As Richard entered the house just after Nell he was stunned to see Mr. Watkins sitting in the kitchen reading the paper with a cup of tea. It was warm out. A fire in the kitchen made the house absolutely uninhabitable and sweltering. A glass of ale would be the fitting beverage of choice Richard thought.
“Mr. Watkins, sir. If you please.” He said. Henry never looked up from his paper. Richard found this disconcerting and was about to confront the head butler when he heard Nell yell out from down the hall.
“Leave him --- he can’t see you anyway.” Nell said loudly. She walked quickly through the house clomping with her thick-soled shoes and made her way down the stairs to the cellar. As Richard entered the basement all he found was Nell’s lifeless body lying on a door that had been taken off its hinges, a makeshift slab for the poor girl’s corpse. A few candles had burned down and a Bible rested on the old wicker chair.
“Nell?” He whispered but he was aware that she would not answer. She was quite dead. When he touched her she was as cold as the walls that preserved her. It was all so strange. He could see his own breath and he felt colder than he had ever felt before even on the Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of the storm. His fingers were numb and his forearms tingled with pins and needles. He wondered---hoped he was dreaming but as he turned to move up the stairs he saw his father standing there in the very same clothes he had drowned in almost twenty years before. He shook his head from side to side.
“Da?” Richard murmured. Again the man shook his head.
“Ye have to go home, son.” He said.
“Home.” Richard repeated unsure what his father meant. Did he mean Ireland? London? Or his country home in the flatlands? He was at home here in Manhattan. It was all so confusing. His head spun and his stomach felt queasy.
“To ye’re wife, sure. She’s wretched with grief over ye.” He added. “This one. She was your cousin. A wee babe when we sailed for Liverpool, sure.” The information shocked Richard and he stood there for a moment trying to take it all in.
“Such a pity, tsk, tks.” The man added. The new scullery maid was a relation of his. What were the odds in a country so vast with so many opportunities that little Nellie would end up working for her only surviving cousin. He wondered if she ever knew. He gazed at her gray white face and colorless lips. Her eyes had sunken a little and her hair was brittle now. Her hands folded over her heart were stiff with rigor mortis and her rosary beads tucked just inside the palms with the crucifix neatly arranged on her abdomen caught a flicker of light from the stairwell.
“Have I died, da?” Richard asked softly.
“Not yet…Go home.” And the man turned and slowly made his way up the cellar stairs leaving Richard alone with Nell once again.
Ashley arrived a little early to get a table near the window. She didn’t like crowds and sometimes the restaurant that had been chosen could get overrun with trendy dinner patrons. She had a slight claustrophobia that at times became acute when positioned in a corner of a busy eatery with people blocking her way to the exit or bathroom. So she was a little high strung. It only added to her list of eccentricities. She tried not to dramatize it like other people in the family. When she felt anxious she merely stated her discomfort and then attempted to quietly correct the perceived imbalance. Either that or she would step outside to get a breath of fresh air until the anxiety subsided. For Ashley it all came down to being fully engaged. If she were not completely captivated by the people or the place or the moment then her innate sense of wonder took over and like divining rods searched for the person place or thing that could enrapture her. However, her southern upbringing and stringent code of etiquette forbade her from being rude or inconsiderate of others. Perhaps both sides of her coin were working at cross purposes and her panic resulted from a perceived coarseness. She found her spot at the restaurant---a table in the window near the front door. Perfect. In case of a fire she could be one of the first ones out. Ridiculous! It was irrational and she knew it but she didn’t care. She was too young to be old and the idea of mortality fueled her choices more and more as time marched on. She thought perhaps she might be obsessive compulsive. But that turned out to be wrong. She didn’t wash her hands one hundred times a day and avoid stepping on cracks in the sidewalk. Sometimes she’d forget to wash her hands altogether and go out in public with oil paint stains under her fingernails and in the crevices of her skin. As for cracks she stepped on them and even walked on the steel grating that covered vents in the sidewalks, a dangerous exercise since at least once a month someone was falling through them and needing to be rescued. There was a fearlessness about her in some areas of her life. She was not safe. And no one could say that about her. She was trustworthy and comforting but not safe. And she wasn’t boring either. When she felt inclined she could engage in a conversation about anything and make it seem like the most fascinating thing on earth. She was a good listener if the other person was willing to talk. She could listen in silence as well summing up a person by the information they withheld and the way they carried themselves. She could have been a detective but the mystery she was interested in solving was the universe itself.
She caught sight of a woman on the other corner across the street. As the woman moved Ashley realized it was Victoria. She wondered what Victoria was doing in Chelsea. Maybe she lived in Manhattan and commuted to the huge white house for work. She remembered she needed to make a note and scribbled down, ‘Call James, Peter and Felix about the columned house in Brooklyn.’ James and Peter were two artists from Texas she had gone to school with that now worked and flourished in New York City. And Felix was another Texan she had been engaged to briefly a few years before. He was an investment banker but his life at work was more important than a relationship and so they agreed to be friends. It was funny because Ashley saw more of Felix when they became compatriots than when they were a couple. She would need all of the guys help to get the wooden Indian out of that house if it, indeed, were scheduled for demolition. When she looked up again she noticed that Victoria seemed to be moving towards the restaurant. Her gait was the same as earlier in the day even though she was wearing jeans. That same sensual pleasantness washed over Ashley as she studied her. At that moment she realized that she had been watching Chelsea. Her face came into sharp focus as she made her way through the front door of the restaurant.
“Hi. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” Chelsea said smiling as she slung her purse over the back of the chair.
“No, no. Not at all.” Ashley said and she realized she was staring and quickly grabbed for her glass of water.
“You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.” Chelsea said as she situated herself and picked up the menu to peruse. Chelsea was nervous. Her hands trembled a little and it was magnified by the paper menu she held. It shook like a leaf in the wind. As Chelsea caught Ashley’s astute eye she giggled and shrugged.
“Low blood sugar. I’m famished.” She said as she averted her eyes and set the menu down. But Ashley knew better.
“I have so much to tell you.” Chelsea said as she gazed over the entrée selections.
“So do I.” Ashley replied.
“You first.” Chelsea said quickly.
“Well. You know I said I had to deliver some baked goods to a friend in Brooklyn earlier.” Ashley began.
“Mmm, hmmm.” Chelsea murmured.
“A few weeks ago I went on the house tour in my neighborhood and I stumbled upon this huge almost southern plantation looking house with columns and everything. And the woman who seemed to be with the historical society, I don’t know, she must’ve been a reenactor or something because she was dressed in Victorian garb, she seemed really troubled. It was at closing time and so she asked me to come back and so I did and brought some cookies because I thought it would cheer her up and---“
“Aw, that was sweet of you.” Chelsea interjected.
“So when I went back earlier today she was there. And I asked her what her name was and she said Victoria---“ Ashley continued.
Chelsea choked on the water she was sipping and she reached out and took Ashley’s hand. And before she could speak that same feeling washed over her of her most fervent unknown wish fulfilled and a kind of unending joy and bliss but this time there was a physical element to it. And as she gazed at Ashley still talking she could see that man, Richard Rhys that had appeared to her, in Ashley’s eyes. Something clicked and that moment and the feeling and the emotions all locked into place as if something had lain dormant for twenty-seven years or even a hundred years. She was awakened somehow. There was an electric connection that gathered its power from some divine all knowing force.
“---And the park worker said the house is going to be torn down.” Ashley said softly. And as the last bits of sound escaped her mouth she could feel Chelsea’s hand on hers. Chelsea had stopped listening and it was evident that she was now searching. Ashley could hear the hum of the intertwining. And the waves of sensation began to roll through her. It was that same feeling of being on the ocean. The same sensation when Victoria had taken her hand to show her the Indian. Yet it was no longer platonic. In the ‘now’ it had become corporeal.
“The painter. Rich, Richard…uh, Rhys.” Chelsea stumbled. “He was married to Victoria Thornton.” Chelsea said and the words collided with Ashley’s ears like huge gongs and her heart raced and her face grew hot and she sipped at her water as if parched. She was speechless. And the two women sat there searching each other without a word maneuvering a maze that transcended time and space. Ashley saw Victoria and Chelsea stared into the current face of Richard Rhys.
His hands began to regain feeling. The pins and needles seemed to subside and he was no longer chilled beyond recognition. He could feel warmth and with his eyes still closed he let his hand move across the wiry hair of the bison robe that covered him. The sensation was soothing and reassuring and somehow luscious. The crackle of the fire bled into his consciousness and the soft in out of her breath as she lay next to him made him realize that he was truly home. Victoria shifted in her slumber and she gently laid her head on Richard’s chest. He was aware that he was unclothed and he was ever more aware that Victoria had shed her bodice and skirt and various layers of underpinnings in order to lay skin to skin. She was warm and her presence there was a salve for him. Her incalescence brought him back from the edge of existence. He knew he had not died but was hovering somewhere in between. It was a place that he was curious to explore but the experience rendered him weak. As his hand swept across the fur once again it made him tired. His muscles ached as if he had been through some extreme physical ordeal and perhaps, he actually had. One of her hands lay across his abdomen. He could feel her heartbeat and yet he was so frail his body could not truly respond to her. Not yet. But his heart bloomed as the quiet minutes passed lazily into the night. The wind stopped blowing and he wondered if the snow had finally ceased. He cocked his head a bit to find Michelangelo standing in the kitchen her eyes drooping idly about to nod off. Victoria shifted again and her hand swept across his chest. He caught it in his own hand and carefully threaded his fingers with hers. Her eyes opened slowly, sleepily and he studied her carefully. At that moment she looked like a little girl still swimming in her dreams. She let out a soft sigh that held the weight of water. It held all the relief and the worry and the breathlessness of hope.
“Richard?” She whispered and her eyes grew moist and she cupped his face and kissed him again and again and her tears made his cheeks wet. Then she studied him in the firelight taking in every nuance and drinking in whatever magic had moved across them in the interim.
“I’m sorry.” Richard whispered and his voice crackled from phlegm and unconsciousness and dormancy.
“Sorry for what?” She asked a bit confused.
“Illness.” He managed to say.
“Shhhhh.” She replied and she put her finger to his lips and then sensually traced the outline memorizing them for times when they might be apart. She got up slowly and he watched her lithe figure move like a silhouette against the orange glow of the fire. She added more wood to the embers and stoked it until it caught and the flames grew ever higher. She set the kettle on and another pot filled with water. Then she pulled a quilt from the couch to keep her warm as she fetched a clean cloth to wipe him down. She moved like a shadow into the kitchen where Michelangelo eclipsed her. The equine’s ample form moving smooth like the shadow of the moon. She reappeared carrying cloth and a ceramic container covered with something metallic. Victoria’s face seemed perplexed.
“Did you see this when you went through the pantry the other day?” She asked. Richard shook his head ‘no’ and he was truly bewildered by it.
“There’s a card here.” Victoria discovered and she opened it: For the Lady of the house. I hope you enjoy this sweet little concoction and secret recipe from North Carolina. I sincerely wish you happiness and joy. Your friend, Ashley.
Then she smiled to herself and pulled the tin foil away. The S’mores would keep them one more day from starving. She thought she was going mad but apparently someone did come to call. Victoria was disoriented with exhaustion and she couldn’t quite remember one day from the next. The blizzard and their forced internment seemed like one extremely long day and night. Someone knew they were there and left them something to eat and the idea of the reality of it astounded her. Richard bit into the S’more and the sugar gave him a rush.
“Very interesting.” He managed to say as he inspected the desert. Victoria draped herself across him propping herself up on an elbow. Her pregnant belly caught the flicker of the hearth and Richard let his hand trace the contour of their progeny. His gaze drifted into an interior meditation. Images of his dreams pervaded and he wondered what was real and what was only a reverie.
“Tell me what happened to Malachy.” Victoria said softly. And the memories rushed in with such a force that Richard felt himself rolling on the waves once again.
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