The Epiphanies of the Unknown

Fourth of July 2010.  It was 89 degrees and 7:00PM New York time.  Felix walked through the Manor house he had bought for Ashley surveying the day’s work by the skilled laborers.  Reclaimed wood from various old Brooklyn buildings had been brought in to reconstruct the original beams and joists.  Because the wood was hard oak and literally ancient, it took time to faithfully rebuild what had been accidentally torn down.  Abe told Louis earlier in the day that many of the oak beams came from an old livery stable turned private residence on Court Street that had finally been torn down in order to make way for a Banana Republic clothing store. There was a deep sense of loss when he conveyed the news.  Little by little forgotten parts of New York were being chipped away in the name of progress.  The biggest innovator or demolisher was Robert Moses depending on your perspective.

The air was humid and Felix quickly sweat down his Armani shirt and slacks.  As he wandered from room to room he tried hard to put himself in Ashley’s shoes and genuinely take in the craftsmanship and appreciate the history that was infused in the old house.  The molding and the fleur de lis and the old wallpaper whispered things to him that, perhaps, he had never experienced before.  It was not anything that he could honestly put into words.  Studying the architecture and the brilliant craftsmanship of the old house made him suddenly appreciate the kind of artisanship that brought the house to life, gave it character and a kind of eccentricity…just like Ashley.  The epiphanies came quick and wordless.  It was a sudden burst of knowing.  A quick flash of awareness and being alive just as the house was alive in a hibernating state.  Felix felt an overwhelming need to revive it at any cost---down to the drawer pulls and square headed iron nails that held the planks of the sub-floor in place. 

Ashley was visibly absent for the press conference earlier in the day.  The whole slant to the story was that Felix had taken it upon himself to rebuild a castle for the love of his life.  Louis handled it with great aplomb and manufactured the story that Ashley was absent because she was overseas collecting various authentic materials to help restore the grand mansion. The broadcast on the local evening news made Felix look like a hero, a community activist and protector of the city’s history.  Somehow he didn’t quite feel like a hero.  He felt lost.  His girlfriend was in London with another woman.  He pulled out is cell phone and dialed her number.

“Hey, Felix.” He heard her answer through the tinny, crackling amplifier.  She sounded a million miles away.

“Hey.  How’s your vacation?”  He asked sweetly.

“Felix, it’s 1:00AM here.”  Ashley replied sounding tired.

“Oh, I’m sorry---did I wake you?”

“No.  But I’m about to turn in.  What’s going on?”  She said heavily.

“The Press conference went over really well.”  He said cheerfully.

“Oh, Great---Hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.  I’m sure you guys did a great job.” She said.

“Yeah, Mayor Mike came out and everything.  Listen, when are you going to be back because I really want your input on this.  I mean, the house is intricate and amazing.  I want to find authentic materials and things to reconstruct---“

“I’m going to be here for a while.” Ashley interrupted.

“How long?” Felix asked as he fidgeted with a rotten piece of molding that had fallen from the east wing ceiling.

“About three months.” She replied.

“Three months!” He exclaimed.  “Look, are you moving to London with her.  What the hell is going on?  I bought the fucking house.  If you don’t want it I’m selling it.”

“I do want the house, Felix.  I love the house.  I do.  I just…I found these paintings at the Tate and they’re…I don’t know, I can’t describe how they make me feel but they’re important and I want to study them and I need a good amount of time to do that.”

“Are you blowing me off?” Felix said angrily. 

“I thought you said the house was mine.” Ashley said pointedly. 

“Are you going to be with her for three months?” He shot back.

“Her?  She has a name.  She’s not a cat, you know. No.  Chelsea has to be back in New York by the end of the week to finish her article.” She replied.

“I’m flying in.” He threatened.  “If you’re going to do this then do it to my face.”

“I’m living my life, Felix, and you can not control me!” She said raising her voice.  “I am not ‘doing’ anything to you.  You make your choices and you have to be responsible for how you feel about those choices.” She said and she hung up.

“Ashley!  Ashley!”  Felix said and he threw his phone on the floor where it shattered into several pieces.

“That’s gonna cost you.”  A voice said from the darkness.

“Who’s there?” Felix said startled. 

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to make you jump.” The female voice said.  “Louis told me I’d find you here.  I’m Antonia.” She purred as she moved into a work light.  She was petite with short dark hair and a round face.  Her eyes were as black as coal and she looked French.  She was in a pair of hiking shorts and leather sandals.  Felix wiped his sweaty palm on his pants and shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you.” He said embarrassed.  He leaned down and picked up the pieces of his broken cell phone. “What can I do for you?” He said softly.

“I work with the New York Historical society…in the fine art division.”  She began.  “And earlier today as the workmen were removing part of the original rotted lattice work behind the pitted plaster they came across this old wooden draughtsman’s box.  Probably the property of the original owner.”  She explained.

“Mmm, hmmm.” He grunted still reeling from his angry outburst.

“There were old photographs inside.  They were of Mr. Rhys standing next to one of his paintings.”  She continued. “Of course they’re old black and whites, like Carte de visits so the clarity is a bit muddled.”

“And what does this have to do with me?” He asked distracted.

“Well.  It just adds even more value to the property.  I’m not sure how Mr. Rhys fits into art history and more importantly New York City History, but I am now assigned to make sure that no anachronisms, materials or otherwise, are used to renovate this house.” She added.

“Are you the History police?”  He said sarcastically.

“I am.” She replied.  “I am also here to help you research and find the correct materials in order to restore this place to its gilded age grandeur.” She smiled.

Something about how Antonia grinned at that moment seemed to alleviate Felix’s frustration.  Suddenly the fireworks in Prospect Park and the East River began take over the night sky and infuse the moment with a kind of celebration, excitement and even wonder.

“You’re going to help me?” He asked again for reassurance.

“Yes.  I’ve been assigned to help you.  This is a huge undertaking. I’m not even sure where to start.  But we will have to start somewhere and I thought this would give us a clue.” She handed an old cardboard photograph to him.  On the edges he could make out some of the details of the artist’s studio.  It seemed to enliven and even challenge him.

“I’m unreachable.” He said chuckling holding the pieces of his phone. “Want to go for a beer?” He asked. 

“I’m parched.” Antonia replied and they walked through the house and the yard through crowds of kids with sparklers and pockets of inebriated adults to a neighborhood pub.

 

 

Ashley and Chelsea had just returned the rental car when Felix called.  Chelsea dropped the keys in the lock box at the parking lot leaving Ashley on the street to finish her conversation.

“Who was that?” Chelsea asked softly as she returned.

“My ex.” Ashley sighed.

“You have an ex?” Chelsea said feeling uneasy.

“Oh, no, we were never married.  An ex-boyfriend.  He’s a piece of work.” Ashley said shaking it off.

“Oh.” Chelsea replied and the tone of her voice gave way to a different subject.

“What?” Ashley asked.  Chelsea shook her head as her cheeks flushed. “What?” She pressed.

“Nothing. I just…I never knew you had an ex is all.” Chelsea said trying to dodge an uncomfortable subject.

“Why is that hard to believe?” Ashley asked unsure whether or not to feel slighted.

“I just…I can’t picture you with anyone else but me.” Chelsea said in a fragile tone.

The way she said it was incredibly endearing and Ashley felt immediately drawn to her.  As they walked arm and arm into the foyer of the Hotel, they were greeted by the Concierge.

“Ms. Barrett?” An older gentleman called.

“Yes?” Chelsea replied.

“There has been an upgrade to your suite.  Please see the front desk.” He said in his clipped British accent.  The two women were greeted by a hotel representative.

“Hello, my name is Mrs. Chamberlain and I’m pleased to inform you that Mr. Burton has generously moved you both into one of the luxury suites on the top floor.” She said.  “Follow me.”

“What about our stuff?”  Ashley asked.

“Oh, One of the chambermaids carefully gathered your belongings and moved them to the new room.” She beamed as they all stepped onto the lift. In the elevator Mrs. Chamberlain handed Chelsea and Ashley their own keycards.

“This suite comes with a fully stocked bar, access to a car and driver, all the amenities one could wish for.” The woman explained.

“Do we get to have tea with the Queen?” Ashley asked in a smartass tone.  Chelsea jabbed her in the side with an elbow. “Ow!”

Mrs. Chamberlain chuckled pleasantly more out of duty than actual humor.  How many times had she heard that from a crass American.

“And here we are.” She opened the door with her master key and as the door swung open Chelsea and Ashley’s mouths dropped.  The ceilings were twenty feet high, the walls were exposed stone and two exquisitely hand carved walnut canopy beds fitted with luxurious Egyptian linens and fine heavy damask bed curtains cloaked the sleepers in privacy.  On the walls hung what looked to be unicorn tapestries.  If they were not the real thing then they were just as good as the medieval ones hanging at the Cloisters.  The room had a balcony with twelve-foot high French doors.  The windows were just as grand.  Beautiful satin curtains could be drawn to cut out the spill of light from the Eye and other high rise buildings.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”  Mrs. Chamberlain said.  “Oh, and Mr. Burton left this for you.” She placed a note in Chelsea’s hand and quietly slipped away.

 

Dear Chelsea,

When you get this note please call me immediately.  It is urgent I speak with you.  I don’t care what time it is.  I have been given an extraordinary assignment and I must speak with you before I leave.  I hope you enjoy the room.

Very Sincerely,

Scott

 

Chelsea folded the note and picked up the stationary phone on the credenza.

“What are you doing?  It’s 2:00 o’clock in the morning.”  Ashley said.

“He said to call him.” Chelsea replied sheepishly.  Ashley sank down on one of the beds.  Her eyes fixed on an intricate design at the top of the canopy.

 

“Hey Scott.  It’s Chelsea….Yeah, it’s beautiful.  It’s astonishing.  You shouldn’t have, really---but thank you!”  Ashley heard her say.  “It’s really late, though.” Chelsea whispered.

“I can hear you.  I’m still here.”  Ashley said from her bed.

“Okay, okay…Um, It can’t wait til the morning?” Chelsea asked. She sighed and looked over at Ashley’s bed.  “All right.  I’ll be down in a minute.”  She hung up the phone.  Ashley could feel a wave of emotion start to roll over her.  She couldn’t understand why.  She was not the possessive type.  She sat upright and looked at Chelsea who seemed to be wearing shame as a badge.

“I can’t compete.” Ashley said softly and the tears started to roll and her nose started to run.

“What are you talking about?” Chelsea asked startled by her honesty,

“If this is what it takes, I can’t compete.  I can only give you what I have and that’s me.  I’m all there is.” She said softly.

“You don’t understand.  I have to see him.”  She said softly.

“It hurts my feelings that you don’t think I count.” Ashley replied and she rolled over and turned her back. 

Chelsea slipped out into the hallway and all the feelings she had kept guarded came rushing forth.  She heaved with confusion and a kind of grief.  She was at a crossroads wondering which path to take.  She obviously felt strongly about both Ashley and Scott.  If she was carrying Scott’s child, and she was convinced of that truth, perhaps the universe had led her to him. However, she could not remember being intimate with him and was unaware of what that experience was really like.  She did not have the magical moments and an entire past existence tugging at her as she did with Ashley.  And, although she and Ashley had never actually made love she already knew what it would feel like.  It would be all consuming.  It would be the mindful merging of body, mind and spirit. Her Midwestern conventional upbringing seemed to override what her heart appeared to be craving.  Marriage is an institution born and bred of business arrangements.  As long as there are structures and rules in the agreement, all parties can get along. Those sentiments surprised her.  Were they her own thoughts, she wondered.  But what of love?  What of the rules?  Are there any?  What of being annihilated by the thing that stirs that inexplicable passion?  What of being submerged completely in the eddies and tides of sheer ecstasy?  What of identity?  All of these questions churned in Chelsea’s head as she tried to catch her breath and make her way to the hotel lobby.  She had been in this predicament before and she could feel it but she could not put her finger on its origin.  It was a remnant.  A dull, lingering, feeling that touched her edges.  She found a Kleenex in her pocket and quickly dabbed her eyes. Just then the elevator doors opened and there he was…holding a bouquet of freshly cut baby blue hydrangeas.  He smiled endearingly.  How did he know they were her favorite flower?  Where did he find them on such short notice?  Was this an elaborate plan, a grand courtship to win her over?  She wondered and the questions were sharp at their tip.

“Em, you must be tired.  I really appreciate you taking a moment to see me.  How---how are you feeling?”  He asked as he led her to a bevy of puffy chairs in the hotel’s lobby.  As she looked around the hotel patrons coming back from a night of clubbing and pubbing moved in slow motion.  The bustling murmur of youth faded into some unknown vault.  She could hear her own heart and it sped up as she prepared to speak.

“I’m fine. A bit tired.” She said softly.

“I’ll be brief.  I’ve taken an assignment and I leave in about 5 hours. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.  You see, I was the equivalent of a navy seal in the royal forces when I was younger.  And now I have the opportunity to embed myself in Afghanistan and report on the British forces as well as the US forces still there.” He said cheerfully.

“That’s great. Um, wow…how long will you be gone?” She asked a bit upended by the news.

“I’m not sure.” He replied.

“It’s dangerous.” She said.

“Very.” He replied.

“Well, that’s great---congratulations.  That’s, like…real journalism.”  She said.

“Yeah, yeah, the BBC finally threw me a bone.” He said taking her in.

“So…what is this all about?” Chelsea said confused.

“I wanted you to wait for me.” He said softly.

“I haven’t made a decision yet.” She whispered.

“I know.  But if you do decide to go through with it…I wanted you to know that I will be back…and I will be ready…and I won’t ever forget you.”  He replied.

Chelsea took in a deep breath.  “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” He asked as he checked his watch.

“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind when I make my decision.” She said and she got up to leave.

“Chelsea.  I was hoping I’d convince you to keep it.” He said anxiously.

“Yeah, well…you’re going to go get your ass shot off and so the probability of me being a single mom is pretty high.  And I have to be honest.  I don’t want to be a single mom.  I want a partner.” She walked over to the elevator bank and she could see him standing there deflated and confused.  She smiled weakly and disappeared behind the metal doors.  As the elevator ascended she could feel the weight of her body.  She felt proud of herself.  There was a rush of relief.  She was not going to settle.  She was not going to repeat a pattern.  She was going to try something new.

Notes from a Mystic

“Mr. Rhys…Mr. Rhys, sir!” a voice said startling Richard from his hypnotic state.  “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mr. Watkins.  Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” Richard replied.  As he looked around he discovered that they had found shelter in the old livery stable near Court Street.  He looked down to see Mr. Watkins with his fingers threaded ready to be a human stirrup.  Victoria was nestled against his chest half asleep. 

“Dear.  We have arrived in some form of civilization.” He whispered.  A delicate smile curled about her mouth as her eyes slowly adjusted to the stable’s lamplight.

“I thought for sure that mare had perished in the blizzard.”  Ned, the stableman said astonished.

“She’s been living in our kitchen.” Richard replied.

“And Mr. Jones?” He inquired.

Mr. Watkins turned and shook his head ‘no’.

“’Tis a pity.” Ned said as he helped Victoria down from Michelangelo’s back. 

“Not really.” Mr. Watkins whispered to himself.  It did not go unnoticed by Richard. With Henry’s help Richard slid down and felt his feet hit the dirt floor of the stable.

Victoria sat with her arms around Mrs. Hopkins who had taken to the comforts of a bail of hay.  She shivered under her black wool coat.

“Would the Inn have a room to let for this evening?” Mr. Watkins asked.

“T’was full earlier today.  I’ll inquire for ye.” Ned said as he led Michelangelo to a warm stall and regular feed.  The two women moved close to the barrel with the crackling fire.  Mrs. Hopkins unlaced her boots as Victoria gently pulled them away.  Her stockinged feet were wet and dreadfully cold. As Victoria rolled down the tights, Mrs. Watkins’ toes had turned blue and her feet stark white identical to Nell’s, the dead maid’s pallor.  An Irish stable boy looked down on the scene from his perch in the hayloft.

“Boy.  We need a bucket of water to heat.” Henry directed.  The boy got up and fetched the needed container and dipped it into the trough at the back of the building then brought the icy liquid to Mr. Watkins.

Victoria and Richard blew on their hands and rubbed Mrs. Hopkins feet in an effort to warm them up, but the pain of frostbite nullified their actions.

“The only room available next door is the attic.” Ned said as he re-entered the stable.

“Are there beds?” Henry asked.

“Two.” Ned replied.  “But there is no fireplace up there.”

“Hot water bottles?” Victoria asked.  Ned chuckled.  The Inn next door catered to the service industry and did not have amenities the upper class had grown accustomed to.

“I could pinch one for ye, sir.”  The boy said mischievously. Henry took the boy by his shoulder and led him to a corner where they could speak privately.

“If you can secure a hot water bottle then I will give you this.” Henry whispered and his hand revealed a coin worth more than the boy’s entire week’s wages. 

“Leave it to me.” The boy said and he disappeared into the shadows of the barn.

“We’ll take the attic.” Henry told Ned.  Ned nodded and disappeared to make the arrangements.  Henry pulled an old horse blanket from one of the stalls and held it close to the fire.

“We’ll wrap your frostbit feet in this until we get to the room upstairs.” Henry said gently.  Ned reentered the stable and nodded, signaling them to follow him.  Henry wrapped Miriam’s delicate limbs in the cloth and then both he and Richard carried her the five flights upstairs to the dusty attic. The gabled window looked out over a peaceful, sleepy Manhattan.  Firelight could be seen from the river and the faint glow of gas lamps and candles made the skyline seem warm and festive. The white tempest of a few days before was rendered a distant memory.  The sky was a brilliant deep Indigo and the stars twinkled calmly in their firmament.  The entire universe was spread out before them through that small window.  As Richard looked deeper into the constellations he could feel himself moving at a faster pace than the current time.  He could sense the future and yet it was now.

There was a soft tap on the door.  Henry opened it and the boy slid inside.  Under his shirt he revealed the hot water bottle filled with heated liquid.

“You have done a great thing.”  Henry whispered and placed the coin in his hand.

“Sir?  May I fetch the water bottle at dawn?  I pinched it from the bartender downstairs. That’s when he wakes.” He confessed.

“Certainly.” Henry said as Victoria took the apparatus and slid it next to Miriam’s feet under the blanket.

“Oooooooo.” She moaned.

“I know it is painful but you have to warm it up slowly.” Victoria said.  Richard took the blanket from the small double bed, fixed a twine clothesline and draped the blanket there for privacy.  Mrs. Hopkins assumed because of the close quarters that Victoria would sleep with her and the two men would bunk together.  Her face registered surprise when Richard held out his arm to fetch his wife.

“But…” Mrs. Hopkins began.  Then Henry slid in next to her.

“I won’t bite, Mrs. Hopkins.”  He said smiling.  Victoria kissed her governess goodnight and disappeared with Richard behind the curtain.  Snuggled deeply underneath the bison hide Richard let his hands slip beneath Victoria’s bodice and touch the skin of her belly.  She giggled when the baby moved and Richard could feel his heart jump.

“She is all right.” He said needing confirmation.

“She is just fine.” Victoria smiled and she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him deeply.  He could feel his child move inside of her and all the mysteries of life and the universe seemed to cascade down around him.  Even amid this dusty old attic he had found paradise and heaven had found him.  He pulled the orange thread from his pocket and wound an end about his finger.  The exhaustion of the day’s trials sent him tumbling into a deep sleep.  And as his mind weaved through his thoughts he recalled that Ansa had told him that she was him and he was her.  If she had sacrificed her existence in an earlier time, and given her force to ensure Victoria’s life…then…something inside of him had been sacrificed.  A small part of who he was had died in order to keep his wife and child alive.  The stars swirled above him in the midnight sky and he was part of that infinite, slumbering, deeply intuitive blue.  Turned upside down he realized he had been liberated from a part of himself in order to love more deeply.  

 

 

Chelsea Thornton Rhys had been born in 1913 to her mother Chelsea Victoria Rhys on October 25^th, the same day as her grandfather, in Manhattan at their home on Fifth Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street.  Her father was Junius Spencer Morgan of the J. P. Morgan family. Her earliest memories are of her Grandfather Rhys working in his large studio on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-fifth street.  Canvases had been stored and easels dotted the room but she had never actually seen him paint.  On his worktables were spools of celluloid, cogs, wheels and various tools, springs and gears.  Heavy Victorian curtains, racks of costumes and black velvet to cover the windows.  Her grandfather took a keen interest in the magic lanterns of the day and in Edison’s Kinetiscope.  Moving pictures, flickers or nickelodeons as they had been called fascinated Richard even as he lived in London in the 1880’s and was introduced to the photography of Edward Muybridge.

She was four years old and the Great War had been raging for three years.  She had not known a time of peace.  It was in that same year that Charles Chaplin had made The Tramp. On a trip to New York he stopped in to see Richard Rhys and their lunch with cigars and brandy lasted for hours. To see the great Charles Chaplin in person was a thrill.  He only existed on celluloid to her child's mind.  During this visit she came face to face with the real man. It was one of the first memories Chelsea had of her grandfather.  When she was older her mother took great amusement in recounting her and her father’s first meeting with the silent film star.  Richard and Victoria had gone to see the Fred Karno Troupe perform their act in one of the vaudevillian theatres in Manhattan.  Richard was so taken with the young actor that he invited the whole troupe back to his studio where the young men laughed, drank, smoked and talked for hours.  And when the young Chaplin asked to see her grandfather’s paintings he was shown the exact group of large sea works that currently hung in the Tate.  When Chelsea was a young lady and invited to the New York Premiere of City Lights in 1931 she recalled that Mr. Chaplin spoke very highly of her grandfather and remarked that as a young man standing before those amazing works of art, the alchemical effect of the work inspired him and gave him enough courage to seize his own power and creativity to become the incomparable silent legend that he was.

At five years old the death of Richard Rhys was one of the most memorable moments of her young life.  They had been called to the house on Grove Street.  Her grandmother Victoria had passed away only months before and Richard spoke to his daughter as if she were Victoria.  He was in bed riddled with fever and overcome with a cough that wreaked havoc on his lungs.  The Spanish flu began with one man in an army barracks in Kansas in 1917.  By the summer of 1918 it had grown in to a pandemic killing three percent of the world’s population. More devastating than the black death it killed millions attacking adults in their prime. And although Richard was in perfect health before being infected, the microbe ravaged his healthy immune system rendering him helpless.  He never recovered.  When the end finally came with the family gathered round it was a peaceful and quiet event. He slipped away uttering the words, “A gentleman always knows when to leave…”He died September 11^th, 1918.  Two months to the day was the official end of World War I and Armistice Day had been observed ever since as the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.  It was a week after the cease-fire in Europe that Chelsea Thornton Rhys and her family relocated to London.  From the age of five until she became an adult her home would be with her grandmother’s side of the family, the Thorntons.   September 3, 1939 when Chelsea was about to turn twenty six, the British government declared war on Nazi Germany.  Chelsea immediately volunteered with the Red Cross and found herself not only in London during the air raids but also on various tours of duty in France to help the resistance and the cause of freedom.  It was during one of these tours that she met her husband, a dashing American soldier from Omaha.  They married and honeymooned on the Seine while he was on leave.  He was killed on the beaches of Normandy during the D-day invasion.  Devastated, she returned to her mother’s house in London where she miscarried. Reverting to her maiden name to try and erase the painful past, she swore never to marry again.  After peace had been declared in the spring of 1945, Chelsea’s mother had Richard Rhys’s complete collection of works shipped from a warehouse in Brooklyn by steamer to their manor house in Northumberland.  The grand parlor in the East wing housed the Sea paintings and only privileged guests were allowed to view the art.  Chelsea moved from London into the Manor house in Northumberland and studied the paintings and her grandfather’s diaries for over five years.  Her discoveries prompted her to lobby to the family that the paintings were infused with a mystical aura and that the public should not be allowed to view them. Chelsea’s mother thought her daughter had gone mad until she spent an entire spring retreat at the Manor and found the paintings to have a strange power over her.  It was nothing malevolent, only inspiring.  But the intensity of the feelings that the paintings evoked prompted the viewer to delve deeply within themselves.  Visiting the Shadow was what Chelsea called it.  The brush strokes of the waves looked like lemniscates.  Other strokes in the impasto looked very much like the Hebrew letter ‘yod’ that begins the tetragrammaton, the sacred unspeakable name of God.  Chelsea did not know if these symbols were intentional or reflections of Richard’s subconscious mind. She made copious notes and sketches in her own small notebooks and then sought the help of various professors at Oxford and Cambridge to try and demystify the math and symbology of the work.  In any case the paintings transformed the viewer.  But since there were thirteen in all only Chelsea knew the order in which to view them for a true transformation to take place.  The rest of her grandfather’s paintings she bequeathed to various museums:  The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Louvre, The Prado, Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, The Hermitage and The Nationalmuseum Sweden among others on the condition that if they were sold or auctioned that the entire proceeds of the sale of the paintings go to a trust fund set up to end poverty world wide.  Chelsea had experienced something deeply by spending those fateful years with her grandfather’s Sea Series.  Once the intention of her life had been fully formed and molded by the imagery of the work, she committed her full focus on achieving her goals.  In 60 years the foundation she had founded in 1950 had significantly reduced world poverty and, Ms. Rhys was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1990 for her indomitable spirit and charitable work. Her mother died in June of 1970 and the entire Thornton-Rhys estate passed into her hands as executor. She traveled the world visiting the most remote areas of Africa and Indonesia trying to ease the plight of famine, disease and poverty.  Her foundation was one of the first to make large operating contributions to Doctors Without Borders. Now at 98 she was frail and delicate needing the use of a wheelchair to move more than a few steps but her mind was sharp and present. 

Ashley and Chelsea had been invited back to Ms. Rhys’ private rooms and they spent almost five hours talking and drinking tea and looking through old scrapbooks, gleaning a lifetime of information.  Ms. Rhys continually referred to Ashley as Grandfather and to Chelsea as Grandmother only occasionally remembering to call them by their Christian names. 

“Ms. Rhys---“ Ashley began.

“Please call me Chelsea.  ‘Ms. Rhys’ sounds so old and formal.” The old woman interrupted.  Ashley exchanged a look with Chelsea Barrett.  It all seemed so surreal.

“I was wondering why the estate has stipulated that the Rhys paintings never be reproduced photographically or otherwise and why they are not open for the public to enjoy?” Ashley asked.

“Why, you told me yourself once that some of the imagery is potent.  I feel I have to act with discretion and responsibility.” Ms. Rhys replied forgetting herself.

“Was Richard Rhys a Freemason?” Chelsea asked.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Ms. Rhys chuckled.  “No.  Grandfather was not part of any brotherhood or fraternity.  He was simply a mystic.” She beamed.

“Are you a mystic?” Ashley asked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that.  All I know is that I have tried to fulfill my highest potential.  That’s what he did. That’s what you would have wanted.” Ms. Rhys said enigmatically.

“Yes, yes.  That is exactly what I would want.” Ashley said playing along.  Chelsea shot her a look.

“You mentioned that there is an alchemical order to the paintings.”  Ashley began.

“Yes, yes.  Don’t you remember?” Ms. Rhys asked a bit incredulous.

“No.  I seem to have forgotten.  I’ve been away so long.” Ashley replied.

“Yes, you have!  I guess that is par for the course. You see, Grandfather, I wrote down everything you told me and I studied your very own notes about the paintings.”  She began. “Anything is possible.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Ashley concurred.

“That includes phenomena that we do not understand on this physical plane.” Ms. Rhys said guardedly. Her eyes sparkled and pierced with knowing.  “That includes things like levitation, bilocation and even…immortality.”

There was a long silence as the seriousness of the moment hovered over them.

“You must commit your belief one thousand times one thousand percent…You understand?” She instructed and her voice changed as if she was aware she was talking to a young woman.  Ashley nodded her head.  Chelsea took in every nuance.

“I shall give you the order.  But…You must spend at least three days to a week in front of each painting in their correct order or the magic of your work will only be superficial.  They are exquisite paintings and important works of art in their own right, but the spiritual qualities will only be revealed in meditation.” She instructed.  Then she wrote down the titles in order of viewing and handed the slip of paper to Ashley.

“Thank you very much for this.” Ashley said.

“I was wondering who else has seen the work in the order you suggested?” Chelsea asked.

“Oh, my…lots of people.  Let me see.  Winston Churchill, President Roosevelt, The Queen, of course.  Eh, John Logie Baird—the original inventor of television, you see.  Sir Laurence Olivier, The Great Sarah Bernhardt, Sir Alexander Fleming and John Lennon.  Those are the most memorable ones.” She answered.   Just then the antique clock struck ten.

“We should really be going---“ Ashley said as Chelsea rose simultaneously.

“Oh, no.  Must you?” Ms. Rhys said deflated.

“Yes, yes, we have quite a ride to get back to our hotel.” Chelsea said softly.

“Why on earth are you staying in a hotel when the residences are on Hyde Park?” Ms. Rhys inquired confused.

“It’s been arranged that way.  Thank you so much for a wonderful evening.” Ashley said. as she took Ms. Rhys’ hand and gave it a heartfelt gentle squeeze.

“You’ll come back and visit me, won’t you?” Ms. Rhys asked reluctant to release Ashley’s hand.

“Of course.  We shall be delighted.” Ashley replied and she was taken aback by how her Southern accent shifted spontaneously into perfect British.  Chelsea studied Ashley for a moment unsure of what was happening.

“Perhaps next week we shall have proper tea?  I shall make the arrangements.” Ms. Rhys said as she slowly released Ashley’s hand.

“Good night.” Chelsea said as she led the way across the threshold.

“Good night.” Ms. Rhys said as she peered from her apartment door down the long elegant corridor.

“You know we have to make good on that promise.” Chelsea whispered as they walked.

“Yes, I know.  I plan to fulfill my obligations.” Ashley said and her speech was exquisitely British.

“You don’t have to keep doing that.” Chelsea added.

“I’m not doing it on purpose. I swear.”  Ashley said and her speech slowly resumed its characteristic Southern drawl.

“You know she is one of the richest women in the world.  She ranks just below J.K. Rowling.” Chelsea commented.

“Well, with the Thornton fortune it’s no surprise.” Ashley replied.  Chelsea took her arm.

“Her fortune is self-made.  She only had a small allowance against her inheritance when she began.” Chelsea said.  “I did some reading on Wikipedia and Google.” She shrugged her shoulders and exited the building.  Ashley looked back and locked eyes with Delilah.

“We’ll be back.” She said sweetly.

“Over my dead body.” Delilah hissed.

“If that’s the way you want it.” Ashley demurred as Chelsea pulled her through the doors into the parking lot.