Arcanum Arcanorum

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.

Splendor in the Snow

“I won’t leave you, Nellie.”  Mrs. Hopkins said as she replaced the candles that had burned down low in the cellar.  The house was quiet and after Miriam relit the wax beacons she sat down in their soft glow and opened the Bible to the Song of Songs.  Nell was as gray as the stone walls in the basement and her face betrayed her vacancy.  She wondered what had actually happened.  Did she lose her way?  Did she tarry too long in the cold streets and faint from exposure?  And why didn’t someone help her?  Why didn’t a good Samaritan take her in to warm herself even for just a little while.  There was a great influx of Irish immigrants in New York and they are a clannish people she knew. They  helped each other.  So why did Nellie have to die alone on the streets?  Was the cold painful?  Or did she fall asleep in the snow and the wind, too weak to carry on?  The questions plagued her and the only way she could make any sense from such a tragedy was to remind herself that only God knows when it is time to come home.  She attempted to alleviate her sorrow by reading:

“My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is

come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the

tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come

away.” She read softly.  After a moment Mrs. Hopkins rose up and gazed into the dead girl’s face.  She straightened her collar and touched her hand. 

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered and then she resumed her seat and began reading again.  Mr. Watkins crept down the wooden stairs slowly.

“Miriam.” He whispered.  “You should go to bed.”  She smiled at him kindly, nodded and placed the Bible in his hands. 

“I’ll look after her.”  He said wearily.  And at that moment Miriam saw something she had never seen before.  She could ‘see’ Henry in his youthful appearance.  Twenty, maybe thirty years younger, a smart, dashing chap in a military uniform.  Something overcame her and she leaned in and softly kissed him.  He was taken aback and once the initial surprise wore off Henry wrapped his arms about her.  They lingered there in a kind of restful reverie.  Then Miriam pulled herself away gazed at him for a moment, smiled and made her way up the cellar stairs and back onto the first floor.  He sat down with the Bible gripped tightly in his hands.  Religion seemed foreign to him but the loss of a friend was too close and so he wept quietly for poor Nell.

 

The baby moved within and its restlessness woke Victoria.  She could not find comfort as her back ached and she needed to relieve herself.  She moved within Richard’s arms and he was fast asleep.  The fire had died down and only a few embers still held their deep orange glow.  She gazed up at the ceiling of the parlor and although, the snow had reached almost five feet outside and threatened to bury them in an icy tomb the first bits of dawn crept in and she realized they had survived another day.  She studied his sleeping face and he was so handsome and innocent in his repose that tears of gratitude and affection welled up in her eyes.  Certainly the coming baby enhanced the feelings of intimacy and joy and the overwhelming desire to be wrapped within his strong, majestic mien.  She moved close to him and he stirred for a moment moving his arms into a full embrace.  Still sleeping he kissed her neck and then let his head rest and he sailed back into his dream state.  Gently she moved his arms, rose and quickly pulled on her skirt and bodice.  She cloaked herself in her wool cape as the temperature in the room had fallen.  She threw the last bits of wood onto the dying fire and stoked the coals until a flame erupted.  Once the flame caught she knew the room would warm up with time.  She wandered through the pocket doors and pulled the great velvet curtain away from the grand window.  The snow had surpassed her height.  The few remaining feet left uncovered revealed that the storm was not yet over.  The snow fell steadily from the dark sky but the light seemed to fight its way through the thick clouds.  Victoria lit a lantern and made her way up the grand staircase to the second floor.  She knew Tammany was at the end of the hallway and so his countenance did not startle her.  She quickly turned into her bedroom draped every inch in canvas for the winter.  The dust rose in clouds and yet she seemed oblivious.  She moved to a small room that was her privy and though it was very cold she felt compelled to relieve herself.  She found a chamber pot and to keep what warmth she had she lifted her skirt and eased her bladder.  There was a shift within and an odd quiver.  Somehow she had felt the sensation before but she was so far along she thought nothing of it.  As she gazed down into the chamber pot the bowl was bright red.  A deep grief stricken groan rose up and transformed itself into a full blown wail that shook the foundations of the entire house.  She collapsed in anguish and fear and her sobs seemed to rush over her of their own accord.  She heaved in desperation with a sound that was absolutely primordial and could turn anyone’s, even the most courageous man’s blood cold.

Richard awakened instantly from the gut-wrenching cry and jumped up and out of the bison hide.  Without even thinking he dashed through the pocket doors without a stitch to cover him and took to the stairs three and four at a time.

“VICTORIA!” He yelled concerned. “VICTORIA!” She could not yell back but caved in with distress and weeping.  He followed the hushed tones of grief until he found her huddled in the corner beside the chamber pot.  When he saw the cause of her suffering he immediately picked her up thinking if she were level in his arms that he could keep the baby from slipping away.   He quickly carried her down the stairs and through the pocket doors and laid her down on the buffalo robe.  Then he wiped away her tears and hovered over her whispering words of encouragement and hope.

“We will not lose this one.  It is fated to be born.  You understand that this child is supposed to live.”  He said with absolute conviction. “And you.  You are the one to bring him into this world.  You know this to be true, don’t you?  You are the one who will rear this child and he will change the world.  And so because you have the sun and the moon and all the stars at your side you must believe that it is impossible to die.”  He said and his face was fierce with truth and fervor. “Say it.” He instructed.

“It is impossible to die.”  She said softly.

“It is impossible for him to die.” He repeated.  “Do you believe?”

She nodded yes but her face betrayed her hesitancy.  Then he lay down beside her and tenderly kissed her and said, “Remember when we took a carriage ride through Hyde Park.”  She smiled and blushed and her gloom seemed to lift for the moment.  “And you asked me if I believed in magic.  And I said that as long as I am with you I ventured to say yes.  And I thought to myself that how can a man of my station possibly be with a woman of your standing?  If I believed in something greater than myself and submitted to the forces of that great good then it was possible.  And look at us.  We have created our own majestic place filled with splendor and excitement and children.  We will have children.  And this is only the first and he will be born…at the right time.”  She threw her arms around him and her body heaved with emotion and she felt as though she had to believe.  There was no other option.  So she cast away her fear and she held onto the thoughts of this new child born healthy and strong.  He held her for some time whispering ideas for how they would spend their first Christmas and what the nursery might look like.  Whether it be a girl or a boy and what names seemed to be favored.  Michael, Isabel, Louise, Genvieve, Yvette, Robert, Max, Margaret and Ashby.  He got up momentarily to stoke what was left of the fire.  She drank in his nakedness as he stood near the fireplace.  He was svelt and muscular and healthy and he was exactly what she wanted.  Even when she did not know, there was something in her soul that led her to him.  And he was right, that the obstacles in their path could have easily torn them asunder.  The world seemed at odds with them and at every turn suspicions and jealousies would erupt like secret undercurrents swirling about them. They defied convention. They challenged the norm. If it had not been for Victoria’s tireless devotion to her philanthropic work they could quite easily be pariahs within New York Society.  They were on the fringe as it is and so as much as they tried to alleviate other’s discomfort in their union they did not pay much mind to opinions and gossip. The fire had died down again and Richard pulled on his trousers, shirt and coat.  

“While I am out I’ll come up with a boy’s name and you come up with a girl’s name and we’ll have tea and talk about our plans.”  He said cheerfully.

He wrapped her up under the Buffalo Robe and went to fetch more wood for the fire.  As he stepped outside the wind had died down but the snow was falling furiously.  The drifts were so high that they reached his forehead leveled off.  As he peered above the snowy landscape he could only see the tops of the trees breaking out of their white cocoons and the blue grey of dawn just about to light up the cloud filled sky.  He moved back in to the kitchen and fastened the makeshift snowshoes to his boots.  Then with his hands he attempted to carve a ramp up to the surface of the snow.  He was not even sure where to look for wood and if he could find a cord already chopped he would have to dig it out.  He wondered if it would be easier to break up the chairs in the dining hall but it seemed a sin to consume such beautiful craftsmanship and carving.  He ventured out and made his way around the side of the manor.  He found a fallen branch in the yard and decided he would use it to poke through the snow and locate something appropriate for burning. 

Even though he was only yards away outside Victoria could feel his absence.  The quiet was at once comforting and yet she could hear her mind jumping from one thought to another.  The horse whinnied and stamped in the kitchen and she knew the poor animal must be hungry.  She did not move.  If she kept herself recumbent then her body might recover and the baby would be all right.  She decided she could keep her spirits up if she hummed something upbeat and possibly inspirational.  She sifted through her mental repertoire and discovered a few uplifting songs that the reformers would sing before the opening of lectures on women’s rights and the plight of orphans in the world.  And so she hummed softly and the music seemed like salve for her.  The bay whinnied almost as an accompaniment and it made her giggle.

“That’s right, Michelangelo, sing!”  She said aloud and the horse neighed and bobbed its head in response as she sung verses to songs she knew.

He drove the branch down into the drift and it hit the ground easily.  Even though his task seemed daunting and frustrating he held in his mind the image of his son being born and it made him smile and it filled his heart with such reverence that he was aware that something holy and sacred was at work.  He could will it into being just like he willed his relationship with Victoria into being.  But it could not come from a self-serving, ego driven place.  It had to be in complete synchronization with the cosmos.  It had to be born from a place of ‘all love’ and a kind of submission to the machinations of universe.  And that is how the divine manifests as magic.  He stopped for a moment and in the silence of the falling snow he could hear her faint voice singing from inside.  He smiled and he imagined there was an entire cord of wood just under him against the house and as he drove the pole down a few feet further he hit something and began to dig.  He cupped his hands as a shovel and whittled his way down until he found exactly what he was looking for.  Then he stood upright, gazed at the snow-filled sky and chanted “Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!”

After making several trips from the frozen woodpile to the kitchen, Richard commenced rebuilding the fire.  It was early morning and there was not much left to eat.  There was a small bit of cheese left in the picnic basket and a scrap of beef that had hardened in the cold.  He could make her some tea at least and then forage down in the root cellar to see what might be edible.  Once he stoked the fire and the flames sprang up miraculously from the sodden logs he pulled the kettle from the kitchen and let it heat on the hearth.   He moved close to her.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he brushed a few stray hairs from her cheek.

“I haven’t moved and so I haven’t noticed anything.”  She replied.

“Don’t sit up.”  He instructed.  “May I look?”  He asked.  She nodded and he pulled away the bison hide and then carefully lifted her skirt.  A cursory glance revealed that whatever hemorrhaging had occurred had stopped.  He replaced her skirt and covered her with the animal skin. 

“I don’t think you should move.”  He said.  “Not even to sit up.”  She seemed to agree and her eyes glazed over with caution.  A hush seemed to cascade over the room and it was so quiet they could hear Michelangelo breathing in the kitchen. 

“We have to find something for her to eat.” Victoria said softly.

“We’ll have to find something for us to eat first.”  He said and he gazed quietly at the fire and poked at it so the flames would drive away any moisture.  He was pensive and tried hard to keep a cheerful tone.  She studied him for some time as he quietly pulled the kettle off the fire and methodically made her tea just the way she liked it.

“I’ll have to sit up to drink it.”  She said softly.  He nodded then he wandered into the grand dining area and pulled a few pillows from the couches and chairs. 

“Let me bear your weight.”  He said and his strong arms lifted her slightly as he moved a few pillows into position.  The tea was absolutely enchanting and seemed to be the only thing that connected her to her routine and her life as she knew it.  Just the aroma of it brought back memories of her mother and grandmother and afternoons spent in lively conversation and witty repartee.  She missed her mother terribly and that thought led her to the fact that she missed Mrs. Hopkins and hoped that her trusted Governess was fairing well in the storm.  She wished there was a way to send a message to her to let Miriam know that she was all right.  Richard sipped his tea quietly watching the flames lick at the wood, the hiss and crackle of water set free.  She could see a heaviness settle on him.

“What has happened is not because of anything we did.”  She said almost whispering and he turned and looked at her.  “It was not wrong and it was not dangerous or careless.  It is something that has happened.  It happened once before and I took every precaution----“ She said stopping abruptly as the words caught in her throat and the tears flowed easily.  He moved to her and took her hands.  And after a moment she regained herself.  “There is something you should know.”  She said and she trembled as she spoke and her face betrayed a great, painful hardship.

“You don’t have to tell me.  I am already aware of the past.” He confided.  “And it is too hard.”  And the words caught in his throat and he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath and attempted to find his balance again.

“Please do not ever restrict yourself from me or I shall find it unbearable.” She said.  And he found a handkerchief in his trouser pocket and dried her tears.  “I want to make love with you – that way - with wild abandon as if it is our last day each and every time.”  She whispered.  “We can create our intimacy just like we have created our marriage.”  And he gazed at her face resplendent and fair, her dark eyes filled with incredible veracity.  “I want…” She began and then she fell silent and blushed,

“What.”  He whispered.  And she drew close and said, “I want you to have pleasure.”

“But I do.” He replied.  He did not quite understand what she meant.  And she thought if they had come this far in their candidness she may as well continue.

“I want to know…what it is…you like.”  She said.  And her eyes burned with a scintillating knowing.

“I like everything…that happens between us.”  He said.

“But there are certain things that might give you more pleasure and that is what I am asking.”  She continued. And the heaviness that seemed to bear down at the beginning of their conversation began to evaporate.

“Perhaps when you are feeling better, we’ll experiment.”  He said cryptically and his face flushed at the thought of engaging in certain acts with her. 

“I won’t break.”  She said.

“I know.” He replied.

“If it is a choice between me and having children.”  She said almost out of breath.  “Then I choose me.”  And he understood her perfectly.  He let his hands run over the thick fur of the buffalo robe and he was glad she put herself first.  He was glad that she was mindful enough to know exactly what she needed because it was the exact thing that he needed and wanted and desired and if children were born as a result then they would be blessed all the more from it.