Victoria and Richard stepped lightly down the five flights of stairs from the attic to the dining room of the Court Street Inn. It was Saint Patrick’s Day. The restaurant was filled with burly Irishman, some with their family but most without. The hustle and bustle of the clientele was chaotic and it made Richard’s head ache. It was so quiet and peaceful upstairs only moments before, he thought. The men were loud and crass and sometimes rude. It reminded him of the shanty inns in London’s Whitechapel area; Hungover whores and derelict men, gray and sometimes yellow from years of the drink.
“Must we?’ Richard whispered to his wife.
“They’re working men. This is their day! We should be pleased to be a part of it.” She said simply as she stepped fearlessly into the crowded eatery. There, in a small corner Mr. Watkins and Mrs. Hopkins sat eating their breakfast of two eggs sunny side up, a piece of toast and jam and two cups of tea. As Victoria spied the other two of their entourage she noticed that Mrs. Hopkins was stiff and uncomfortable and looked positively petrified.
“May we join you?” she asked cheerfully. Mr. Watkins stood as was appropriate for his station. He looked about for extra chairs but there were none to be had. Mrs. Hopkins seemed stunned. This was truly unusual and certainly unheard of. The Lady of the house never dined with the help especially in public. The request took her breath away for a moment.
“You may have our table, Mrs. Rhys. We are finished.” Mrs. Hopkins said and she looked at Henry for corroboration.
“But you are not finished.” Victoria protested. Henry averted his eyes as only half of his breakfast had been eaten and he was still famished.
“Mr. Watkins and I must gather the horse.” Mrs. Hopkins continued as she stepped toward the alcove that led to the foyer of the Inn.
“Nonsense.” Victoria replied and she tapped a burly man sitting beside them on the shoulder.
“Pardon me, sir?” She said.
His head was twice as big as the average person and when he stood erect he was beyond six feet tall and his chest looked like a wine barrel. “I was wondering if there might be a chair or two to be had?” She asked demurely and smiled wide. Without ever speaking the man returned her smile then with both hands lifted two smaller men up by their shirt collars and guided them, their feet barely touching the floor, toward the bar.
“These two are only having barley for breakfast today, mum.” He said in a brogue so thick that is was hard to understand. The two Irishmen usurped by the English once again glared at the foursome. Richard could see that they might expect retaliation and so he kept his eye on the two dark eyed Celts. The large man lifted two oak chairs as if they were teacups and placed them at the table.
“Thank you so much.” Victoria said warmly. The big man smiled nodded and resumed his seat at his own table. There was laughter and revelry already in full swing and it was only 9:00 am.
“Please sit, Mrs. Hopkins.” Victoria instructed. “These have been extraordinary times.” She added. For some reason the words made sense and so Miriam took her seat and to Henry’s relief he was able to finish his breakfast.
“I think it a good omen that we are going home on this wonderful Christian holiday.” She continued as Richard took his seat beside her. Mr. Watkins hesitated unsure how to proceed.
“Please Mr. Watkins, do finish your meal.” Victoria instructed sweetly. With that, Henry ate as if he were in the servant quarters at the Grove street house. Mrs. Hopkins sipped her tea when suddenly the restaurant grew quiet as a man stood up clinking his mug. Out of the whispers came the most incredible tenor voice singing an old Irish ballad called “Foggy, Foggy Dew”. The sound of the Irishman’s voice was so clear and profound that it moved her. She caught Mrs. Hopkins’ eye and to her surprise she could see that her Governess was crying. It was Mrs. Hopkins belief that emotions have no real value in servitude and so she kept her feelings to herself. However, she was affectionate and loving to Victoria as a Mother would be to her daughter. She never let what she considered unacceptable feelings show themselves. At moments when weeping might be beneficial Mrs. Hopkins would remain silent and still. But today, this moment, a song moved the older woman to genuine tears.
“Victoria.” She whispered as she wiped her eyes. Victoria leaned in close to hear Miriam over the din and the singing.
“Nell…” Mrs. Hopkins began but her voice cracked and a quiet sob issued forth.
“What’s happened?” Victoria replied.
“Nell passed away.” She said quickly. “I wish she were here to listen to this young man sing.”
“Mrs. Hopkins.” Victoria asked as she reached for Miriam’s arm.
“We sent her out.” Miriam started and then she was overcome.
“We sent her out to try and find you, Mrs. Rhys.” Mr. Watkins said slowly. He gazed down at his cup of tea. “She was caught in the storm.”
“Oh, my.” Victoria whispered trying to hold in the great breath of air that would manifest as tears.
“No one helped her.” He continued. “She froze to death in a doorway ten blocks away.”
“My God.” Victoria uttered to herself.
“When they brought her in…” Mrs. Hopkins began but her voice continued to crack. “I thought it was you.” She leaned into Mr. Watkins for support as a torrent of emotions flooded through her.
“Where is she now?” Richard asked innocently.
“In the cellar, Mr. Rhys. Because of the storm it was the only place she would keep until the undertaker could pay a visit.” Henry replied
“Funeral arrangements?” Richard continued.
“The Priest will say a few words and she’ll be buried here in Brooklyn at Green-wood.” Henry said. A round of applause erupted in the restaurant and the crowd of Irishmen grew loud again. But Victoria was overcome and the clapping at their table was half-hearted and laced with sorrow.
“The house won’t be the same.” Victoria whispered to Richard and he wrapped his arms about her as if she were his fragile girl.
“She’s home now…in the green fields of Erin.” He whispered back. “And she’s having a laugh at the merriment of the day.” Then he kissed her cheek and tucked a loose curl back behind her ear. He raised his hand and the overwhelmed bartender caught his signal.
“A round!” Richard said loudly as his fingers moved in a circular fashion indicating the table.
“I don’t indulge.” Mrs. Hopkins said sternly.
“You will. Today. And you’ll do it for Nell. Because you know it would make her happy.” Richard said authoritatively. Then he picked up a butter knife and clanked on a plate.
“Eh-hem! I’d like to make a toast to my…friend, Nell. A good Irish woman. Who died this week in the storm.” Richard announced. “God rest her soul.”
“To NELL! GOD REST HER SOUL” The restaurant erupted. Then a man pulled out his fiddle and began what sounded like a dirge at first and then quickly moved into a Ceilidh tune. The music soothed Victoria and Mrs. Hopkins. Today was a day to rejoice.
Chelsea sat on the stainless steel bench in the middle of the Tate Galleries staring at the huge ocean paintings by Richard Rhys. She could smell salt in the air and for a moment she could feel herself undulating as she focused her entire being on the canvas and the waves they evoked. She pulled out the small piece of paper with the combination of canvases written down by Ashley as dictated by Dame Thornton. She felt strangely odd not telling Ashley that she was at the Tate, but she knew Ashley would be in Essex for most of the day. What could a few hours hurt of being still and meditating on these grand works of art. It was canvas number seven. The day of her birthday fell on the 7th. She found it interesting that it was the first in a series of thirteen. But seven was one. It was the beginning, the alpha, the first. From this point on everything would be built. The painting seemed to be in two parts. The lighter, cerulean blue hue constituted an abstract form of the sky…a kind of firmament. The lower half painted with varying ultramarine, Prussian and indigo hues became the primordial waters. It reflected Chelsea’s subconscious in a way. Her feelings ran deep and the hidden meanings eluded her. Along the horizon was the same almost imperceptible orange line. But in this particular canvas the orange line was repeated in the upper right quadrant in the form of a circle. It was darker at the bottom and fiery orange on the sides and top. There was also a small clump of paint at the bottom that made the circle imperfect. As she gazed at it she felt her spine begin to tingle. She took in a deep breath and noticed that a man, a Sikh had entered the gallery quietly. He stood at the back contemplating the work. Chelsea smiled and then returned to her concentration. He stepped quietly up to the canvas and scrutinized the orange circle.
“Mmmm, interesting…Ouroboros.” He said to himself softly. Then the sound of a smart phone vibrating interrupted the tranquility of the space and the swarthy gentleman apologized and excused himself. She pulled out her own phone and googled Ouroboros. She discovered that the Ouroboros is an ancient alchemical symbol illustrated by a snake swallowing its own tail. The circle of life. The cycles of nature. The ebb and flow of emotion and the human experience of duality within the divine. She got up and moved close to study the fiery circle. It seemed to spiral out and up in an almost three dimensional way. For a moment it reminded her of the conch shells that would wash up on the beach. There was something mathematical about it and yet simultaneously fluid.
She closed her eyes and in her mind the spiral became the familiar strands symbolic of DNA. Maybe the doctor was wrong. It is possible. Maybe he made a mistake and she really was pregnant after all. She could still feel something inside even after all the tests and diagnoses. She imagined that she was four months and that she had a baby bump. She let her hands caress her belly and then she did something extraordinary. She ‘remembered’ backward. She remembered as if it had already happened, as if she had already given birth to her daughter and was reliving the images of being pregnant. She remembered Ashley and the tenderness she showed. She remembered how vulnerable Ashley was and yet how confident and self-assured. She remembered how sensitive and thoroughly sensual the experience had been and even now she could feel it in her body. They had certainly made love to each other but it went far beyond the physical experience. It touched the hem of transcendence. Somehow the thought of it made her joyful regardless of her reality. She decided that she would travel through time in a different way and perhaps the act would produce a surprising reality. Loss was not really loss. It was opportunity turned upside down.
Ashley stood in front of the Hyde Park residence. It was a large townhouse like the exquisite mansions found along Fifth Avenue near the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. She sat on a bench in the park directly across the street from the Dame’s home. And the earlier conversation replayed in her head. Chelsea had said, “I dreamt is was ours…really ours.” The words had weight and though Ashley knew what Chelsea meant she also knew it was biologically impossible. She had the orange sari tied at her waist and she draped it across her shoulders as a damp breeze was blowing up off the river. As a Southern woman she was taught that one marries and has a child or children. But the idea of it seemed foreign to her artistic mind. She liked children well enough but not to the extent that she wanted to actually have one. She had gotten used to the idea that if she were meant to have a child it would come to her in whatever way the universe deemed necessary. The idea of pregnancy had the same effect as the idea of purgatory. Nine months of feeling out of sorts, uncomfortable and ill was not exactly the sales pitch she had in mind. Then the pain associated with actual birth was downright unacceptable. She liked her parts just the way they were. Something moving that big through a miniscule opening had to do some kind of damage and she was not at all lulled by the ideal of motherhood or the romantic notion of the miracle of birth. The only thing that seemed to lodge explicitly in her brain was the medical details of a painful process. However, if Chelsea were the birth mother then the idea of it excited her. Scott’s presence had made Ashley think within the constraints of normal human desire. Scott was gone and now Ashley and Chelsea were together. They were really together. And as Ashley contemplated the significance of her epiphany she could see the possibilities. As she brushed her hands across the orange fabric she could feel herself moving as if on horseback. She felt a little drunk and yet happy---exhilarated. So what if they didn’t have any Y chromosomes between them. Big deal. Miracles happen every day. The trick is to ‘see’ them and to perceive them as such. Ashley felt invigorated and up for a challenge. The material world would consistently say ‘no’. But her aspirations and faith in the higher etheric places told her that ‘maybe’ was real and that ‘yes’ was within the realm of possibility. If science could map the human genome and create clones of sheep, rabbits and dogs--- and genetically engineer plants for better nutrition and disease and pest resistance, then why couldn’t this same alchemical endeavor be applied to gender? It was possible---absolutely possible.
Ashley got up confidently and walked across the street to the large wrought iron gate that protected the beveled glass door behind it. She rang the bell and stood there for a moment. She wondered if anyone was home. Certainly the servants would not leave it unattended. After about ten minutes she was about to walk away when a thin, pale balding man opened the glass door.
“May I help you?” He said in his classic British accent.
“I’m Ashley…Coleman. Dame Thornton---“
“Yes. You are expected.” The Butler said as he unlocked the gate. “Do come in.” Ashley stepped inside and the entranceway was palatial and grand like in the old Hollywood movies.
“Dame Thornton said that you would be expected for dinner.” The Butler continued.
“Yes.” She replied.
“My name is Wilkins. I am at your service. Is there anything particular that you would like this evening?” He asked in a perfected formal way.
“Actually, there is and this may be a strange request, but…Thai coconut soup.” Ashley said excitedly. Wilkins grimaced.
“I don’t know if the cook is schooled in oriental cuisine.” He said slowly.
“That’s okay. There’s a place in the East End. I’ll write down the address where the cook can get the food already prepared.” Ashley instructed.
Wilkins looked confused and taken by surprise.
“My friend. She has a bit of a tender stomach since we arrived and the Thai food seems to be the only thing she can keep down at the moment.”
“Oh Splendid.” Wilkins said sarcastically.
“I’ll be back with our things by eight.” Ashley added.
“Will you need the car?” Wilkins offered almost by rote.
“There’s a car?” Ashley said surprised.
“Of course there’s a car…with a driver. Shall I send it round for you?” He said in a monotone.
“The Savoy. 7:30 would be great. And if the food could be hot and ready to eat by 8:15 that would be extra special.” Ashley said and she smiled at how her plans were falling into place perfectly.
“Oh, happy day.” Wilkins said in his wry monotone.
“You’re funny.” She said cheerfully and almost skipped out the door as the sun was slowly sinking in the west.
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