In Victorian England, John prepares for a birthday celebration. The celebrant, Victoria Jane, gazes down into the room, from a magnificent portrait on the wall; bewitching and haunting him in equal measure. A storm rages outside, whipping the rain against the windows. A maelstrom matched only by the furious tempest raging within John’s mind.
He balled his fist as his voice cracked and then drank to calm himself. Behind him the picture seemed to be larger, closer; her beauty surrounded him but stayed beyond his reach. Keeping his back to the room he felt his shoulders heave and he sobbed. No matter that he held himself tightly, his tears were beyond control.
‘I’m sorry, so, so, very sorry. It was all for you my love. It has always been all for you.’
The windows rattled loudly as the storm blew ever more fiercely and John shrank in the window, a shaking silhouette of a broken man. Searching for words he leaned in towards the glass and spoke breathlessly.
‘It was love, always love. It is love. Now as much as ever. Don’t you see that my darling? Surely you see that?’