprisoned. Richard was only fifteen at the time and had no way of freeing his friend from incarceration. So Richard had to move to the next grift or the next dodge to continue surviving in the wastelands of East London. He probably died many years ago, Richard thought, and the image of his friend Martin the fisher king was vivid and filled him with a mild melancholy.
“Maybe we should rest.” Richard whispered between tender kisses.
“Are you sleepy?” Victoria asked and her passion was still strong.
“Not really.” He replied. Then he got up and put more wood on the fire. She lay down on the Buffalo hide and her belly caught the dancing light of the stoked fire. He stood there for a moment taking in the vision of his wife and delighting in her loveliness. She was at the center of the world the bison robe, the firmament. His own body was awakened by her pulchritude. She turned after a moment and it seemed as though no words need be spoken. Her eyes conveyed her request. ‘teach me’. And so he lay down beside her and kissed her until their skins were on fire. He pulled her close to feel himself against her. Suddenly she stood and began to unfasten the skirt and slip that now felt binding. The fabric fell in a heap and she kicked it out of the way like a schoolgirl. She gazed down at him as if issuing a challenge. He sat up on his knees and slowly, very slowly began to pull away the silk bloomers that kept her hidden. After a moment she seemed a bit tentative.
“I want to see you.” He said and he winked and her challenge was met. The bloomers disappeared and she lay down beside him and surrounded by the buffalo fur they were like two newborns discovering each other.
Mr. Watkins room was warm with a decent sized fire. Mrs. McBride lit several candles to give them light. On a small shelf in the corner Mr. Watkins had his own private library filled with books he had acquired on various trips to foreign countries along with his collection of Shakespeare, Moliere, The Divine Comedy and Milton’s Paradise Lost. He also had a copy of the Apocrypha, an ancient esoteric Christian text omitted from the King James’ version of the Bible. His Latin books and English dictionaries finishing out the bottom tier. He had several books spread out across his small bed. His eyes squinting through his spectacles he exclaimed, “aha!”
“In Latin ‘Ansa’ means handle.” He said. Well that did not make any sense to Margaret.
“Handle as a verb? Or a noun.” She asked.
“A noun. A handle for a vase or a pot, that’s the appropriate usage.” He replied.
Margaret’s face crinkled in frustration. It did not make sense.
“May I ask what this is about?” Mr. Watkins said rubbing his eyes and wishing to go back to bed.
“I saw an old woman down in the cellar…with Nell. She had white hair and she looked ancient. I think she might have been Indian or something.” She explained.
“We’re all very tired and upset, Margaret---“ He began.
“Do not patronize me, Mr. Watkins. I know what I saw and I know that she wanted me to know something. And so I am here asking for your help. If you feel this is a fleeting fancy of an old Irishwoman then I shall leave you be, BUT I will get to the bottom of this mystery with or without you.” And she got up from the chair and started to make her way out of the room.
“Broadway was an old Indian trail.” He blurted out. “It extends from the tip of the island all the way up to Kingston New York if not further. We’re only a few blocks from the original path.” He said a bit exasperated. She stopped in the doorway and smiled.
“I knew you’d come ‘round.”
The fire was all consuming and the heat it gave off felt like the rays of the summer sun. Richard held her face in his hands and kissed her and then he slid down and gently moved her legs apart. Victoria was a bit nervous as she did not know what to expect. He kissed the inside of her thigh and inch by inch moving a little closer brought her almost to the edge of ecstacy. She moved in tandem and with each kiss her breath grew more expectant and ready. Until suddenly he kissed her there gently at first and she thought she might faint from the sensitivity and the pleasure. She unknowingly arched her back and as his skill quickened she felt things she had never thought possible. He moved deeper and with precision. It was that same place she discovered as a fifteen year old with Sybil but without experience or attraction it lies somewhat dormant. Now she was fully awakened beyond anything she had ever experienced even her first time with Richard. He buried himself in her and he let his acumen climb to ever greater passion. He handled himself and it helped him feel closer as if he were inside of her. It drove him wild with intensity. He kissed her in that place with a zeal even he did not know. And she tasted sweet. Everything about her slid into a part of his soul that would be intertwined forever, even beyond death. And then it dawned on him. He could ‘see’ beyond the sun. He finally understood what lay past the golden orb. His love for her deepened and found its anchor there. The world as they knew it faded away and they lived for a brief time in a bubble of golden light – a hidden sun made manifest- as the winter storm raged on.
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