Richard woke up with a splitting headache. He was soaked through from sweating, although the fever had subsided. The Bison hide had promoted a kind of purge. He saw Mrs. Hopkins sitting quietly reading her small book of proverbs and sipping a cup of tea.
“Where is Victoria?” He asked and his voice was hoarse. Mrs. Hopkins methodically moved her chair and accouterments closer to the small wooden bed where Richard lay.
“Mrs. Rhys and Mr. Watkins have gone out to find a doctor.” She said softly.
“Why did she not send you?” He asked concerned. Mrs. Hopkins frowned a little.
“At times she cannot bear to see you ill. The weather has turned quite agreeable and she decided a walk might do her good.” She replied. “How are you feeling?”
“A bit weak, I fear.” Richard said. “Certainly I feel well enough to ride over the bridge and go home.” Mrs. Hopkins smiled because that was her most fervent wish as well.
“With the Irish holiday the roads are still treacherous.” Mrs. Hopkins said. “Not because of the Irish but because of the snow.” She clarified and then giggled. Her lightheartedness was novel and Richard found her intriguing. Then she sat silent for a moment, her thoughts rushing through her mind at lightning speed. Richard closed his eyes and let the faint murmur of revelry from the Brooklyn streets lull him into a half sleep.
“Mr. Rhys?” Mrs. Hopkins said softly. He opened his eyes and studied her for a moment.
“I…I have taken this opportunity of a candid audience with you for a reason.” She began.
“Go on.” He replied, his interest piqued.
“I suggested Victoria find the doctor so that I could speak plainly with you.” She said.
“What is it?” He asked sliding up on the pillow completely alert.
“Nell…”
“What about Nell?” Richard said growing impatient.
“Did you know that she was…a relation?” Mrs. Hopkins hinted.
“A relation to whom?” Richard said perplexed.
“To you.” She replied. The words crashed through him in an unexpected way. He had so completely blocked out his childhood and his true country of origin that it took him a minute to truly identify himself.
“How…do you know this?’ He asked softly.
“When she passed it was my duty to collect her things. She did not have many belongings. Tucked inside her small Bible was a letter or two from relatives in Ireland. Connelly. Her mother, a woman named Mareid.” She explained and then stopped and sipped her tea. “Oh.” She said suddenly remembering. From the fold of her skirt she produced an old tintype that had been trimmed oval in order to fit inside a small locket. She found the piece of tin with the image burned in and wrapped carefully in a piece of cotton.
Mareid Connelly was Richard’s father’s younger sister. She married a cobbler in County Clare far from the small fishing village where he grew up. He remembered Mareid before she was married. She was stunning with long reddish auburn hair, bright green eyes and fair skin that freckled in the sunlight. She was the catch of the area. Every one seemed to compare their beauty to Mareid. She was the gold standard of the land. Her image betrayed a hard life yet her beauty never waned. She was a handsome woman. The sight of her brought a flood of childhood memories that Richard had all but blotted out. He had rewritten his history as an orphan that no one loved. Memories before the shipwreck almost seemed like dreams, illusions that never existed.
“So…now you know who I am.” He said resigned. “I’m an Irishman.”
“So you are.” She replied quietly.
“And those revelers that everyone despises and no one wants to hire—those are my people.” Richard continued.
“Doesn’t change who you are.” Mrs. Hopkins said. Richard gazed at her for a long moment and then noticed the afternoon light, how it moved across the stark white walls. The yellow sun of Spring turned them a light cream color and for a moment he wished for something sweet.
“Who am I?” He queried.
“A man of good character…generosity…You, you are the one my Victoria loves beyond all else.” She said and her sincerity moved him.
“She should have a proper funeral.” He murmured.
“Certainly.” Mrs. Hopkins concurred.
“Have you written to them?” He asked.
“I have not…the storm made it impossible.” She replied.
“I shall do it.” He said as he slid back down on the bed. “I would like for her to have a proper monument.”
“As you wish.” Mrs. Hopkins replied. “I shall fetch you a fresh cup of hot tea.” And she jumped up leaving her book marked and in the seat of her chair. She moved like a shadow and was quickly beyond the door and down the stairs. Richard closed his eyes for a moment and he heard the light tapping of footsteps. He assumed Mrs. Hopkins had forgotten something and returned post haste. But the light footsteps stopped bedside.
“Yes?” He said, his eyes still closed.
“Are you sleeping, grandpa?” He heard a little girl’s voice say. He was startled by her presence and sat up right.
“You have the wrong room, dear girl.” He said. She was dark haired and wore a pink dress in the style he was not familiar with. She had dark eyes and pale, ivory skin and sat where Mrs. Hopkins had been. She could not have been more than five years old and yet she had impeccable manners.
“You are Mr. Rhys.” She said rhetorically.
“Yes.” He responded slowly unsure of this little girl’s lineage.
“Then I have the right room. Has Mr. Chaplin arrived yet?” She asked excitedly.
“Who is Chaplin and who are you?” Richard said and he put his hand to his head to see if his fever was spiking. He felt uneasy and strangely outside of himself.
“Oh, Grandpa, Charlie is a movie star!” The little girl explained. “You like to tease me, so.”
“I see.” Richard replied growing ever more uneasy.
“I have a secret I want to tell you.” The child began and she got up from her chair and gestured for him to lean close. She cupped her hand about her mouth as children do and whispered in his ear. “I want to come back.”
“And you shall.” He said playing along.
“Before you go home.” She added enigmatically. Heavier footsteps echoed through the corridors and they were the familiar footfalls of Mrs. Hopkins climbing the last set of steps. The little girl’s eyes grew as round as saucers and she whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
“I know.” Richard said and quick as a rabbit she sprinted through the doorway and out into the hall.
Ashley and Chelsea lay face to face in the massive canopied bed that was centered in the iconic Victorian Bedroom suite. Both distracted by the surreal occurrences of the day.
“400 million.” Ashley whispered and her eyes glazed over.
“Holy cow, I’m not sure I can comprehend that amount.” Chelsea responded.
“Yeah.” Was all Ashley could muster.
“And that’s just looking at her obvious assets. Who knows what other investments and foundations she is involved in throughout Europe---the world.” Chelsea said.
“It’s not really ours, though.” Ashley replied.
“What do you mean?” Chelsea asked.
“Well…she made us managers…in a sense. I mean, sure we have inherited a living wage but the majority of the wealth is earmarked for the people.” Ashley said.
“We’re obviously stewards.” Chelsea added. “No question…I just wonder how she felt so confident that we could fulfill her wishes. We only met once. How could she tell?” Chelsea wondered.
“I have a feeling she knew.” Was all that Ashley was willing to give up at that moment.
There was a soft tap on the door to the suites.
“Yes?” Ashley answered in her full voice.
“I’m sorry to disturb you but Mr. Wilkins requested that I ask you to meet with him in the dining room in a few minutes. He has some developing news to share.” A female voice said from the other side.
“Thank you, Erin. We’ll be down in a minute.” Ashley responded.
“What do you think it is?” Chelsea asked. “More assets?”
“Who knows.” Ashley shrugged and she pulled on a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. She slipped her sandals on as Chelsea opted for a pretty lime green satin robe.
Mr. Wilkins seemed agitated at the changing developments occurring minute by minute. He paced in the vast dining room still wearing his suit from the workday. He was groomed immaculately, not a hair out of place. Ashley sat in a large puffy chair and Chelsea moved to a Victorian chaise lounge.
“I am terribly sorry to bother you both at such a late hour. But I have just been informed by Buckingham Palace that her Majesty, the Queen will be in attendance at the memorial service set for two days from now to be performed at Westminster Abbey.” Wilkins said fidgeting. “The Dame had been a friend to the monarchy since World War II and so there is a closeness and respect.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Chelsea asked. Wilkins seemed shocked.
“It has everything to do with you. You will be in attendance since you are the Dame’s heirs and you will have to be tutored on the etiquette and propriety of engagement with the Royal family. The proper way to bow, curtsy, speak, etc, etc.” He explained.
“I have nothing at all appropriate to wear.” Ashley said standing and she began to pace nervously.
“That has all been arranged. Valets, if you will, have been assigned to you both and so tomorrow morning at 7:00AM you will be whisked to various shops and designers to find appropriate mourning outfits for the funeral. Also…Her Majesty’s secretary requested a half hour interview with you both at Buckingham Palace and you should be dressed appropriately for your private audience with the Queen.” Wilkins said and he dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
“The Queen?” Chelsea reiterated in disbelief.
“Yes, Queen Elizabeth II.” Wilkins clarified.
“I ---I don’t know what to say.” Ashley uttered. “I mean, I have no idea what to talk about.”
“Her Majesty will be asking you questions. Simply answer them to the best of your ability.” Wilkins advised and his face flushed from nervous anxiety. “Mr. Smoot has set up an account that will be a temporary holding of a small amount of the assets for this particular situation until the estate can be settled.”
“I don’t even know what to wear to go shopping.” Chelsea said growing anxious.
“Dungarees are certainly acceptable.” Wilkins said. “One word of warning. When the news breaks as it will any moment now, the paparazzi may find you both easy prey. Don’t be at all surprised to find a herd of photographers camped outside the door in the morning. Good night.” Wilkins said and he gracefully glided out of the room.
“Oh, my God. The day keeps getting stranger by the moment.” Chelsea said and she got up and started pacing.
“It’s all falling into place.” Ashley said stoically.
“What? What are you talking about?” Chelsea replied.
“All of my dreams, all of your dreams, they are conspiring to manifest.” Ashley answered.
“I had a strange out-of-body kind of experience today.” Chelsea began. “ I could see London as it was several centuries ago…and there was…a curious…wanting.”
“Wanting?” Ashley echoed.
“I wanted you there. I wanted you to feel the same sublime experience.” Chelsea added.
Suddenly Ashley’s cell phone rang. She frowned for a moment and then looked at Chelsea.
“I feel like I should take this.” Chelsea nodded and disappeared through the corridor.
“Hey Felix.” Ashley said,
“Ash. I, uh, I was just checking in, you know. I, um, I hired a restoration expert for the house.” He said.
“Yeah, that’s great.” Ashley replied.
“She’s fantastic! Her name is Antonia and she is amazing at research and finding exactly what was in the house or might have been in the manor at that time.” He continued. And Ashley could hear a woman’s voice in the background.
“That’s great, Felix. I’m glad you like her.” She said.
“We’re planning on flying to London to collect some antiques and wallpaper and stuff and then on to Europe for the more furniture hunting. So…I was wondering if maybe we could meet for lunch or something?” He said and his voice was confident and strong and she could tell that perhaps he needed her permission of sorts to move forward.
“You’re not going to believe this, Felix. But I may need your expertise---your financial expertise. I could even hire you.” She said.
“Hire me? I’m pretty pricey.” He replied.
“Felix. I just inherited 400 million pounds sterling.” She said. She was met with silence on the other end.
“Are you on meds?” He said after a pregnant pause.
“Do me a favor and watch BBC America or PBS news tonight. You’ll see that I am lucid and serious.” She added.
“This is crazy. How is this possible?” He said on the other end.
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