Shekinah

“I believe he may be suffering from walking pneumonia.” Doctor Philips said. Victoria had pulled the Bison hide over Richard who was now shivering and wheezing. “We must move him to a room with a fireplace. This cock loft is too drafty and will only make him worse.” He added. Victoria nodded in agreement as Mrs. Hopkins clung to Mr. Watkins in the corner.

“The primary residence is in Manhattan. Would he be able to make the trip?” Mr. Watkins inquired.

“No. No. He must stay warm and still. Besides, I do not think the bridge is passable by carriage yet and the train tracks are still packed with snow.” The Doctor replied. “I will see to the Innkeeper for a room with a working fireplace. I shall also procure a remedy from the apothecary on Montague Street and bring it round in the evening.”

“Thank you very much, Dr. Philips.” Victoria said softly as she walked him to the door.

“In the meantime I suggest your good lady here speak with the kitchen to see if they have onions in the cellar. A salve would ease his breathing and a hearty soup would help break up the congestion.” The good doctor advised. He tipped his bowler kindly and disappeared down the staircase, his heavy footsteps echoing over the din of the Irish celebrations.

“Mr. Watkins? Would you see to the new room?” Victoria asked. Mr. Watkins nodded and was fast on the heels of the doctor with Mrs. Hopkins in tow pressed into service as a supervising cook.

“I’ve prevented you from going home.” Richard said in a raspy voice.

“Don’t be silly.” She said and she settled in a simple cane chair beside him.

“Did Mrs. Hopkins tell you?” He said softly.

“Tell me what?” She asked.

“About Nell.” He replied.

“About her unfortunate death.” She said and she was overcome momentarily. “She recounted it this morning at breakfast. Don’t you remember? A terrible tragedy.”

Richard nodded and gazed up at the decaying molding near the ceiling’s edge.

“I would very much like for her to have a proper monument.” He added.

“Certainly. Whatever pleases you, dear.” She said.

“Nell was…my relation.” He began and then closed his eyes for a moment.

“You should rest.” She said concerned for him.

“My niece to be exact.” And he wheezed a bit as his own emotions were awakened. “If I had only known.”

“But you did not.” She answered compassionately. “Fretting will only make it worse.”

“Now you have proof of my lineage and my past.” He said and his illness seemed to blow a dark cloud over his temperament. She studied him for a moment and took in the simplicity of the room. It looked like an Irish peasant’s lodging. He had the unmistakable symmetry of an Irishman. Handsome. The tableau of truth unfolded. Victoria fetched her small Bible and opened it to a place that she frequently marked. Then she read aloud:

“And Ruth said, intreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee: for wither thou goest, I will go: and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people and thy God, my God.”

Dillon pulled the Bentley up in front of the Hyde Park Townhouse. 66 happened to be the house address. Everything was happening so fast - at lightning speed that Chelsea had not even noticed the number let alone the front of the Victorian mansion. It was four stories with gabled attic windows that made up the fifth floor. Whitewashed like the rest of the buildings on the block and a fantastically Romanesque front entrance into the Foyer. The drive down the Mall and past St. James Park would be forever burned into her memory. And although she had never in a million years expected to experience such an amazing day, she felt as though she had been down the Mall before, perhaps in a distant dream. Dillon opened the car door and they disembarked dazed and somewhat disoriented by their visit with Her Majesty, the Queen. The day had been eventful and surprising and completely unexpected. Wilkins met the two women as they entered the foyer.

“Good evening Ms. Coleman, Ms. Barrett.” He said.

“Hi Wilkins.” Ashley replied still wearing a dreamy countenance.

“Is it possible for us to go to the fifth floor?” Chelsea asked trying to be discreet. Wilkins nodded and smiled.

“I want to change my shoes first at least.” Ashley said as she pulled off her heels and carried them in her hands. Chelsea took her arm.

“Come to the fifth floor with me.” She said demurely.

“What are you up to?” Ashley asked. Chelsea only smiled and held firmly to her arm.

“Ladies. We have a small elevator back near the servant’s kitchen. Follow me, please.” He said and they snaked through the enchanting house filled with art and antiques the likes of which could rival the Frick Museum in New York. The door looked like a plain wooden pantry entrance. Wilkins pulled it open to reveal a fantastic turn-of-the-century birdcage elevator constructed of pure steel. As they climbed in they could see a magnificent oculus on the top of the building pouring light down the shaft. Tiffany stained glass had been installed to make it a waterproof skylight. The small platform buzzed with the sound of electricity and antique cables slowly pulling them heavenward. Chelsea’s heart raced in anticipation of her surprise. Wilkins opened the accordion wire doorway to the fifth floor landing and pushed another heavy oak door open to the attic area that had been outfitted with several large easels, a huge painter’s table complete with every oil color imaginable, another smaller table filled with every kind of sable haired brush from a single hair to a house brush, buckets, palette knives, rolls of canvas at least eight feet wide and wooden stretchers built to perfection. Ashley was stunned. Chelsea was giddy in her wake. She walked about the room unable to find the words to describe exactly what she was feeling. It was a painter’s studio that only the successful and wealthy could imagine. It had everything and it was blank---poised for creation. Chelsea watched as Ashley turned and melted into tears.

“When did you do this?” She asked as she sat down on one of the stools.

“Wilkins did it for me.” She said. “While we were out…learning to curtsy.” She chuckled.

“I don’t know what to say except thank you.” Ashley replied and she embraced Chelsea in a long silent grasp. Chelsea moved slightly and gazed at her seriously.

“Paint.” She said. And she could see the potential for greatness standing in that refinished attic. Ashley nodded her head then took Chelsea’s hand and led her back to the elevator.

“Does this elevator stop on the floor where we live?” She asked. And her words echoed with potency. ‘where we live’. “I really do have to change my shoes before dinner.” Ashley added. Wilkins smiled and once again they were floating slowly down to the second floor. Wilkins pulled the door open with a steely clank and the women were set free. They walked down the hallway to their suite of rooms. And Ashley turned the knob and let the large door swing open. The sight took Chelsea’s breath away. As she entered the room the walls were adorned with tiny mirror fragments in the shape of Spanish doubloons. On every surface were lit pillar candles and the room was afire with a kind of holiness. Erin stood in the corner awaiting further instructions.

“Thank you, Erin.” Ashley said. “We’ll be down for dinner in a little while.” Erin nodded and excused herself disappearing through the door and down the corridor. Chelsea took in the sight and for a moment it reminded her of Temple Church and the two strange columns. The shimmering glow of the candles undulated across the small reflected surfaces and she felt as though a large presence had accompanied them in this most sacred space. Alongside each candle were roses, some red, some pale pink and others pure white. She felt herself uncoil almost about to take flight. She moved to the canopied bed that had been covered in peonies and there in the middle was an envelope addressed to ‘My Dear Chelsea’. She could feel her heart move up into her throat and she knew that this ecstatic moment would outlive her own existence. She could see Ashley standing patiently in the center of the room.

“I might possibly faint.” Chelsea warned.

“I’ll catch you.” Ashley replied calmly.

Chelsea opened the note and steadied herself by slowly sitting in one of the large Victorian leather chairs that flanked the huge dormant fireplace. It read:

Sixty Six holds beauty and sits upon rows of windows

Sleek with old and new---harmonious

The fiction of time destroyed

And the exquisite reflection of love weaves through its history

As we pass by on a cold December night

Our breaths solid, clinging to our lips

Visible

Silent

Resplendent

Your arm linked in mine as visions of an ocean of top hats

Move like ripples in a midnight sea.

The clopping of horse hooves on cobblestone echo through the years

And the smell of peat on a hearth as the century dies away.

We know it all too well when the memories are tactile.

Shutter and candlelight battle for sovereignty as day rolls into night

And the night rolls into years and the years roll into now…

And still we walk

Onward

Towards what, we do not know.

A wrought iron gate

Black and permanent, a fixture of the underside, the unknown…

A witness, perhaps…whispering the entrance to Zion

It permits us vague premonitions forever with each breathing

How have I lived

Whom have I loved

You are the answer…the song of every poet

As you hold me in the palms of your hands

Gently guiding me toward the sacred

Cast adrift upon eternity, I am thin and translucent

Like the wings of a dragonfly

Yet sustained by the sensation of your presence

The simplest touch

The barest venture

The deepest gaze

Words drop from lips dangling tenuously from heart strings

Stillness ushers tears standing only a million miles away

Yet within the warmth of an embrace

For this we live a thousand years

Joining full circle at the end of the world

I cannot move, I am trapped in myself

Ever observant, you watch me persevere

How shall I come to you?

By a midnight chamber? In a dream, a thought, the awareness of breath?

When the moon hints of magic and the earth trembles?

I dream I trace your body with my hand as the pole star

Pierces those delicate underpinnings that make us flesh

Our eyes and their slow tears reliving a promise

That ushers us through the corridors of paradise

Nothing which we are to perceive in this world

Equals the grace we are about to encounter

And so the occurrence that is you keeps falling

Delicate as snow…through the gift of silence.

And with you I keep falling life after life, moment by moment

The earth takes it softly exactly as we take each other

And you ask innocently where am I from and who made me

The sun and the moon…the sun and the moon, dearest…

Chelsea knew in the deepest part of herself that she had read these words before, understood the sentiments and lived the emotions as if they had happened yesterday. And they were just as fresh and surprising as the first time. When she finally looked up from the page Ashley had knelt down in front of her.

“I don’t know if I am doing this right.” She said, her head bowed.

“You’re doing just fine.” Chelsea said softly between waves of emotion.

“Would you marry me, Chelsea Barrett?” She said and she held out the exquisite diamond and sapphire ring that had been bequeathed to her for that very moment.

“Where did you get this?” Chelsea asked between tears.

“It was Victoria’s.” She replied and she was overcome in the moment.

“Yes.” Chelsea whispered. Ashley rose up and kissed her again and again. Then she took a breath and said, “Are you sure? We will be in the public eye. Everyone will know. Our union will be the symbol of a movement.”

“Yes, yes, yes---forever yes.” Chelsea replied and she kissed her betrothed until they were both breathless.

Healing the Fisher King

Ashley woke up at about 4:30 AM Greenwich mean time. She rolled over and looked at her cell phone, groaned, shifted and tried to make herself comfortable. She turned toward Chelsea who was sleeping peacefully. Ashley settled in and gazed at her paramour. To her, Chelsea looked like she was fifteen years old, her beautiful oval face creamy in the blue light of night, innocent and fresh. She had a few freckles on her cheeks and forehead from her summer walks about London. She seemed so peaceful and content in her slumber that she almost glowed. In those quiet timeless moments Ashley felt like her heart was boundless in its capacity to feel, to love. She had never experienced the intensity of it before. At times she was afraid of its power. But now, in this half dream state she felt comfortable as if it was the safest, most secure place to be. It was the thing that had gone missing in her life until now. And she could not fathom Chelsea not being in it. Even the barest hint of separation felt painful. Not that she needed to be physically present at all times. Certainly they had their own separate identities and pastimes, but a curious knowing that the love would never wane, only deepen between them.

Sleep would elude her so she decided to get up and make her way to the kitchen to see if anyone else was awake at that hour. She crept quietly out of the immense suite of rooms and down the elegant curving staircase that almost seemed like an illusion. She heard the footpads of someone stirring and as stealthily as she could she crept down the long corridor where the luminescence if a single incandescent light overflowed onto the Moroccan runners that absorbed and hid her presence. The room was an office for Mr. Smoot who had been made power of attorney for the Dame. He was the overseer of all of her holdings, investments, foundations and trusts including her own personal property over the last decade due to Dame Thornton’s increasing age and fragility. As she peeked in she could see Mr. Smoot rubbing his eyes and shuffling mounds of paper trying to organize and prioritize the measures to be taken for the estate to make a smooth transition. He seemed overwhelmed and perplexed if a bit disheveled in his elegant velvet robe. He smoked. She disliked smoking. She knew that once the Hyde Park house was truly theirs they would forbid smoking in the house altogether. If anyone chose to embrace the habit they would have to go out to the garden. Then out of the shadows she heard a husky whisper.

”Ms. Coleman?” The sound of her name startled her and she took in a sharp breath and froze for a moment. Mr. Smoot’s eloquent yet authoritative voice reminded her of her father. Her immediate reaction was that she was in trouble somehow. Then she remembered she was an adult and one of the masters of the house.

“Yes?” She replied weakly. Then she stepped into the amber glow of the dim desk lamp.

“Is everything all right?” He asked in a low voice.

“Yes---yes, I just…couldn’t sleep.” She replied.

“Seems to be contagious.” Mr. Smoot said as he moved a pile of papers to another table.

“I trust your visit to London has been enlightening?” He said a bit tongue in cheek.

“More than you know.” Ashley said and she smiled at her secret.

“Well…Since you’re up and awake I can take care of a bit of business that affects you directly.” And he rose, stumped out his cigarette took a sip of tea and began to step toward the hallway. He reached for a set of keys and then gestured for her to follow. Quietly they made their way to the top floor of the townhouse. Upon stepping up onto the landing Ashley was strangely familiar with all of the furniture, wallpaper, paintings rugs and knick-knacks. She had wondered why it seemed so familiar. The chaise lounge and the heavy damask curtains even the patterns and colors of the paint and fabric became instantly recognizable. When she first found the Rhys Manor house in Brooklyn and met Victoria thinking she was a museum employee, the entire contents of the house now appeared before her.

“These are beautiful antiques.” Ashley remarked.

“Yes, the Dame has quite a collection.” Mr. Smoot replied.

“She collect these things herself?” Ashley asked.

“She inherited almost everything on this floor from her grandmother.” He said as they neared a locked door at the end of the hall.

“Her grandmother…” Ashley echoed.

“Yes, her grandmother was one of the most celebrated philanthropists in England. Victoria Thornton. She was a moving force in the temperance and suffrage movements. She was also a driving force in reform and eventual labor movements. Shaw based a few of his female characters on her in his plays.” He explained. “Quite an amazing woman.”

The tumbler in the lock turned and the door swung open. It was the Dame’s inner sanctum. It was her bedroom, office and personal space. Decorated tastefully with the most amazing personal collection of art. On the walls hung the lesser known works of Richard Rhys, as well as Mary Cassatt, Edgar Degas, Berthe Marisot, Courbet as well as Picasso, Braques, Duchamp, Matisse and even DeKooning. She was the Peggy Guggenheim of her time and yet she kept a very private life.

“Everything in this room with the exception of some of the more contemporary works of art belonged to her grandmother. She had been a guiding force in the Dame’s early life.” Mr. Smoot said. Ashley moved through the room and she could feel the same kinetic energy as she felt when she was in the Manor house in Brooklyn. She almost expected Victoria to enter the space and greet her as she had so many times when she visited the house in the states. On the walls were tiny mirror fragments that shimmered in the predawn hours like a sea creature illuminated by its own force. And on every surface stood candles. When lit the candles and the mirrors made the room into a sacred shrine.

“Forgive me as I must ask. Are you, indeed, already married to Ms. Barrett? Perhaps in Canada?” Mr. Smoot asked.

“No.” Ashley said taken aback by Smoot’s knowledge of such legalities. “Is it legal in Canada?” Ashley asked embarrassed at her own ignorance.

“Yes…it is…” He said surprised that she knew nothing about the laws of her ‘community’.

“Well then…em…Do you ‘want’ to be married?” He asked and the question felt powerful and loaded and Ashley took a moment to really clarify her thoughts and feelings.

“To Ms. Barrett, of course?” Smoot further specified.

“It has never been discussed before but now that it has come up…yes. Yes, I would like to marry Chelsea.” Ashley said and she was proud of herself. She did not let herself feel judged nor did she waiver in her conviction as it became clear and real.

“Very good.” He murmured. Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “According to Dame Thornton’s wishes these pieces of jewelry are to be used for the purposes of engagement and betrothal.” He said and he unlocked a small Victorian chest revealing a velvet-lined collection of jewelry. Ashley felt as though she was looking at the crown jewels themselves. On the top left he opened a small compartment following the directions on the page. He pulled an engagement ring elegantly designed in the Victorian fashion with a spiral of diamonds and sapphires.

“This is the engagement ring.” Smoot declared and handed it to Ashley. Then he pulled out a simple gold band. “And this, of course, is the wedding ring.”

She had seen both rings before as distant memories, but ever more familiar on Victoria’s hand when she delivered food to the house. The sight of the rings now in her possession moved her. She felt her throat tighten and her eyes fill with tears. For there was the unmistakable knowledge that Victoria was no longer alive and the thought was upsetting. The rings were a brilliant tribute to her memory. She felt the loss as if Richard might have –an unending heaving of sorrow. But it was temporary and Ashley knew this to be true. And although she had never seen the rings up close she had a vague suspicion that Richard had engraved something on the inside of the ring. The light was too dim in the Dame’s bedroom for her to see. So she moved closer to the window where the light of the streetlamp trickled in.

‘Victoria my all. Love Richard.’ Had all but been worn away. It was barely visible inside the small gold circle. It was the exact sentiment that Ashley was feeling and she realized that she had to formally propose to Chelsea. There was so much to do—so much preparation. Ashley wanted it to be special and terrifically romantic. But what if she said no, she wondered. How would she handle it? She couldn’t let those thoughts invade and so she focused her attention on the excitement of the proposal.

“Mr. Smoot?” She asked still awash in the mesmerizing moment.

“Yes?” He said sleepily.

“This account that we have access to…May I make a request for supplies for this evening? You may have to enlist Erin and Mr. Dillon’s help.” Ashley said enigmatically.

“Certainly.” He replied.

“We’ll go back to your office so that I might give you a list of specific instructions.” She said with growing excitement.

After they had shopped and been dressed in appropriate clothing, Ashley in a black Stella McCartney business casual skirt and Chelsea in a beautifully tailored Bruce Oldfield summer dress, they encountered two hours of etiquette along with the proper curtsy. They had been ushered though the immaculate corridors and various reception rooms at Buckingham Palace and now they sat in a magnificent parlor just outside of where Her Majesty the Queen takes meetings with dignitaries and heads of state.

“I think I’m dreaming.” Chelsea whispered.

“I’d pinch you if I could.” Ashley replied.

“Don’t you dare.” Chelsea said smiling. “I’m not sure what might happen if you pinch me.”

Ashley inched closer her hand in mock position.

“I might pee myself—STOP!” Chelsea said as she scooted down the ornate couch. Just then a gentleman appeared---the secretary to the Queen’s personal secretary, stood before them.

“Her Majesty will see you now.” He said softly then he turned the knob on the ornate door that led into the Queen’s parlor. She was clothed in a robin’s egg blue tailored dress and her signature pumps. She smiled amiably and had the familiar air of a kindly grandmother. However, her personality and her amazing charisma seemed to create an aura of power and refinement.

“Your Majesty may I introduce Ms. Ashley Coleman and Ms. Chelsea Barrett, heirs to Dame Chelsea Thornton’s estate.” The secretary said calmly. Ashley curtsied first and felt like a klutz then Chelsea stepped forward and curtsied perfectly as if she had done it all her life.

“Very nice to meet you both. My condolences. I’m so very sorry for your loss.” She said and her voice was kindly and maternal.

“Your majesty, it is a privilege.” Chelsea replied.

“Thank you so much for receiving us.” Ashley added.

“Dame Thornton was a friend of the monarchy. She was also one of the most profound philanthropists in England and abroad.” The Queen said.

“We’ve been informed of her charity by Mr. Smoot.” Ashley added.

“I’m sure you have. Many of our social programs are made possible through Government subsidies, taxes, etc. Dame Thornton’s foundations make up almost forty percent of the needed funds to keep these programs alive and to serve British citizens.” She explained. “It reaches into the areas of education in the form of financial assistance, scholarships and Schools wholly dependent on charity to give underprivileged children and foreign born nationals an equal foundation on which to learn. Then there is healthcare. Cancer research, HIV research, Alzheimer’s research and spinal cord injuries sustained by our forces in combat. Foundations to offset long term costs for chronic diseases and conditions and such.” She explained. Then her face brightened as if she had a secret. “The truly exciting work that Dame Thornton is responsible for are trusts set up for innovations in green technology and subsidies to promote the eventual abandonment of petroleum.”

“Wow. I did not know that.” Ashley said.

“I requested an audience with you both to ensure that these programs will remain intact.” The Queen continued.

“If I may, your majesty.” Chelsea began. “But we have no legal authority as of yet since the stipulation in her last will is that the two of us be married.”

“I see.” The Queen replied and her brow crinkled in consternation.

“We’ve been told it is not recognized by British law.” Ashley added.

“Civil Unions have been legal since 2005 with all the privileges of marriage.” The Queen replied.

“It stipulates marriage within a belief system, your majesty.” Chelsea explained. The Queen chuckled for a moment and shook her head as if remembering an anecdote or incident from the long forgotten past.

“God bless her. She is forcing her hand.” The Queen murmured. Then she gazed at Ashley and Chelsea and her demeanor became serious. “Are you aware of the seriousness of this responsibility?”

Chelsea took Ashley’s hand and clasped it tight. Ashley was simultaneously surprised and taken. “Yes we are.” She replied confidently.

“Do you love each other?” The Queen probed and it was absolutely out of character.

“Indisputably.” Chelsea replied without pause.

“I am head of the Church of England and therefore I am able to change ecclesiastical law. I must address parliament on this very issue. I find it curious that Dame Thornton exercised her power even in death to ensure social conscience and social change.” The Queen said. “I should like to know your thoughts on this.” She asked. The girl’s looked at each other and Chelsea gazed at the exquisite tapestries on the walls as she collected her thoughts.

“I’m not at all versed in the Bible or church doctrine, your majesty. I’m not a philosopher. I’m just a regular person. But if I look at the issue through the lens of anthropology, archeology and the socio-economic structures at the time these sacred books were written…I see small groups of people some two thousand years ago who needed to ensure their survival through their progeny in work and property. Women were property because they begat children. We live in a world where we must contend with vast over-population. Women and Children in the civilized world are not property. They are spiritual beings that are extensions of our soul families. Why shouldn’t everyone have en equal chance at happiness despite gender? Christian values seem to have evolved into exclusive and separatist ways of thinking a by-product of fear and misunderstanding. Doesn’t that go against all the belief systems---including the foundation of Christianity that say that we are not separate. We are one. We must be inclusive. I also want to say that I did not think I was a lesbian or anything like that. I am a heterosexual woman that happened to fall in love with another woman.” Chelsea explained and she took in a breath and seemed surprised at the eloquence of her own words.

“I’d like to add something if I may, your majesty.” Ashley said. “I concur with everything that Chelsea said. I also find it interesting that almost every other belief system especially the ancient ones have a doctrine in life after death. Rebirth, past lives. We see it in nature with the cycles of the seasons so why wouldn’t it be true of souls. ‘As above, so below’. Let’s say you fell in love with a young man, it was a passionate affair, had children, lived out your life and passed away all still deeply in tune with your mate. Then you are reborn into this world again and you find that same exquisite soul that you recognize from before and the passion is just as strong, abiding and palpable. But the young man you fell for returned as a woman. Would you love her no less?”

Women of the Realm

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.

“If you don’t believe me I’ll put Chelsea on the line and she can tell you that it’s the truth.” Ashley replied. “Oh, and I will be able to pay cash for the house…and everything in it.”