Chapter 11 (Nicole)

I feel disappointed when I wake up to see another grey day, but going to the museum with Victor makes my mood increase fiftyfold. Seeing that the clouds above me are very, very white, I see that I have slept a good part of the morning. For all I know, it's just after noon.

The minute I'm up, I dust off my dress and decide to search the cellar corners for something to help me look presentable for the day. I hope that I'm wrong about those crates, and then, to my surprise, find a lonely bottle of perfume in the corner. It's dusty and collecting cobwebs, but I'm able to unscrew the top and pour some onto my wrists. I run my hands through my hair, tying my hair back into a half -ponytail with the elastic band around my wrist.

I sneak out from the cellar, and peek around the corner, to see Victor working with the fishmongers. He turns to speak to the hunchback, and when he nods, Victor goes back to his work.

Grinning excitedly, I walk out from the corner, and make my appearance. Victor has a short conference with the fishmongers and then joins me in walking to the museum. I find shortly that it's just a block away from Victor's house, so we get there just before the morning crowd- if there is one.

The interior is made of high, arched ceilings, with every painting framed by woodwork of swirling clouds. I don't recognize many of the paintings or drawings there, but they are lovely. I can tell right away that Victor can easily place some of his work there, and they would look amazing next to even the best of the art there. The paintings have such power, scope and beauty that, well, it's hard to look away from them. At times, we take some of Victor's art and hang it in the air next to a piece that we think is particularly dull, and have great fun seeing which pieces they look good next to. It surprises me that there's no one around to speak to about putting some of the drawings into the galleries. Poor Victor, with no one wanting to understand his talent other than me is particularly depressing, getting worse as I notice how empty the museum is of any signs of life. In fact, there's now only me, Victor, and the quiet of the vast building around us- quiet enough that when Victor or I chuckle, it echoes throughout the whole place for several seconds before finally fading out.

Then, as we turn the corner into another gallery, I notice another person – a woman in a long wine red-pink gown and brown cloak- standing next to a painting at the other end of the hall. Her head hangs low for some time, only occasionally looking up as her fingers graze the paintings. From her simple gestures and how she hangs her head after each painting, it seems like she's lamenting something. I wonder if maybe it's the same woman I saw in the park yesterday, and I suddenly become excited to meet her, and find out what the matter was.

I feel guilty as I watch her move along the rows of paintings, a bunch of them about families and women and their children. I watch as she stops at a particular painting of a woman sitting outside a tiny garden of flowers, covered with wildlife and several different plants. The child running towards her has her arms outstretched and looking like she's running towards her mother after a long time away. The woman I observe stands near the painting, and stops there, hanging her head low and hugging her hands to herself.

Slowly, I take a deep breath and excuse myself from where Victor and I are. I cross the corridor and prepare to introduce myself to the woman.

"Um…good day," I begin.

The woman gasps, and turns around. She puts her hand on her heart when she sees me, removing her cloak from around her shoulders. "Oh dear," she says. Her voice was a sweet sound, so innocent and childlike that I find it hard to believe that she's a grieving woman. "Good day to you too, miss. I'm sorry for not paying attention to you…"

"It's okay," I say, curtsying politely. "I'm Nicole Hudson. It's good to meet you."

The woman curtsies back, if somewhat slowly and shyly. "I'm called Victoria. Victoria Everglot," she replies. "Please. The pleasure is mine." She speaks with such caution and reserve that it's shocking to me that she even spoke at all. She's being really sweet though, and I like her already.

"So…do you like it here?" I ask her.

"Oh, well, yes I do," she answers. "It's a wonderful place, like a dream within a dream. But, you know, I really should be going home. There's something important that I must be getting to."

"Whoa, hold on a minute," I say, before she could walk away. "I just happened to notice you were looking a little downhearted, so I just thought you needed someone to talk to."

Victoria stops where she is. The nervous, scared look on her face slowly disappears, and she steps back towards the painting. "Well, I suppose I could speak with you, for a while."

"What were you doing over here?" I ask her, inquiring about her interest in the painting of the woman and the child in the flowers.

Victoria glances upward at the painting, and touches it lightly once again. "I was admiring this painting here," she says. "It reminds me of the days when childhood was an open door, simply waiting for you to rush out of it whenever you wished. Full of flowers, and beauty, and love. And the expression of joy on the child, I don't believe I've smiled like that in so long a time."

I observe the painting again, noticing that the child's eyes were reflecting sunflowers, very finely hidden against the light coming from behind the woman. "Wow, yes. Do you see the sunflowers in her eyes?" I ask.

Victoria smiles slightly when she notices the eyes of the child. "An artist is an amazing person, really," she murmurs, "to capture such expression and beauty. I suppose that…if I should ever marry, it would be wonderful to marry to someone with such vision and care in their soul. Especially if…if I could marry for love."

"I agree," I say. "Incredible what such wonders lie in the imagination of an artist like this one." Then, I look at Victoria, surprised at what she said. "What do you mean? Are you getting married to someone you don't love?"

"No, I'm not," Victoria answers, shaking her head. "Well, I worry that it could happen to me. I am of age, and my mother and father tell me that I should honor the idea of marrying one that they choose for me. Unfortunately, they say that every man in this town is too improper for me; that they shall teach me the wrong ideas of being a wife- particularly those they call the nouveau riche."

"Gosh, that's awful," I say.

"I suppose that, there's nothing I can do to stop them," she laments, looking at the painting again. "What am I? I'm only a woman who is to attend her duties as my parents want me to."

"Well then, do you think that you can…" I'm about to suggest to her that she take it upon herself to find a husband, like Victor is supposed to. But the way that Victoria talks about her parents, it sounds like her situation could potentially be worse than Victor's.

"That bad?"

"Afraid so," Victoria says. "I must admit that, the only true mother I ever knew was my nanny, Hildegard. She was the only one who ever helped me understand what was good in life…Wait, what am I doing telling you all this, Miss Hudson? This is not the kind of thing I should be mentioning to you…"

"Victoria, this might be a little crazy, but I understand perfectly. How you feel, that is. Mind if I tell you a little about my own parents?"

Victoria nods, and I lead her down the corridor, telling her about all the ridiculous conformities my parents put on me from the start- how they forced me to not be a writer, how they discouraged me from doing what I loved most- just trying to stop me from upstaging them! It feels good to explain it to her, to help her see that she can break free from her own problems, just as much as I had convinced Victor he could. With every word, Victoria seems to give me a look of doubt and sadness. I can't believe it; is her situation that horrible? Are her parents that cruel and controlling that whenever I mention hope, she looks so downcast?

Still, I do see some smiles from her once in a while. We spot some landscape paintings along the way, and Victoria tells me she had seen landscape that beautiful beyond the city, and how beautiful it was in the clearing outside the city in the spring.

"Yes, I can remember it perfectly," she says, "playing on the bridge by the chapel and hiding in the trees, really up until I was six years old. Oh, how I wish I could be a child sometimes, with no plans of marriage or duties to follow."

I can't say that I disagreed with her. My parents kept such a tight hand on me, I didn't learn what other fun there was besides writing in my journals and gym class games at school. Still, I stuck with writing imaginative stories, and created fun all my own, that no one else could understand.

She and I soon lose ourselves in stories from our childhood, until I realize how long I have been gone from Victor. I look behind us at the corridor, and notice that we have turned a corner a while ago. Now I'm almost entirely unsure where I should go.

Nervously clearing my throat, I straighten myself up and curtsy to Victoria. "Pleasure meeting you, Victoria, but now I must go."

She seems displeased that I have to leave, but Victoria grins solemnly and says, "Yes, it has been lovely meeting you, Miss Hudson…um, Nicole. I hope we can talk again some time."

"Me too," I add, beginning to walk away. When I turn my head to look ahead of me, I begin to concentrate on finding my way back to Victor, but I'm also thinking of Victoria, and how alike she and I are. It amazes me, from what she told me of her parents, that they had kept her from all the wonderful things that children would know in her time- playing in the park on Sunday afternoons after morning worship, meeting other girls her age, then playing dolls and banging on the piano with friends when no one was looking. Her mother also always told her that music is an improper thing for a little lady to learn (too passionate); now that is just silly!

Victoria's stories tear through my mind as I turn the corner to find Victor still in the same corridor, comparing his art with several others. His head tilts this way and that, observing how his work looks. Sometimes, it tilts so quickly that it's almost like he's a squirrel turning around or twitching its tail. The analogy makes me laugh, and I laugh hard enough that Victor turns and sees me coming down the corridor.

"I was wondering when you would come back," he notes, gathering his art in his hands. "Actually, I was beginning to think you might have abandoned me to scope out the best artwork before I could."

"You know I wouldn't do that kind of thing without you escorting me. I think you know that a proper young lady never does anything without knowing that her escort is by her side." I prance a few steps away from him, twirling my skirts like a pretty, happy girl and smile towards the ceiling dramatically. Victor chuckles lightly before I turn around to join him again below the paintings.

"I guess we can be glad that there are no windows in here," I say, "otherwise we'd be able to tell time enough to get out of here. This is a lot of fun."

Victor's eyes suddenly widen; if they weren't big enough already, and he glances all around us in the corridor. "Is there a clock anywhere?" he asks.

"Who cares?" I answer, realizing too late what Victor really meant.

"No, my parents," Victor says. "If I'm not back soon, they'll..." He fiddles nervously with his tie, and he looks like he's going to be sick.

"Relax, calm down," I say rapidly. "Then we can't waste any time. If they'll really be that angry, then let's get there as fast as we can. If we get there too late, I'll cover for you."

"Don't think about it," Victor commands, "let's just get back."

Without saying another word, the both of us speed out of the museum, and are out on the street when the last few carriages are out, carrying their grim passengers. Victor and I speed-walk down the street, pushing past people in our path, ignoring their rude comments on how hasty we're being.

Finally, we stop at Victor's front door, and he seems dismayed to see that the fishmongers are inside already. He gulps, and walks up the door, seeming hesitant to knock. And after what happened last night, I can already see what's coming. I tense beside him and reach for his hand, hoping that they aren't inside doing what I hope they aren't doing; tattle-tailing on Victor's disappearance.

When Victor knocks, at last, there's no immediate thundering of footsteps, but a single step towards the door.

"Victor, get in here immediately!" a raspy woman's voice calls. "We're going to have a big talk with you!" Suddenly, a large woman wearing a purple day dress charges through the door and grabs Victor by his hand, dragging me inside with them. They both rush off to the same hallway I had gone down when Victor cared for my cut, but the woman is rushing so fast that I don't have time to catch my breath, before knocking into the stairs close to my foot. I bang my toes on the stairs, and fall to the floor, letting go of Victor's hand. My face is sprawled on the wooden stairs, and my toe is throbbing from the quick impact. I could cried with the pain, but my face hitting the stairs knocks the wind out of me for a minute.

Slowly, I sit up and rest on the stairs to gather myself from the fall. I slowly reach for my toe to help ease the throbbing, but my face still hurts from hitting the stairs. For several seconds, I just sit there, willing away the pain while I massage my foot and breathe slow, deep breaths.

Then, I could hear voices coming from the kitchen. They are angry and disappointed, but they are all coming from Victor's parents. I don't hear him speak for a while, just listening to them reprimand him for walking away.