Dividing the cloak of Twilight

They had waited patiently in the offices of the cemetery.  It was a busy day for the administrators and archivists at Green-wood.  People trying to locate long deceased loved ones and grief stricken mourners wandering in to arrange a graveside funeral.  Ashley thumbed through a book listing all of the famous people buried there.  Among them were plenty of artists: William Merritt Chase, Nathaniel Courier of Courier and Ives, Louis Comfort Tiffany, Asher Durand, James Hart and George Bellows to name a few.  Suddenly a man stood on the other side of the help desk.  He looked more like a long shoreman than an admin. 

“Howya doin’ ladies.  What can I help you with?” He said as if there was a time limit to the offer.  Chelsea jumped up and immediately took charge.

“We’re looking for Richard Rhys.”

“You a relative.” He asked.

“Yes.” She answered without missing a beat.

“You got a birthday or date of demise.”  He asked in his Brooklyn accent.

“October 25, 1861.  Died September 11, 1918.”  Chelsea answered.

“Relationship?” He said without looking up. 

“Am I in one?”  Chelsea queried.  The man looked up and started laughing.  He held up a beefy hand with a gold wedding band.  Chelsea blushed.

“That’s not what I meant.  You a kid?  A grandkid, niece, or what-not?” He replied returning to his keyboard.

“Great-great granddaughter.”  Chelsea said smiling.  Ashley moved close in utter disbelief.  She was good, she thought.  Even she believed Chelsea had been related to the infamous Richard Rhys.

“Name?”  The man said as he pushed a pad over to Chelsea.  It was a sign in sheet.  She hesitated momentarily and then winked at Ashley as she signed her name.  Ashley watched as the cursive erupted into ‘Chelsea Rhys’.  Ashley’s eyes grew as wide as saucers.  The man typed something into a computer data base then looked up.  The girls thought they had been discovered.  Chelsea held her breath as Ashley pretended to rummage through her bag.

“You come a long way.  Must be jet-lagged.” He said piercingly.

“No we came from just up the block.”  Ashley said innocently. Then she felt Chelsea’s foot on hers.

“Ouch---I mean, I came from up the block.  I live close by.” Ashley corrected.  The man kept his eye on Chelsea.  She smiled innocently.

“Perpetual Care is up for renewal.”   He said leaning over the counter. “We don’t take pounds here.  Just the good ole US Dollar.”

“Of course.”  Chelsea said exasperated.  “We just came by to visit him.  I’ll be by tomorrow with the usual money order.”

“Banks are closed anyway.”  Ashley said.

“You don’t sound like you’re from London.” The man said suspiciously.

“I’m a world traveler.  I’ve lost my accent along the way.”  Chelsea said brightly.  “Now if you would please give us a map and show us the area where he is buried.  It’s been a while¾”

“And it’s such a large confusing area.”  Ashley added.  The man slowly pulled out a map, reached for a red sharpie and circled the area where the tomb could be found.

“We close at 7:00 sharp.  Start walkin’ at 6:45.” He said as he handed the map over.

“Thank you.”  Chelsea said in an almost smart-alec way.  “Cheers.” They moved quickly outside and unfolded the map.

“Jeez.  That was close.”  Ashley said.

“No, not really.” Chelsea replied. “If he thought we were trying to pull one over he wouldn’t have handed over the map so easily.”

“Chelsea Rhys.”  Ashley giggled.  “She must be real.” 

Chelsea’s mind began to click.  Her investigative instincts were at full throttle.  She made a mental note to find this long lost relative, Chelsea Rhys when they get to London in a few days.

“So he is buried here.”  Ashley said softly.

“Yeah.  You ready for this?” Chelsea asked.

“I think so.  Are you?” Ashley replied.  Chelsea wasn’t sure how to answer.  She wanted so much for Richard to be alive.  She had seen him, talked with him.  His presence changed the molecules in the air.  And yet she was well aware that she had experienced something metaphysical and nothing truly in the material plane.  But her yearning felt real.  It felt as ripe and palpable as if he were flesh and blood, as if she could touch him, feel his gaze, hear his voice and wrap herself in his embrace.  The map indicated that they retrace their steps back up Battle Hill past the Civil War monument and the bronze effigy of Minerva.  They would follow the curving road right around passing an ancient beech tree and an arcade of weeping willows. From there they could gaze out over what looked like an open field that could be somewhere in Pennsylvania but looked utterly out of place and strange right smack in the middle of Brooklyn. 

“It reminds me of home.” Ashley whispered.  “The long Southern fields.  So peaceful.”

Chelsea could not respond.  For some reason she felt her voice waver even though she was not speaking.  She could sense her facial muscles trying not to quiver and she swallowed hard to keep her emotions at bay.  For a moment she berated herself for being so silly.  There was nothing happening in the physical world that would cause such a visceral reaction.  It seemed like it was all in her head.  Crossing the field on that bright sunny day felt like moving from her old life into a brand new place, a shift in her soul that she could not articulate. There were no words, just feelings, raw and deep.  As they began their trek across the grassy expanse Chelsea realized there was no going back.  This would be a life-changing event, the pivotal point of no return.  And she was sharing it with Ashley.  She reached for her and slipped her arm thru Ashley’s.  She felt safe in that place next to her.  One step led to another and they began their adventure. 

“Sometimes when I walk a field like this it reminds me of my kin.  How they lived with no amenities or modern conveniences.”  Ashley said.  “And sometimes I can hear the gunshots of a musket and the smell of black powder in the air.  Other times it’s horses and campfires. And I wonder how afraid they might have been to face the unknown.  To face death on a battlefield looking at their neighbors or knowing they could never go home.”

Chelsea could not respond.  Something about the sentiment brought everything close to the surface.  She felt as though her skin was peeling away and that her head was on fire.  Her scalp tingled and her insides churned.

“Are you okay?” Ashley asked concerned.  Chelsea just nodded and continued with her pace.  She could feel Ashley’s hand squeeze hers in silent compassion.  They crossed the valley of the field and began their ascent up another hill where grand Victorian mausoleums perched.  On their left they could see Bishop Ford high school just beyond the trees and gates that guarded the perimeter of the entire cemetery.  The locals referred to it as ‘pill hill’.  It had a reputation as far back as the 70’s as a high school with a drug problem. They passed the Mackay mausoleum with its grand angels and exquisite Victorian design.  John Mackay operated a silver mine in 1873 in Virginia city Nevada that was referred to as the Comstock Load.  In 1877 the mine yielded the ‘Big Bonanza’ and produced $190 million dollars in silver. It was that same silver that backed the German marc in the emerging republic.  Mackay parlayed his fortune into competition with Jay Gould’s telegraph company laying his own transatlantic cables and forcing the cost down to twenty-five cents a word.  The robber baron of the gilded age quit trying to run Mackay out of business because the man would never run out of money.  It was these very transatlantic cables that kept Richard and Victoria in communication.  When Victoria ventured across the Atlantic to take care of her familial and reform obligations Richard stayed behind never wanting to return to London for fear of persecution.

Ashley and Chelsea moved under the large pine that provided shade.  They sat down for a while silent and respectful.  The air moved and amazingly the only sounds were birds and the subtle rustle of leaves.   Ashley unfolded the map and studied the markings.  They were very, very close.  Just down a garden path.  She stood and offered her hand to Chelsea who hesitated and then let Ashley’s strength pull her up.  They wandered down a narrow lane past several small mausoleums built into the hillside.  Large oaks and maples provided shade.  They moved to the end of the row and found a modest looking crypt designed in the understated English manner.  Tree roots had burst through the stone work above it and the wrought iron gate that sealed the tomb was rough and slightly off one hinge.  Cobwebs adorned the entrance that looked all but abandoned and entirely forgotten.  The sight of it moved Ashley to tears as if a relative had been neglected for decades. She wiped her cheeks and noticed Chelsea was visibly upset.  Carved in crumbling stone was the word ‘Rhys’.  It was not ornate or big.  One had to step up to the front of the monument to read the letters.  It was at the end of a lonely road that stopped suddenly and formed a cul-de-sac.  A dead end, Ashley thought.  Chelsea’s throat hurt and her eyes watered.

“Must be allergies.” She said softly but Ashley knew better.  As she put her arm about her friend, Chelsea moved to be comforted and she wept, at times uncontrollably. She was seized by acute sobbing, It startled her to feel so exposed and vulnerable.  The grief leapt out from places she did not recognize.  The hurt was unbearable and unrestrained.  She had never felt this kind of bereavement before even when a favorite pet died or her cousin with Hodgkins disease whom she loved more than her own brother passed away at seventeen.  People she knew and had a history with could not come close to the anguish she felt for Richard, a man she never knew.

“I think I just need to walk for a minute.” Chelsea said as she tried to catch her breath between heaves of tears.  If she could move maybe the energy could alleviate some of her distress.  She walked the little garden path that had a wrought iron sign that read Lilly Road.

Ashley waited near the memorial.  She let her fingers touch the stone and somehow the heaviness that came over her dissipated like a fleeting dream.  Her grandmother told her once that the Cherokee believe that the dream life is the real life and waking moments are an illusion.  Ashley knew there was no one in the tomb.  It was a monument of dust and Richard’s being could not be found there.  He was in the trees and the grass and the air.  He was in her dreams as was Victoria.  And they were both very much alive.  She kissed the stone and said a prayer.  Then she placed a rock on the ledge to signify that someone had remembered.  A kind of acknowledgement of the cycle of life.

 

Chelsea walked through Rose of Sharon in full bloom and a beautiful little area designed like a miniature English garden.  As she moved from one tea rose to the next she could see a man in her peripheral vision.  As she turned to see where he was headed he was gone.  She chocked it up to a groundkeeper.  She wandered under another weeping beech tree and she could feel a pair of strong hands reach about her waist.  Startled, she turned to find Richard before her and his face took her breath away.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” He said softly.  She could feel herself tumbling down the rabbit hole.  Did she manifest him through sheer will?  She thought. Was she dreaming or hallucinating?  His soft brown eyes pierced her through.  She felt naked.  Self-conscious.

“You’re precious.”  He whispered.  Again his eyes could see everything she was trying to hide.  She wasn’t sure why she was trying to hide because he looked at her in the most exquisite loving way.  Any blemish she found with herself he saw as absolute perfection. Every thought was on display for him to peruse.  He was in her head and in her body and though it was strange and uncomfortable it was somehow intimate and redeeming.  Her face was flushed and she found herself aroused.  Her heart raced and yet she clung to him.  If she could feel him in her hands then maybe he was real.  She noticed the rough wool of his coat and the smell of cherry tobacco.  His hands were stained with oil paint and the smell of linseed oil. 

“I’m not forgotten.”  He whispered.  “As long as you remember me I am always here.” The sorrow that plagued her at his tomb had lifted and she felt light and giddy.  “You will remember me, won’t you?” He asked and his face was boyish and his hair fell across his forehead.  She was overcome by her desire and she impulsively kissed him and his lips were soft and his face smooth. And he wrapped his strong arms about her and pulled her close.  She could feel the muscles in his body and the promise of entanglement. She drew in a deep breath and kissed him again and for the first time in her life she thought about the idea of children.  The desire had never been strong before.  Her career was fulfilling and challenging and children never entered her life plan. But his pull was enduring and she wanted him to take her.  She kissed him again and his scent seemed to encircle them.  He threaded his fingers into hers and pressed their intertwined hands against her buttocks.  His hands drifted up the curve of her female form and stopped just under her arms and across her back.  He was intoxicating and she wanted him to make love to her right there.  But even more than that she wanted him to pass himself through her.  She wanted to have his child.  She fantasized being pregnant and how that might feel and what their life would be like.  She could see the baby born and she could see Richard holding their son or daughter and his eyes, those magnificent eyes, would bare witness to the unimaginable magnitude of their love and constancy.  It made her heart jump and she kissed him ever more passionately.  She let her hands move through his thick long hair and he tasted sweet.  She drew in another breath and when she opened her eyes to see him it was Ashley standing there holding her up, their hands intertwined and the same scent encircling them.  The eyes were the key.  Her soft brown eyes were the exact shape and color.  They held the same emotions and affected the same response.  He was not gone.  He was there.  Present.  Only in a more demure form.  Chelsea noticed that they pronounced certain words the same way and tilted their heads in the same questioning manner.  She found it ironic that the concept of immortality became concrete in a cemetery.  And she let herself feel her own passion and Ashley was constant and giving and intense. 

“I’ve missed you.” Ashley whispered.  And it struck Chelsea.  She gazed at Ashley for a moment.  This woman mirrored the intense devotion that Chelsea felt.  Ashley pulled a bent business card from her pocket.  It read, “Chelsea Barrett – Freelance writer”.  It was the card Chelsea had given to Richard in the pet store when he first appeared to her.  She knew it to be true because she ordered a new layout design with a fleur de lis.  She let her imagination run wild.  She could see them living together in a grand house and quite possibly with a family.  And though her desire was to carry a child conceived out of pure rapture there would be ways to find that feeling and capture the essence in the embrace of her amour.  Ashley extended her arm the way Richard might have as a formal overture.  She took charge and escorted Chelsea out of their secret garden in Green-wood and back through the hills and roads that led to modernity.  Chelsea could feel the future blooming inside of her.  It would be good.  It would be more than enough and exceed her wildest expectations.

Unearthing the Dead

Richard took a few steps in the direction that Unega had suggested and the entire world changed. He found himself standing inside a circle of stones. They were markers of the first Dutch settlers in America and they organized their head stones in concentric rings in an open field, the oldest residing closest to the center. The delicate stone’s engraved names were barely legible from the centuries of wind and rain. Richard bent down and tried to read a modest marker. He let his fingers trace what was left of the anonymous dead.

“Roosevelt.” Unega said softly. “The boy.” And she pointed in the direction they had just walked.

“He died young.” Richard replied almost to himself.

“Oh, no. He was the grandfather of a man called ‘Thee’.” She said happily. “And you shall know his son, a great statesman and patriot.” She took his arm and led him up a small incline. From there the entire landscape was serene and beautiful.

“I’ve been here before.” He said softly as he gazed around taking in the grand Victorian memorials.

“It is called the green wood.” Unega replied and she smiled as the wind rustled the leaves and caught the spring daylight. The new growth shimmered in the warm air and the sweetness of cherry blossoms filled his senses.

“Am I gone?” He said with a kind of resignation. He was not sad or even melancholy. He wanted to know his actual state so that he could adjust his expectations accordingly.

“We are never gone.” Unega said cheerfully. “We simply crave the sentient.”

He cocked his head confused. Somewhere in the recesses of his heart he understood but he could not reconcile it with his logical mind.

“I stand where you stand. And you shall stand where she stands.” Unega said enigmatically. It confused him even more.

“I just want to go home.” He replied wearily.

“But there is so much to learn.” Unega said with exuberance. “You are on the way home if you face all that comes to you.”

Victoria sat in front of the fire stirring the large cast iron pot. She had cut the pork from the bones and put in all of the vegetables to make a stew. She nibbled on an apple to curb her hunger until supper was ready. Richard was sound asleep and the house was quiet. She gazed at him. His cheeks were red and she was confident that the color signified healing. He was on the road to recovery. His breathing was even and easy. He did not wheeze or cough. There was no interruption or blockage, just his breath. She reached over and very softly touched his forehead. He was cool. There was no fever. He seemed blissfully peaceful. The wind had ceased and the light of day was bending across the earth. Michelangelo whinnied and stamped her foot. She was growing restless being tethered for days in the kitchen. The animal could see Victoria enjoying something sweet and she wanted some, too.

“Alright, alright. I shall give you half.” Victoria said. The horse threw its head up and down and the mare’s brown eyes filled with delight. She placed the apple’s pieces in her flattened palm and Michelangelo’s thick lips devoured the fruit. The chomping echoed through the rooms. Victoria stood there looking at her kitchen that had become a stall. The dried droppings would burn, she thought. It wouldn’t be a pleasant smoke but it could keep the embers from fading. She remembered the stories her grandfather had told of being in India and the only thing to burn in the dry areas of the desert was the dung left by animals and the mummies unearthed from ancient tombs. A foul smoke but better than the kiss of death. The wood beneath the snow on the side of the house was growing scarce and as the days crept on and the snow slowly melted the nights brought frozen temperatures and the wood soon became encased in ice. Victoria knew she might have to part with some of her furniture until they could safely leave the manor house. She took the small spade used to clean the fireplace of excess ashes and collected the horse droppings. She saved them in a wooden pail. As she carried the manure into the small parlor suddenly she realized that the wood used for stretchers could be sacrificed quite easily. They could be replaced with no harm done. Why didn’t she think of this before? She set the pail down and bounded up to the second floor landing passing the wooden chief,Tamanend, and moving quickly into Richard’s studio. There was raw wood everywhere. Canvases that had not yet been painted upon could be sacrificed. She gathered up as much as she could carry and she heard faint footsteps behind her. She stopped and wondered if Richard had awakened.

“Richard?” She called. There was no answer. Then after a moment she wondered if Ashley had arrived. She moved to the threshold and gazed down the stairs. No one was there. As she looked up she watched a man emerge from the shadows on the opposite side. His image took her breath away. She held her breath petrified of the stranger. The Indian moved slowly and calculated. The man was tall and elegant, his dark, naked skin shown in the refracted light of the sun bouncing off the snow. His kind, dark eyes captivated her. She was speechless. There was something so familiar about him. He moved into the light of day.

“I have not come to harm you.” He said softly and he placed his fist over his heart. She took a breath and her heart was beating like a wild rabbit. As they stood there for several moments and his intense kindly gaze melted her, she realized that he was truth. He affected her to her core as if he was an emanation of her own soul.

“Why are you here?” She inquired softly.

“Remember.” He whispered. “He makes you and I remember.”

“Remember?” She echoed. “What is it you mean?” She asked. And as the question slipped from her lips he began to fade.

“What is it I must remember?” She repeated as his remnants began to move into particles of light swirling in the slight rush of air that began as her breath. Then a warm draft enveloped her and she felt safe and peaceful and full of love. She turned back into the studio and it was filled with sunlight creeping in through the slats. She threw open the shutters that seemed to create a dappled effect and as the sun streamed in she could hear the sound of people talking from another time. The studio looked clean and freshly painted. The floors instantly appeared as if workmen had sanded them down, stained them and polished them with coats upon coats of beeswax. She could hear people laughing as if enjoying themselves and it made her confident that she would live through her current situation. She wondered if someone had finally come to rescue them.

“Hello?” She shouted from the second floor landing. But there was no answer, just the soft murmur of people talking. Then it occurred to her that perhaps the house was truly haunted.

“Whoever you are…This is my house!”

Felix entered the house with a park’s employee, his personal engineer, an architect friend, a realtor and a legal representative for the city of New York Parks Department.

“Tell me why you’re interested in this place?” The lawyer asked.

“My girlfriend wants to fix it up and live here.” Felix answered.

“Infested with rats, man. Careful where you step.” The park employee instructed as he wielded a crowbar and flashlight.

“She won’t settle for a condo in Williamsburg?” The lawyer asked.

“She’s a…history buff…She wants this place…for very personal reasons” Felix replied as they were led into the central parlor.

“Beautiful.” The architect remarked as he gazed up at the immense chandeliers as they hung down from the fifteen foot ceilings. Archie the engineer pulled out various tools and began to investigate the walls, joist and structural components of the house.

“Well, so far she’s structurally sound. The wood here is at least three hundred years old and I don’t see any weakness or rot. Which is amazing since the place has taken on water.” Archie remarked.

“Noah’s Arch.” The architect, Louis, added.

“Yeah, well we only needed two rats and there’s probably hundreds.” The park employee said.

“Thousands.” The engineer added

“That’s what fucking’ll get you.” The lawyer said under his breath.

As the men stepped through the house the undeniable sound of scratching and scurrying, squeaking and gnawing filled the air.

“I feel like I’m in the movie ‘Willard’”. The realtor whispered.

“Why is this property condemned?” Archie asked.

“The park was going to raze it for a community center and performance hall but they couldn’t come up with enough funds. With the economy and all, the parks budgets got cut.” The lawyer replied.

“This is a landmark building. I can’t believe the historical society didn’t bring the issue to court?” Louis remarked. “This place cannot be torn down.”

“Are you a member of the historical society?” The lawyer asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Louis said as he pulled out his cell phone and began to take pictures of the grand ballroom.

“All I can say is that politics and eminent domain can pull anything down.” The lawyer added nonchalantly.

“Over my dead body.” Louis said.

“Okay, guys. I need to know if this property is a) structurally sound, b) worth the investment and c) available for sale.” Felix said as he halted the entire group tour.

“It’s not in any of my listings so I’m not sure why I’m here.” The realtor said sheepishly.

“And it won’t be. This is not a property that is up for public sale.” Felix warned.

“This is my house.” An unknown voice said from a distance.

“Who’s here?” Felix asked as he craned his neck to peer up into the hallway. There was no answer.

“Place gives me the creeps.” The park’s employee said clutching the crowbar.

“When I make my report, whoever owns this place can only restore it to its previous authentic grandeur. Nothing else.” Louis added.

“That is what I plan to do.” Felix assured Louis.

“The place needs to be appraised.” The engineer added. “But from what I can see despite the rats and the mold and the water damage the place could definitely be restored and be worth the investment.”

“Gentlemen, let us proceed upstairs…with caution.” Felix said. He nodded to the parks employee who seemed scared to death to move any further into the manor.

“I’m still not sure why I’m here.” The realtor said glued to his spot and moving no further.

“Paperwork.” Felix chuckled and waved him on. “You want the commission, don’t you?” The realtor nodded and shuffled through the room to catch up with the rest. They moved to the badly damaged staircase.

“Okay, well, this is a horse of a different color.” The engineer remarked.

“I’m not going up there.” The lawyer said as well as the park employee and the realtor.

“Okay, you guys stay down here while we scope out the upper floors.” Felix said and he put on a brave show. He was deathly afraid of falling through the staircase into a huge nest of rats. He carefully navigated the staircase and instructed each man to move slowly one at a time.

“This whole thing will have to be ripped out and replaced.” The engineer said. It won’t support more than about two hundred pounds.

“I’m out.” Louis said. “I really want to see the rest of the house, though.”

“Make us an offer.” The park’s lawyer said nervously. “These fuckin’ rats don’t attack, do they?”

“Only if they feel threatened.” The parks employee replied with the crowbar positioned to strike,

“Two million.” Felix answered.

“The land alone is worth 2 mil. 4.3 mil.” The lawyer retorted.

“I am about to restore this thing. It’ll have to be gutted down to the brick. 2.7.” Felix said.

“3.9” The lawyer replied, his voice quivering.

“2.7.” Felix said.

“3.” The lawyer haggled.

“2.8.” Felix replied.

“I’ll see what they say. I think I’ve seen enough. I’m going back to the office.” The lawyer said as he turned and started to make his way out of the house.

“2.8 is doable. Felix said more to himself than to his compatriots.”

“You’ll probably have to sink between 3 and 5 in restoration.” The engineer remarked.

“As long as I can keep it way below 10. I’m not in the mood for a money pit.” Felix replied. “Do you think it’s a deal?”

“I’ll have to crunch some numbers with Louis.” The engineer replied.

“As long as it’s a deal…a decent deal even, then I’m happy.” Felix said as he extended his hand to help the engineer onto the landing.

“She must be something.” Archie said. Felix seemed perplexed.

“I’m flipping it.” Felix shrugged. “That’s what I do.”

“In this market?” Archie replied in disbelief. “Hey, man. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with what you’re doing. Hell the Taj Mahal was built by a man head over heels in love with a woman that was his soulmate. It’s the way you express your art.” Archie said and the words stuck with Felix as he moved from room to room. He had never thought of it that way.

The carriage bobbed back and forth and lurched forward so much so that Mrs. Hopkins felt seasick in the hansom cab. Her face had lost color and her worry about Victoria took over her lean body. She was rigid with tension. They had made it over the Brooklyn Bridge and were quite a ways down Flatbush Avenue. The street was bumpy from clumps of snow and ice that had hardened from traffic.

“We’re getting close.” Mr. Watkins said and he placed his gloved hand on hers. “Prospect Park” He nodded in the direction outside their window. Mrs. Hopkins noticed the snow covered trees. She put her hands to her breast as if to burp.

“You don’t look well.” Mr. Watkins said. She shook her head and moved to the opposite bench so that she could face forward instead of backward. She fixed her eyes on the terrain. After a moment Mr. Watkins slid in next to her. He put his arm around her and surprised not only himself, but Mrs. Hopkins as well. Her normal reaction would be to recoil out of inappropriateness. But today she sunk into his comforting warm embrace. It had been decades since her husband had passed and she made Victoria her life but in the few days of crisis she realized she needed succor. It had been a long restrictive life that was fulfilling yet missing that one element of a warm, nurturing body. A man’s body. The hansom beared right onto Ocean Avenue. Suddenly the cab came to a halt. Mr. Watkins opened the sliding screen to speak with the driver.

“Street hasn’t been cleared, sir.” The driver said. “Shall I turn around?”

Mr. Watkins opened the cab’s door and stepped out. Before them was a mound of snow at least ten feet high for as far as they could see.

“One moment please.” Mr. Watkins said as he climbed back inside. “What shall we do, Miriam?” He asked.

“We’re so very close.” She said.

“We’d have to walk from here. The drifts are at least six meters high. I don’t see how we could manage it.” He replied resigned. “Shall we turn back and try again in a day or so?”

Miriam did not answer. She climbed out of the cab and studied the white monolith before her. The house on the corner was virtually buried beneath the snow.

“If we dismiss the cab now we are on our own. I do not think this is wise.” Mr. Watkins said from the cab.

“I must find Victoria.” Mrs. Hopkins replied and she began to attempt to climb the snow bank. Mr. Watkins rushed from the cab to pull her down and talk sense to her.

“This could put us in great peril.” He said. Her soft eyes yearned for her charge and he could see that she would die if she did not try. He solemnly walked over to the carriage and paid the driver. A few clicks and the clatter of wheels on ice and hooves scraping against the frozen ground echoed through the trees.

“I’m too old for this, Miriam.” Henry said. Then he began to dig grooves into the bank with his hands. She slipped her dainty boot into the grooves and hoisted herself up.

Once on the surface the snow had been packed down enough by it’s own weight and the constant refreezing during the cold nights. As they walked they sunk down about a foot or so and the bank held them up.

“We’re not so far.” Miriam said brightly. But the landscape and landmarks had disappeared under the blanket of white. Only tree-tops poked up from the frozen ground. They walked for about twenty minutes when the eaves of the third floor manor became visible in the distance.

“There it is! There it is!!!” She exclaimed excitedly and out of breath. After a moment they slowly plodded through the thick powder. A lump in the snow with a piece of fabric jutted out into their path. As Mr. Watkins moved close to examine he could see that it was a human form. Mrs. Hopkins held her breath. Her worst fear would be that it was Richard and that he never made it to the house. She turned away and her anxiety seemed to melt into grief.

Henry moved the snow from the frozen man’s body. It looked like Richard’s black wool great coat. He was about Richard’s size. As Henry continued to unearth the body he studied the man’s face frozen in a kind of sleep. It had discolored to ash and blue and so the corpse’s identity was confusing. A myriad of emotions seemed to overcome Mrs. Hopkins. Ordinarily she was as stoic and steady as any Englishwoman hardened by a life in service. But now the thoughts of her entire family, the family that she had raised and loved and worked for out of a sense of compassion and not duty, vanishing in the wake of a storm caused her considerable distress. Her grief could quite easily become unmanageable. She had grown to love Richard as her own son. He was different, the black sheep a creative mind turned from a life of destruction to a life of abundance. If he was gone then she knew half of Victoria would be gone. The girl she thought of as a daughter would be a shell without him. She quite possibly would not recover from the devastation of such loss.

“It’s Mr. Jones.” Henry said and the sound of his voice broke the spell of tragedy.

“Mr. Jones?” Miriam said relieved. “Oh, poor Mr. Jones!” She added as she turned to get a look at him. Henry stood up and brushed the snow from his trousers. He was shivering from the cold and they knew that they had to make their way quickly or risk exposure.

“What should we do?” Miriam asked.

“We can’t do anything until the snow melts.” Henry replied.

“That’s ghastly.” Miriam said.

“He’ll keep until it melts.” Henry assured her.

“I wonder if he suffered.” She remarked compassionately.

“Doesn’t matter now.” Henry said coldly.

“We should at least say a prayer.” Miriam suggested.

“He was a scalawag, Mrs. Hopkins.” Henry said coldly. “I will say a prayer for his soul, but I will not feel sorry for him. He did his job but he was blackhearted.” Henry continued. He bowed his head for a few moments, crossed himself and then took Miriam’s arm.

“Let’s go before we find ourselves like the footman.”