The Colorless Labyrinth

Dip, dop…dop, dip, dip…dip...dop.  The rain hit the umbrella softly at first and then as she walked further out into the fields it bloomed into a regular spring shower.  Growing up in London Victoria did not mind the rain.  However, the sun helped warm the day and now that it had hidden itself behind the clouds the temperature had fallen.  She brought her woolen cloak with her and as she pulled it on she felt instantly better.  She was in her own world imagining a grand garden that would be planted come May.  She wanted box hedges and roses and hydrangeas, lilies and chrysanthemums, azaleas, camellias, gardenias and daisies.  As she walked out through the yellow grass she could see exactly where she would plant certain flowers and the design of the hedges.  She wanted a labyrinth made of living things.  It had to be five times larger than the one at Chartres Cathedral that her mother introduced her to when she was a small girl. They walked the seven circuits into the center, tiphareth.  Gazing up at the vaulted ceiling of the mystical homage to the great sacred it would be forever burned into her memory as an exalted moment of true presence. “The nature of truth is the absence of contradiction and the agreement of information. The nature of beauty is the absence of discordance and the existence of resonance through the senses. They are one and the same.”  The carved inscription made perfect sense to her even at that young age but she did not understand it on a deeply sensual level until she stood at the altar exchanging vows with Richard nine months before.  He brought out the best in her and he inspired her to greater heights of imagination and creativity.  He was opposite her in every way but like the moon he reflected back her own potency and strength.  She was forever surprised and amazed at the things she learned about herself through her love and compassion for him.

She learned the origins of the labyrinth from Richard one afternoon at tea when he was first introduced to her in London.  It was during an appointment when he was sketching her likeness for her commissioned portrait. The first labyrinth was designed by Daedalus for the King of Crete.  It imprisoned a terrible ferocious creature---half man half bull called a minotaur at the center.  Blood sacrifices in the form of young boys and girls were offered to the monster at certain astrological times.  Concerned about the sacrifice of youth, the king hired Theseus to slay the demon.  In order to navigate his way back through the Labyrinth the king’s daughter, Ariadne, gave him a skein of twine.  Perhaps Victoria was the thread that kept Richard together in those very trying times in London.  When Victoria felt a spell of nervousness come over her just before giving a speech, she would remember that story, that moment and her importance in the machine of life.  In the center she felt calm but some people come face to face with the beast from within.  It was not until she grew older that she fully understood what this entity was and that it is as evident as the shadow self, walking along side one on a sunny day.  She knew that she would have to understand this being on a deeply conscious level in order to render its terror ineffective and to be free enough to create change in the world. It became her mission and mantra since she would be bringing a new life to their family.

 Other than the harmonious architecture and design of the manor this garden would be the spiritual center of her estate.  She could see it in full bloom in her mind’s eye and there, walking the path with her, was Richard donning a linen suit and a smart felt hat.  Her child would be born sometime mid July and she imagined the baby’s first introduction to nature by the brilliant colors of the blooming flowers and the paintings that Richard would create outside.  She wanted fountains and small Japanese pools with red, black and gold fish.  She wanted Cherry blossoms to line the property and she wanted at least two easels for the outside and three for Richard’s studio on the second floor. 

She had met Fredrick Law Olmsted while giving a lecture at Harvard University a few years back.  She admired his work beyond words and he was impressed with her ideas about the psychological effect that landscape has on the culture of a city.  They talked at great length afterward.  He was a landscape designer and not a gardener and so he would not be of help to Victoria in that way.  But he held her rapt attention with his progressive ideas and philosophy of the natural world.  His voice was raspy and kind and he spoke low with an air of humility.  In a way he reminded her of her father.  She only had a handful of memories of him but they were treasured.  She remembered his soft deep voice and his side whiskers. Everything else about him seemed fuzzy like a dream.  He was sent as a commander to fight in the Prussian war. Being of German decent he felt it his duty and obligation and so he left his child and young bride for the front where he contracted Cholera and died.   Sometimes as Victoria was just about to fall asleep she could hear his voice and she would wake again wondering if his spirit was near.

The dark clouds moved in and the rain shower turned into a hard downpour.  She was out about a mile or so in the field in her walking boots.  The soggy ground snagged her heels in the mud.  The drops were cold and again the temperature seemed to fall a few degrees.  When the water hit her bare skin it stung with a wintry chill.  Although she was lost in her visions she thought perhaps it might be prudent to make her way back to the house.  The rain seeped through her leather boots and her feet were wet.  A chill began to overtake her and so she quickened her pace.  She could not afford to catch cold while pregnant.  Her feet sunk into the mud and grass and she remembered her trip to Boston the week before.  It was bitterly cold and she had been given the terrible news that her friend, celebrated writer and pillar of the suffrage movement had passed away unexpectedly.  Louisa May Alcott was fifty-six and in declining health but she was still writing when Victoria had visited her a year before.  Over twelve years ago at the annual Astor ball, Caroline Astor introduced Victoria to Ms. Alcott.  The two became fast friends and Louisa found in Victoria a vibrant formidable fighter in reform for women in particular and she knew that Victoria would carry on with the important work that women of that gilded age set out to do.  Vote.  Victoria cherished the letters she shared with Louisa and kept them in safe place preserved for the next generations.  Her grandmother had given her a copy of Little Women when she was nine and Victoria could not put the novel down.  She was fascinated with that particular time in American History and she wanted to be just like Jo when she got older.  She wanted to be the captain of her own ship and she thought that was what she was doing when she agreed to marry Charles.  He gave her so much freedom that she had want of nothing.  And she loved him for that and she was devoted to their friendship.  It was not until she saw Richard in the wintry street on that fateful night that she realized she was the proverbial bird in the gilded cage.  Not that Charles imprisoned her, no, that would be the last thing he would want as he did not want that for himself.  She had unknowingly fashioned her own prison bars constructed with great care and safety.  But they kept out passion and the kind of love that has no words---that can only be felt in a tender taken silence---in the shared breath of her beloved and the warm touch of a soulmate.

The wind gusts nearly blew her down in the field.  Her skirt was soggy from the blowing rain and a half spill into the grass.  As she straitened herself up she realized that suddenly the rain turned into snow.  Big wet lumpy flakes began to fall sideways to the ground.  She looked toward the house but could not see it.  She was too far away and the white snow and the wind obscured her vision.  A shiver shot through her and she realized that perhaps she was in real danger.  She was unsure what direction she was walking in and if she walked the wrong way a mile then she would surely freeze to death before reaching the house.  And then there was the big empty manor with no fire and no servants.  Not that she couldn’t build a fire for herself, but the time it would take to heat even the small sitting parlor would render her physically exhausted.  Her instincts told her to press on and so she began trying to walk in the snowy clipper.  She wished she had not insisted that Mr. Jones leave.  Certainly he was back at the house by now, she thought.  He must be on his way.  Surely he’s out looking for her.  And where was Richard?  Had he not found her note?  Had he not been back to the house yet?  Or was he trying to make his way to her as well?  All she knew was that she had to do everything she could to ensure the safety of her unborn child.  The fighter deep inside cultivated her resolve.  She would not be found dead in a field in the flatlands of Brooklyn.  Before she knew it two inches had covered the ground.  She was in a whiteout.  The snow was falling so fast she could barely see two feet in front of her.   The wind was so furious that she was blown to the ground twice.  She did not bring gloves and her bare hands stung in the icy, wet snow.  They were red and inflamed and she tried to keep them tucked into her cloak but she needed to shield her eyes.  She stopped for a moment to get her bearings.  There was nothing but silence and the low hum of the wind as it blew across the fields.  Then suddenly out of nowhere a bull appeared.  It lumbered a few feet and it’s grey apparition through the storm brought about terrible thoughts.  Perhaps it was lost as well.  Victoria did not own livestock that she knew of.  Certainly it had broken free from a neighbor’s farm.  It stood there like a statue or an omen.  She thought that maybe if she followed it the beast might lead her to shelter.  Even if it were the neighbor’s barn she would be out of the weather.  It lowed and then began its lumbering pace and for a few moments disappeared in the white gusts.  She could not feel her hands.  The cold had taken her sensation.  And she felt sick and cold.  She tried to keep her eye on the wandering bovine but it disappeared like a dream.  She stopped and vomited furiously.  Not much came up but the convulsion rocked her body.  She had to get home---she had to get some food inside of her.  She thanked god that Mrs. Hopkins had the foresight to pack a picnic basket.  Even though her appetite had vanished she would force the food down to keep her strength.  Another wave of nausea engulfed Victoria and she thought that if she could calm herself down she would be able to follow the animal and not expel what sustenance she might have left.  The grey beast appeared again and walked with purpose.  She kept it in her sights as she moved little by little through the mounting snow.

 

Mrs. Hopkins stood like a sentinel at the front bay window of the townhouse on Grove Street.  She watched the snow come down with fury and the gray sky turn white. 

“Nell.”  She called.  There was a low shuffle on the back staircase and the small Irish lass appeared in the parlor.

“Mum.”  She answered.

“Has Mr. Rhys arrived?”  Mrs. Hopkins asked.

“No, mum.  No one has.” She said.

Mrs. Hopkins pulled a note from her apron.  “I will need for you to go to the Players Club on Twentieth Street and inquire after Mr. Rhys please.”  And she extended her hand with the note.

“And dress warm.  I will need all the help well in this house.”  She added.  “No one can afford to be ill.  There will a lot of work in the coming days.”

Nell went to the ground floor foyer and wrapped herself in a thick wool cape and hat.  She stuffed the note in her pocket and was out the door in a flash.  Mrs. Hopkins stood at the window watching as Nell disappeared into the storm.  Nell was expendable, Mrs. Hopkins thought.  Not that she was hard and uncaring but if Nell did not return it would be upsetting yet she could still conduct the business of the house without too much interruption.  She could hear Margaret in the kitchen preparing for tea and Mr. Watkins, the butler, was quietly adjusting the clocks in the house to reflect the correct time by his Swiss pocket watch.  Mrs. Hopkins steely reserve began to melt.  The color in her face leeched out and she was pale and her concern turned to fright and dread.  As Mr. Watkins quietly entered the parlor Mrs. Hopkins turned to hide her face. 

“Any word?”  He said almost whispering.  Mrs. Hopkins response lodged in her throat and instead of answering with a steadfast ‘no’.  She began to slowly crumble from the inside out.  The tears began to stream down her face and her body slowly reverberated with emotion.  Mr. Watkins quickly moved to her and she fell into his arms.  She could no longer pretend to be as strong as she projected.

“There, there.  There, there, now.  You’ll worry yourself sick.”  He said softly and pulled out a crisp handkerchief to dab away her tears.

“She’s my only child.”  Mrs. Hopkins whispered. 

“Yes.  She’s everyone’s only child.”  He replied. “She’s with Mr. Jones.  He’s a hearty Scotsman as you know. He would not let anything happen to her.  Come now, Miriam.  Let’s have our tea.”  And he escorted her to the large kitchen where Margaret had prepared the servant’s afternoon meal. 

 

The beef stew at the Court Street Inn was hearty and hot and Mr. Jones had almost finished his second bowl while sitting in the back room.  A glass of beer and a basket of butter rolls accompanied the only meal he might get today.

“Will you be needing a room, Mr. Jones?”  Jack the Innkeeper asked.

“Are you daft?  I have to go back to the manor when I finish.”  He said.  He sat in the back windowless room where there was a raging fire on the huge hearth.

“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere today or even tomorrow.”  Jack said and he wandered into the front of the Inn with Mr. Jones following close behind.

“What the Sam hell?” He murmured.  “When did this start?” He asked anxiously as he quickly gathered his hat and coat.

“About a quarter ago.  It came on fast like a squall.”  Jack replied.

“I have to go!”  Mr. Jones said and he was almost out the door and into the blinding storm when Jack grabbed his arm.

“You’ll freeze!”

“Let go!” Ian said.

“Don’t you have a heavier coat or a scarf?” Jack asked.

“Of course not---it was spring when I woke up this morning.  I have to fetch Mrs. Rhys!”  He snapped and leaned into the blistering cold.  Jack followed close behind with a wool muff and a long tweed coat.

“Don’t be an idiot!  Take these.”  And he handed the extra clothing to Ian and ran back into the Inn.  “Good Luck.”  Ian heard Jack say through the roar of wind.  The livery stable was only a few blocks away and Mr. Jones hoped that the stableman, seeing the state of the weather, would have unhitched the horses from the landau.  He turned the corner and only a few men clutching their thin frock coats scrambled through the streets trying to reach their destinations before freezing.  Mr. Jones was confident that Victoria had found her way back to the kitchen at the house and stoked the small fire for some comfort.  He had stacked a small cord of kindling for that fireplace.  He was angry at himself for not hauling in more wood when he was there earlier.  What wood there was lined the outside of the house and would be frozen and hard to burn.  He knocked on the carriage doors and a teenaged boy poked his head through a window. 

“Let me in.  I need my horse.”  Mr. Jones commanded.  After a moment a large Irishman slid the door open momentarily for Ian to slip inside.  The stablemen had a fire lit in an old barrel at the corner of the barn.

“I need my bay mare.”  Mr. Jones said.  The Irishman, Ned, looked at him aghast.

“You can’t be takin’ that poor animal out into this blizzard.”  He said quietly.

“I have to get to me lady.  She’s alone in the flatlands at the manor.”  Ian pleaded.

“You can’t even see to the corner, man!”  He exclaimed.  “Do ye even know which way to go?”

“”I have to get to her!”  Mr. Jones said.  “She’s alone…with child.”

Ned looked at him long and hard.  Then he turned to the boy, “Saddle her up.”

“But Ned---“ the boy said surprised.

“Do what the man said!  Saddle the mare up!” Ned ordered.  Ian warmed his hands by the lit barrel and in a minute or so the boy led the mare out into the front.  Ian moved close to the horse and patted the animal lovingly.  He shoved a few coins into the boy’s hand.  Then he mounted the mare and signaled for Ned to slide the carriage doors open.  The horse backed itself up and needed to be coaxed into the weather.  Ian handled her and eased her out into the white ‘no man’s land’.  Within seconds Mr. Jones and the mare disappeared.  The boy slid the doors shut and Ned shook his head.

“Hope he makes it.” Was all he could muster.  

A Proposition

He had been there for over an hour before Mr. Booth was ready to receive him.  In the interim he was allowed to take tea in the grand parlor.  Winston, his butler and guy Friday made Richard feel quite at home.  They talked of horse racing especially at the track down near Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.  It seems Winston had a knack with horses and had a bit of a part time job in the game of chance.  It was little known that Mr. Booth was a silent partner in a business venture with Leonard Jerome anonymously putting up some of the capital needed to create the Coney Island Jockey club.  It was one of the premiere tracks in the country and one of the most fashionable places to be seen in leisure society rivaling Ascot in London. 

“Do you play the horses, Mr. Rhys?”  Winston asked warmly.

“No.  I have not had the opportunity.”  Richard replied.

Winston was silent for a moment and it seemed that the two men had similar past histories separated only by an ocean.

“I know a lot about it…If you would like to go sometime it would be my privilege to introduce you to the sport.”

“That’s very kind of you.”  Richard replied.

“Where are you from, sir, if you don’t mind my inquisitiveness?” Winston asked.

“London.”

“Yes, where in London?” 

Richard was uncomfortable for a moment and shifted a bit in his chair. 

“Near Hyde Park.”  He finally said.

“Ah!  Beautiful area.” Winston said and Richard could tell that Winston knew he was not from Hyde Park but from a place of more common origins.

“I am from Kentucky, myself.” He added. “Lexington.”

“South.” Richard murmured.

“Yes.  Along the Appalachian Mountains.  Stunning scenery.  Do you paint landscapes?”

“No.  Well, that is to say, I’ve not tried my hand at it.”  Richard said.

“Oh you must venture down into the Allegheny and Appalachian areas. It will inspire you beyond your dreams.”  He said.

They sipped their tea quietly and Richard seemed nervous.

“I hope you will pardon me for saying this but…you have ‘tells’.”  Winston said trying to be helpful.

“Pardon?” Richard said and he shifted again.

“See?  What you just did?  That is a tell.” Winston pointed out.  “If you are to weave your way through society here on this side of the ocean you must overcome your ‘tells’.”

Richard’s nervousness liquefied into genuine curiosity.

“Do go on.” He said.

“I know you are from a lower station. I know that your life has been spent trying to overcome your class and the restrictions imposed on it.  Of course you can do that here in America.  You are trying to hide but in hiding you are revealing your limitations.” Winston said softly.  “I only know this because I was exactly the same when I left the woods of Kentucky.”

“What is it exactly that you see?” Richard asked.

“You shift.  You avert your eyes.  You’ve lowered your head slightly about four times since you arrived.  If you play any kind of cards you’ll lose everything.” Winston added.

A bell rung and Richard could hear the uniformed servant shuffle to the front door.

“Would you please excuse me, Mr. Rhys?” He said kindly and then disappeared.

Richard sat in the empty parlor for a few minutes contemplating these ‘tells’.  He  surveyed his hands.  After a moment he noticed a mirror in the far corner.  He got up and inspected his reflection.  He was well groomed.  His eyes piercing and sharp.  When he was with Victoria his nervousness faded away like old worn out clothes. She made him feel worth something.  She saw him as a bright, shiny thing and she unknowingly polished him and buffed him when he had moments of melancholy or gloom.  He had worked so hard all his life that happiness could not be so easy, he thought. And that is when his mood shifted.  He felt like he had to work at it to deserve the kind of affection that she so freely and easily gave him.  It was when he accepted her love that he realized it did not have to be difficult like some kind of achievement.  He noticed an older man in the reflection and then realized that Mr. Booth had entered the room.  The older gentleman seemed surprised.

“Good Morning, Sir.  Mr. Booth, I presume.”  Richard said confidently.

The gentlemen remained motionless and spellbound.

“You were expecting me?” Richard added.

“Yes, yes, of course.”  Booth said.  Winston reappeared and quickly helped the older man into his chair.  Richard resumed his seat.

“I must say it is a pleasure and a great honor for me to meet you.  I know your work and am quite humbled that you have agreed to receive me, Mr. Booth.”  Richard said.

Mr. Booth continued to stare and seemed uncomfortable in Richard’s presence.

“I saw your work at the Art Student’s League---the group show.”  Booth said.

“Oh.  Well, good.  I hope you enjoyed it.”  There was awkwardness and Richard remembered Winston’s advice. “You have quite a collection.” Richard responded.

“Yes.”

There was another uncomfortable pause.  Winston remained just outside the room.

“Pardon me for staring, Mr. Rhys…but…you bear an uncanny resemblance to my brother.”  Booth said gruffly.  Richard was stunned.  He had seen illustrations of John Wilkes Booth and certainly they had common traits but so did ten percent of the population so he thought nothing of it.  To have the great Edwin Booth stare in amazement at his likeness only confirmed that Richard shared more than vague similarities.

“I wanted to ask you about John---“ Richard began.

“I don’t speak of him, ever.” Booth replied. “Ever.”

“I see.  Forgive me, sir.”

“Let me be candid.  I’ve known Victoria for a long time and she is the most kindhearted woman I know. I’ve agreed to meet with you because she asked me to.  I know the type of man you are----” Booth said.

“Let me be quite blunt.  Do you like my work or not, sir?” Richard asked.

“I am…ambivalent.”  Booth answered.

“I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Booth.” Richard got up and began to make his way to the door.  “You cannot presume to know anything about me, sir.  I love my wife more than you can ever know.”

Winston met him at the front entrance with his hat and coat. “Would you be willing to take a ride with me, Mr. Rhys?”  Winston said.  “I must fetch some paperwork for Mr. Booth at the offices on Twenty-third Street.”

The hansom took Richard and Winston around Gramercy Park and up Fifth Avenue.  The street was clogged with people and horse drawn trolleys and hansom cabs and peddler’s wagons.  It was almost impassible and was at a virtual stand-still.  Richard was quiet.  His thoughts drifted to Victoria and the idea of being a father for the first time. It flooded him with a soft truth and profound tenderness. At moments his self-esteem flagged and he thought that he couldn’t possibly offer any good to a new life.  Since he was orphaned he had no point of reference in parenting. Yet what he felt for Victoria was beyond anything he could have ever imagined and her patience and confidence in him gave rise to a part of himself he never knew was there just beneath the surface.  Perhaps the one thing he could offer was insight into how to look at things.  How to see light.  If he could teach a child how to paint a rose and do it with kindness and patience then he would be imparting the greatest facet he could offer.  And although his love for her was boundless he could not conceive the kinds of feelings he would have for their child. All he knew is that it would take him, his spirit, to places he couldn't imagine.

“Mr. Rhys, would you be interested in a business venture.”  Winston said.

“I’m an artist.”  Richard replied.

“Yes, yes.  But are you interested in making money.”

“What is your proposition?” Richard queried.

“You do know that there is immense profit in the lecture circuit.  If I am not mistaken Mrs. Thornton---I mean Mrs. Rhys has utilized the forum.”  Winston said.

“Mrs. Rhys lectures, that is true. And since you know so much about her then you would also know that she does not profit from her speeches.  They are given in the spirit of charity.”  Richard replied. 

The sounds of the street wafted in and the nice warm air made the hansom a bit stuffy.  Richard cracked the glass for ventilation.

“Some say that John Wilkes Booth is not dead.”  Winston said pointedly.

Richard eyed Winston suspiciously.

“Well then, what is the truth?”  Richard said nonchalant wishing he had not accepted the invitation for the ride.

“You tell me.”  Winston said.

“Speak plainly, sir.  Your manner is disagreeable.”  Richard replied and his mood began to grow dark. 

“Some believe that John Booth did not die when that barn was set ablaze.” Winston offered again.

“Is that what you believe?”

“What I believe is of no consequence, it is what the public at large believes.” Winston stopped short for a moment. “Perhaps a little stage gray at the temples and we would have to manicure those whiskers.”

Richard pounded on the hansom frame and the driver leaned in. “I’ll get out here, sir.  Thank you.”  He said impatiently.  But the cab was in the middle lane of traffic and he risked being run down by carriages and carts.

“P. T. Barnum made a fortune from these sorts of shows.  People would flock to see you.”  Winston whispered.

“Yes, and others would gun me down for killing their beloved president.  Do you not think for a moment there would be a bounty on my head---and why would I want to parade about as someone else---leach some other man’s celebrity---I want my own.  And I cannot think how it might wound Mrs. Rhys!  Her reputation is of the utmost importance as is her work and I cannot even fathom putting either in jeopardy for the sake of making money.  I shall have to rely on my wit and my art, sir. I decline your proposition.” Richard said and he jumped out of the cab and darted through the street as quick as lightning.

“Think about it, will you?  Winston yelled.  “My offer for the races still stands.”

But Richard was halfway down the street bumping into people and trying to find a place to sit for a moment and collect himself.  As an actor it would be one of the most coveted roles he could play and so the idea lodged in his mind and he mulled over the prospect.  Americans used to remark on his peculiar likeness of John Booth.  But they were few and far between and as the years went by people were more concerned with current affairs not past assassinations. It was a grift plain and simple.  And he was not going back to any kind of life that had to do with dishonesty and advantage.  His dream was to become a prominent painter---to make his living making art. He wanted to have the notoriety of Whistler and the skill and grace of Sargent. He did not aspire to wealth.  That was not his sole purpose in working but to capture the elusive on canvas and present it to the world.  He had hoped that Mr. Booth liked his work and that he would garner a commission at least.  But the whole morning had been confusing and disappointing. As he made his way up to twenty-fifth street and Madison he gazed up at the sky and could see that perhaps the weather might not be as agreeable as forecast.  People walked by hurriedly with ticker tapes in their hands and others with newspapers or brief cases.  New York was a vibrant city and fast-paced.  There was a different energy here than London.  It seemed that if you could make money you were a success whether you were from the barren fields of Ireland or the horse farms of Kentucky, the backwaters of Louisiana or a born and bred New Yorker through and through.  The dollar was king and if one had enough of them one could buy their station.  Nouveau Riche is what they called it and the robber barrens of the railroad were the finest example of capitalism and the free market.  Richard walked past an old peddler.

“You vant I should make you sausage?”  The old man asked.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”  Richard said.

“You vant, you vant?” The man pointed to a sign that said sausages a penny.  Richard found a loose coin in his pocket and though he wasn’t terribly hungry he thought he should eat something anyway.

“Big storm.”  The old man said.

“Excuse me?” Richard apologized. “Where are you from?”

“Russia…Big Storm…coming here,”  He repeated.

“A big storm from Russia? I don’t think that is possible.”  Richard chuckled and he bit into the sausage.

“No.  No.  Big storm…comink from dere.”  And the old man pointed west toward New Jersey.  There was a line of clouds on the horizon but it looked like a passing rainstorm.  The wind kicked up and men lost their hats and darted after them like cats after mice. 

“Snow storm.” The old man said.  “You.  You ver my last patron.  I go home now.”  And he wiped his greasy hands on a soiled apron, tipped his cap and kicked the wooden leg from his wagon.  He pulled it out into the street and disappeared into the traffic.  Two gentlemen wandered by talking about stocks and Richard over heard one man say to the other.  “I got a wire from Chicago early this morning and it seems that a huge blizzard has crippled Kansas and Nebraska.  Railroads are out.”  The one man said.

“That means we’re losing money.” The other said and they moved on down the street.  The feathery clouds above seemed to have gotten thicker since Richard left the Player’s Club.  He decided to make his way back down to Twentieth Street to his studio. He knew Victoria was probably reading one of her favorite books next to the fire in the parlor or wandering about in the courtyard garden or writing her next speech.  As he walked the first drops of rain began to fall.  He quickened his pace and tried to hug the buildings dodging the sprinkles from awning to awning.

Over the River and Through the Woods

She peeled off her long wool cloak and set it beside her in the Landau.  The air was so agreeable that she opened the glass to let the breeze inside.  The clip clop of the bay mare was easy and hypnotic and Victoria sat back and let her thoughts wander.  It was one of those beautiful days that reminded her of the first carriage ride she had taken with Richard through Hampstead Heath.  He was unusually quiet taking in the air and the company with his intense gaze.  Sometimes when he looked at her that way she felt as though he could see her very thoughts, her soul completely bare and it made her uneasy.  Not that he could. Nor would he use any information gleaned to harm her in any way.  It was that at times she did not want to live so transparent.  There were things she wanted to cloak and keep all to herself---private musings and fantastical dreams.  Travel in invisible realms that kept her very spirit alive.  Then at other times she wanted to share everything with him even her very breath.  There was an awkward push and pull between them at first; Richard with his piercing intuition and Victoria with her effervescent excitement of a shared future.   When she was blissful, he was distracted.  When he was instinctive, she would hide---withdraw emotionally and perpetually redirect focus on current affairs or work or art. Her method worked for a time as art was always the junction to which their paths crossed.  With time he would figure out it was a ruse to leave her to her own feelings and, perhaps, disengage for a bit until she felt safe.  Safe within herself.  Those moments when they were both completely engaged it felt as if time had stopped.  It could only be for brief periods, as they would exhaust each other --- burning white hot like the sun.  Without some sort of balance the very life force within them running unbidden toward each other could bring about an untimely demise.  She knew this.  She read about it and she may have possibly seen the effects first hand.  Queen Victoria herself upon her first meeting with Prince Albert was swept up into a whirlwind of profound ecstasy, as was he.  Their lives together only lasted twenty years and she still mourned his loss going on nearly forty. With Marriage Victoria became steadfast in her desires and her ability to leave herself open.  The kind of intimacy they now shared did not make room for self-protection.  It was non-existent and extraneous.  They created a kind of invisible shell around themselves and they protected each other from the outside.  In this way they were symbiotic and beyond the world. 

As the carriage turned down Broadway Victoria tried hard to remember her life before meeting Richard.  It seemed like a faded tintype.  It almost felt like another lifetime ago barely visible in the distance.  And she could not imagine life without Richard. The thought sent a shiver through her and a soft wave of nausea welled up from her gut.  She let her hands rest on her belly softly cooing to the child inside that all was well.  This life was something they created together inside and out.  It was the most profound, and yet simply natural thing she had ever done.  The moment she realized she was pregnant she could not help but imagine combined characteristics of this magical child.  Would he have Richard’s eyes and her nose?  Would he have her mouth and his hair?  Would she be dark and exotic like her father or fair and graceful like Victoria?  The musings made Victoria smile and as the weeks and months would pass her excitement grew like a child awaiting Christmas morning.

They moved along Canal Street and turned down a lane that led straight through the five points.  It was the most impoverished part of New York City.  At that time most seamstresses lived and tried to eek out a living in the overcrowded boarding houses, pubs and brothels.  Life was so miserable in this part of the city that even foreigners took tours of the abominable filth and human degradation.  It was worse than the Whitechapel area in London. Charles Dickens himself walked through parts of the five points writing how profoundly desperate the situation was and that the city must do something to try and ease their suffering.  It was a place of great consideration to Victoria.  She knew many of the seamstresses and dressmakers.  She had talked to several women, invisible leaders in the community who had somehow been able to subsist on overwork for meager pennies.  She had tried to persuade the women to unite and form a union.  If the women could refuse to work unless they were paid an even and consistent wage --- in a word, strike, then change and reform could take place.  Women with money could set up businesses and keep the community on a progressive track.  They would be more inclined toward education in order to bring their children more opportunity.  However, without the support of the philanthropic community and some sort of grass roots activism it would be impossible for Victoria to rally enough people to the cause.  She was also very aware of Richard Croker and his Tammany Hall cronies.  They would not welcome progress as they profited from the miseries of the poor.  Croker succeeded John Kelly who succeeded the infamous Boss Tweed and continued the tradition of kick-backs, bribes and voter fraud.  It was a dangerous business going against the grain of Tammany Hall and Victoria knew it.  Other reformers who had tried their hand at rescuing the Five Points had simply given up.   She would not be easily swayed.  The stench of urine and sewage wafted up from the street.  For a moment the miasma seemed to overtake Victoria but she took in a deep breath and held it for a moment reaching for the cloak to shield her nose. Working men stumbled out of pubs and desperate women advertised their services. Teenagers black with soot carrying chimney brushes walked from one dingy building to another working for a coin or two and risking their lives getting stuck in flues.  Some were mistaken for negroes and roughed up in the streets by Irish ne’erdowells and bullies.  Dirty children ran about the street playing or rag picking or selling flowers, matches and brooms.  The sight made Victoria pensive and restless and she almost turned the carriage around and asked Mr. Jones to take her directly to the Orphans hospital.  But being in her delicate situation she knew better to continue on course.  The row houses and clapboard shanties opened up and she could see the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.  As the Landau made its way through the sea of people she noticed the high thin clouds moving like feathers across the crisp blue sky.  Finally the familiar scent of the river removed the spoiled residue of human existence.  Climbing the great stone span made her feel like she might actually fly.  The bird’s eye view of the East River was stunning.  Large chunks of ice moved quickly towards Hell’s Gate and out to sea.  The wind was brisk and she draped her cloak about her and closed the glass.  It was then that she noticed that Mrs. Hopkins had left a picnic basket filled with food just under the opposite seat.  She opened the one side and found a small note: Dear Mrs. Rhys, I do hope that you and Mr. Rhys enjoy yourselves in the country. Please do take good care of yourself.  I shall be expecting you tomorrow by lunchtime.  The staff will be prepared for your arrival.  Sincerely, Mrs. Hopkins.  There was fresh baked bread, apples, smoked Ham wrapped in paper, bread pudding, cooked potatoes in a silver dish and a partial block of cheese along with carefully packaged tea leaves in brown paper. 

When she looked up again she could see a line on the horizon.  It looked as though there might be a brief shower. 

“Did you bring a bumpershoot, Mrs. Rhys?”  She heard Mr. Jones say.

“I’m afraid I did not.”  She replied.

“I packed one in back for just such an occasion.  We Londoners are used to changeable weather, right?”  He said.

“You are right.  I find I am a bit absent minded these days.”  She said.

“Don’t you worry about one little thing, Mrs. Rhys.  That’s what I am here for.”  He replied and he gave the horses an ‘eee-up’.  The carriage lurched forward a bit and they moved at a quicker pace.  Down on Flatbush there were dozens of carriages out for a Spring day ride.  People were walking about the newly formed downtown Brooklyn area taking in the air and the sun.  They passed by the Brooklyn Rail Terminal where trains were taking passengers from downtown out to the boardwalks of Coney Island and Manhattan Beach.  Crowds of women with light wraps and parasols escorted by gentleman in spats and felt hats boarded the cars looking forward to a day of leisure and strolling.  The difference between the Five Points and the area about Flatbush was like night and day.  If Five Points represented the very worst of human misery then Brooklyn seemed to represent the very affluent.  Even the horses seemed shiny and fat with an energetic stride.  Before long they made their way past Prospect Park.  Clumps of snow from the last dusting remained unmelted in the shade.  Victoria adored Prospect Park and spent as much time as she could there while the Manor was being renovated. She liked it far better than Central Park as it felt more organic and in tune with her spirit. On the opposite side of the park were fallow cornfields.  Brown sprigs of stalks poked up through the patchy blanket of snowfall that was quickly disappearing from the sun.  They rounded Ocean Avenue and the long drive to the manor was in sight.  As the house slowly began to appear in the landscape Victoria remembered first meeting Stanford White in London during a birthday gala in Charles’ honor.  He was handsome and charming and Victoria seemed to become smitten with him as she noticed his elegant figure move gracefully across the ballroom floor.  When introduced to him she was a bit spellbound but managed to recover quickly.  He was a student working with one of the greatest American architects of the time, Henry Hobson Richardson.  He remarked that he was touring Europe for the year to educate himself on all sorts of design and structural aesthetics.  She engaged him quickly in a conversation about how architecture affects the community to which it serves.  Their views were similar and on point and both were gratified to be in the company of the other.  Once he left Europe for America they continued to correspond on important occasions and holidays.  On their extended trips to New York the Thorntons would invite Mr. White to dinner parties of artists, actors and poets.  It was at this time that Victoria realized that Stanford would remain a good friend and nothing more.  When Victoria requested Helen Pratt’s help in securing the old farm in the flatlands she also contacted Stanford who was working on an important monument at the time to be erected in Washington Square.  He graciously took a meeting with her and weeks later Mr. Jones drove the two out to the old ruin.  Upon seeing the farm Stanford quickly dug out his small sketchbook and began drawing ideas for the reconstruction of the grand house.  Victoria had exquisite taste as did Mr. White and so the drawings remained virtually unchanged from the first rendering.  However, it was a secret and no one was to know of the plans until after the wedding.  Stanford swore he would not breathe a word.  When Victoria found herself in Richard’s company she almost had to clasp both hands across her mouth to keep from spoiling the surprise.  She was giddy like a young girl and Richard seemed bewildered and yet found her ebullience humorous and endearing.  Inside the grand hall and the airy rooms she would hang Richard’s paintings along with her own extensive art collection and it would be her own private museum.  Once the structural aspects of the house were in place by October the workmen rushed against the weather to finish the renovation by Christmas.  It was to be her gift to Richard and she organized an elegant affair to which the most affluent, political and philanthropic would attend.  It rivaled The Mrs. Astor’s annual ball.  And though she knew Caroline Astor and was one of the infamous 400 people to be invited to her various functions, Victoria was a progressive and inclusive type of person.  Exclusivity did not sit well with her and time would force a changing of the guard in society so why not let it be her, she thought to herself. 

The carriage stopped at the great Doric columns of the mansion.  Mr. Jones opened the carriage door and extended his hand.  When she stepped down and on to the ground the landscape seemed to breathe fresh life into her.  She wanted to begin walking immediately.  Mr. Jones opened the house and began unpacking the landau.  When she wandered inside everything was covered in canvas and the dust from winter swirled about in the sunlight. 

“It’s a fine day to be in the country, so it is.”  He said as he put various bags and such in their respective places.

“And when do you expect Mr. Rhys?”  He asked innocently.

“About supper time.”  She replied in a bit of a daze.

“That’s a while away.  Shall I unpack the basket that Mrs. Hopkins sent?”  He asked.

“Oh, no.  That will not be necessary.  I had quite a large breakfast this morning and I’m not very hungry anyway.”  She replied.

“Alright then.  I’ll just stoke the fire here in the kitchen.”

She wandered into the grand parlor and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains to let the sun in and warm the room.  She noticed that the clouds that threatened rain seemed to be passing north and that the day would remain fine.

“Mr. Jones, why don’t you take the Landau back downtown, put it in livery and treat yourself to a hot meal for lunch.”  Victoria suggested.

“Oh, no, mum.  I couldn’t do that.  I couldn’t leave you alone here by yourself.”  He said.

“It would just be for lunch.  Ride back afterwards if you feel you must.  I assure you I shall be just fine.”  She replied.

“I tell you, I don’t like this and neither would Mrs. Hopkins---“

“I am the only one here and I hope that you would abide by my wishes.”

“I would like to add that I don’t think Mr. Rhys would be too keen on this idea either.”  Mr. Jones added.

“I don’t like your tone or your presumption.”  She said.

“I’m sorry, mum.  I am.  But I am truly concerned for your wellbeing.  Please forgive me.”

She pulled some money from her purse and handed it to Mr. Jones.

“No, mum.  Thank you, but I can procure lunch for myself.  Very kind of you, though.”  He said.  He tipped his hat and gathered his coat and in a wink he was out the door.  She heard the carriage as it echoed around the drive and slowly dissipated down the long road.  Then all was silent except for a gentle breeze.

The Appointment

When he was a boy he would stay up all night pinching and stealing food on the streets of London and then disappear during the daylight hours to a small cubbyhole in the bottom of a blacksmith’s shop near Mitre Square.  He was a self-described rat of the streets like thousands of other orphans of the time.  He was swarthy with black hair and dark eyes and the coal bin that sometimes doubled as his bed stained him even darker.  At times he was mistaken for a Bangladeshi child. If the blacksmith caught him sleeping in the bin he’d get a beating.  More than once he sustained bruised ribs inflicted by an iron poker that ached in the cold and the rain. Those were the worst of days when a moldy piece of bread was a prize and a pair of socks a luxury.  His life began to turn for the better when he teamed up with a sympathetic tosher and stole a ball of strong twine from a bookmaker in the same week. He could earn enough for food and a possible bed or floor for the night by scavenging the Thames at low tide.  Discarded pieces of tin, copper and iron could fetch a good price and every once in a while if he focused his concentration he could uncover fallen farthings and bits from the mud lost long ago by drunken sailors or fumbling gentry.   Those were the times when day was night and night was day. He drank and slept a good amount of his life away in his youth missing the nuances and the tiny miracles that seemed to bloom in the morning. But his new life made him almost reverent for the rising sun, and perhaps the American work ethic of rising at dawn to begin a productive days work. He still kept late hours but it was due to a cycle of inspiration and the optimal time to paint and to be carried by a kind of ecstasy into his art. He did not question it and neither did his wife. He inhaled fully and watched as the walls and ceiling of the Grove street townhouse began to change from a deep Prussian blue to a lighter almost moonglow blue that reminded him of his early childhood in a small fishing village in Ireland.  Those scant memories of which he only had a handful penetrated him to his core and made him yearn for those innocent times when things seemed simple. Victoria was fast asleep beside him.  It was at these quiet almost mystical moments that he had to pinch himself to prove that he was awake and not dreaming.  The circumstances of his life predicted his steady course of poverty and hardship.  He was clever and industrious and even a bit of a dodger and that gave him an edge.  His true saving grace and gift from the heavens came from his ability to draw.  That alone rescued him from obscurity and it was instrumental in captivating the one unattainable woman in his world.  He moved close and wrapped his arm about her.  She inched into him, threaded her fingers into his and resumed her peaceful slumber.  She was about four months along now and he let his arm rest along the curve of her slightly protruding belly.  She was exceedingly warm and he could feel a slight twitch within that let him know that their child was indeed growing.  He lay for some time watching silently as the subtle shades of blue shifted lighter and lighter along the walls until his restlessness got the better of him and he quietly got up and donned his robe.  He gazed out of the window into the courtyard and as the first bits of day sprinkled down between the buildings he could see flowers beginning to open in the garden.  He lit a small candle and descended the stairs to the first floor where the kitchen was located.  He noticed the soft glow of the morning fire crackling and recognized the slight figure in the corner of the room preparing for the day’s chores.

“You’re up quite early, Mr. Rhys.  May I prepare a cup of tea for you?”  Mrs. Hopkins asked quietly.

“That would be good of you.” Richard replied.  Mrs. Hopkins commenced with tea making and preparing something for a morning meal.  Richard wandered outside into the courtyard taking a small paring knife with him.  It was still.  Not even a breeze moved the bare trees.  He carefully cut the delicate yellow flowers at an angle on the stem.  Fresh dew beaded up on his hands as he carried them inside.  He studied how the growing light played in the convex reflection of the water drop.  There was something quite fragile yet everlasting in that minute portion of condensation, the mingling of heaven and earth.

“Mrs. Hopkins, would you be so good as to point me in the direction of a vase.”  Richard requested.

Mrs. Hopkins nodded and began to walk away.

“No, no, I shall get it myself, just tell me where it might be stored.”  He asked.

“In the parlor, the corner cabinet, second shelf.”  Mrs. Hopkins replied cheerfully and she resumed her preparations.

As he knotted his tie and attached the watch fob to his vest he paid careful attention to his appearance.  He had an early appointment with a gentleman whom he had heard and read about many times throughout his life.   This man was as famous in Britain as he was in America.  The fascinating aspect that seemed to capture Richard’s rapt almost obsessive consideration was not so much his grasp of Shakespearean oration or his various characters created for the stage, it was the man’s brother.  He was long dead but a fixture of American History and a villain for all time.  Richard smoothed down his wavy hair and carefully crept into the bedroom leaving the vase of yellow crocus for Victoria.  As he made his way to the foyer Mrs. Hopkins seemed surprised to see him ready for the day.

“Will you not be having breakfast with us, Mr. Rhys?”  She asked.

“No, Mrs. Hopkins, I have a very important appointment in Gramercy Park.”  He replied.

“Will you return for tea, then?”  She probed.

“I’m not sure.  Please do not wait for me---oh, and tell Victoria I will see her later this evening.” He answered.  And before any expression could form on her face he was outside and walking quickly up Grove Street.  It was unseasonably warm for March, and after a few blocks he had to peel off his wool coat.  He noticed many inhabitants shedding their dark parlors for the winter respite.  People were smiling and walking with a pronounced bounce to their gait.  As he weaved his way up the increasingly bustling Seventh Avenue and onto Fourteenth street his mind drifted back to a crisp day in October. As they were enjoying an intimate dinner at Delmonicos Victoria invited him along with her to tour Washington DC for she was to appear before the United States Congress on behalf of Women’s Suffrage.  He had seen her speak to small church groups and give lectures at Columbia University and Princeton.  She was also invited to speak at salons hosted by the Morgans, the Vanderbilts and the Goulds on various topics such as the impact of architecture on culture and the community.  Her eloquence, passion and knowledge enchanted him and he drew closer to her charming public persona.  In private she seemed a bit reluctant to speak on these matters, perhaps because he was not an educated man, but he did not let his ignorance and past color his thirst for ideas, truths and principles especially the ones that ignited her.  She never talked down to him and he appreciated her authenticity.  Since their private wedding Victoria had been preoccupied with the design and rebuilding of their country house in the flatlands of Brooklyn so they postponed their honeymoon until the structural engineering on the manor had been completed.  By October they were both in need of a change in scenery.  They had ventured to Philadelphia first by carriage and then boarded a train from there to the nation’s capital.  Arriving in the late afternoon they took tea at their lodgings. As they strolled back to their suites Victoria playfully took his hand and quickly walked him to a waiting hansom cab.

“Tenth Street between E and F, Please.”  She said to the driver.”

“I thought we are to dine with Mr. DePew this evening.”  He said bewildered.

“I’ve made other arrangements.”  She said cryptically with a hint of glee.

“Where are we going?”  He asked.

“Somewhere special.  A place that you might find incredibly interesting.”  She replied.

The hansom moved quickly through the streets and the Federal style buildings passed by as sentinels on guard by the low glow of the gas lamps.  Finally the coach stopped and they disembarked in front of what looked like an old church.  The plaque out front read ‘War Department’.  It was closed up and dark.  A fine mist began to roll in off the Potomac.  Richard was confused.  He did not know if he should know where they were and fake surprise and wonder for the sake of his bride or to simply ask outright why she had brought him here.

“Tis Ford’s Theatre, darling.”  She said softly and a kind of emotion rose up from his gut. It was perhaps the first time his wife had seen him visibly cry.  He moved to the Brick walls and placed his hands there as if the building itself could explain why a martyr had been taken.  The fog reminded him of London and of Martin Smollett, the tosher that taught him a trade.  Martin was fascinated with the American Civil War and collected every tidbit of information on the subject.  Richard paid his doss to sleep on Martin’s floor and soon Martin began to share his knowledge of the great war with his pupil. Being a dodger and an amateur actor himself he was fascinated with John Wilkes Booth.  It felt as though they shared the same sort of shadow life.  Richard had certainly killed a man before.  And he would do it again in the name of self-defense, but he would never tell Victoria of his most offensive sin.  Only if she confronted him with it would he be truthful.  Had Mr. Booth felt that same sort of threat from the President and more importantly his policies?  Richard could only imagine the kind of thoughts the assassin might have entertained to justify murder. 

He felt his wife take his arm and slowly she led him to the walkway and they ventured silently for some time through the streets of Washington.

After a moment he asked softly, “How did you know?”

“The books you read.  When you send away for them they are almost always about this country’s war.”  She replied.  “Or about Lincoln.”

He stopped and took her hands in his and then he kissed her and pulled her close.  “Thank you.” He whispered and his voice wavered.

“Poor dear, you’re hungry.  Let’s fetch something to eat, shall we?  I think this may have been a bit disagreeable for you.” She said.

He waved down another hansom cab. 

“The Morrison Clarke Hotel.”  He instructed.  As they rode along the foggy streets he reached for her hand and clasped it tightly unsure of how to process this most fervent of wishes.  When they arrived Victoria called for Madeline Irving the Hotel’s owner and requested that their supper be delivered to their suite and that they should not be disturbed until the following morning.  They changed into their respective dressing robe and smoking jacket for a private meal.  When the food arrived Richard felt his appetite wane and he was not sure why these strange feelings had such a stranglehold.  He was not even an American.  He had no ties to this country.  Most of the time he felt quite foreign yet comfortable.  The only thing he had in common with most Americans is that he had come from humble beginnings. 

“I’m afraid I’m a bit pensive and I apologize, Victoria.”  He said quietly.  She removed her napkin and moved close to him.  She put her arms about him and her cheek was warm next to his.  They remained there for some time in utter silence tucked into each other and then she kissed him softly.  He lost himself for a moment and his worries and heavy feelings dropped away like rain and the only thing he saw was the radiant face of his beloved.  He could feel himself aroused just like the first time they had consummated their relationship.  She began by unbuttoning his shirt and she let her soft palm rest against his chest.  He could feel his heartbeat quicken. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed and as their passion grew he could see the expectancy, the longing and the love in her eyes.  Motherhood would become her.

 

He was jolted out of his memory suddenly by a pushcart on Fifth Avenue.  The vendor was Belgian and selling coffee and fresh waffles.  Just then a wave of hunger raged inside of him and he quickly procured breakfast.  He made his way to Union Square where he found a bench to enjoy his meal.  The Jewish peddlers with their rag wagons and flatbeds filled with ironworks shouted their wares.  The raggedy newspaper boys tried to yell above the din selling the Times and Herald and the New York Sun.  Richard checked his pocket watch and timed his arrival carefully.  At half past Seven he rounded the corner of Irving place and found himself in front of the Players Club.  Stepping down in to the entrance a large black man donning what looked like a British military officer’s uniform nodded.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Edwin Booth.”  He said confidently.

“Your name and business?”  The servant asked.

“I’m the portraitist, Richard Rhys.” He replied.  And he was ushered into the grand Victorian townhouse.

“One moment please.”  The servant commanded.  And he disappeared up the mahogany staircase.