From Across the Room by Gina L. Mulligan (best book series to read .txt) 📖

that sounds ridiculous. I’m just going to miss you more than I know how to put into words.”

“Darling, I promise we’ll be together again soon. Your father just needs to give me a chance. It’s strange; most people have to know me better before they object to my liberal politics and boyish charm.”

“I can believe that.” She smirked then shook her head. “It’s really unlike my father to act secretive and so blame …” She slapped her hand over her mouth.

Thomas laughed at her wide eyes. “You won’t go to hell for saying ‘blame.’ ”

“Or for sitting alone in a dark courtyard with a handsome man?”

“You think I’m handsome?”

“I think you missed my point,” she said.

“So you say.”

“I say,” Mary snickered. “You really are silly sometimes.”

“True. And you really are the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. I’m in love with you, Mary Harting, completely in love with you.”

Her laughter stopped, and Thomas swallowed against a lump in his throat. Though he had written it many times, hearing the words aloud made it more real. His voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else—someone cleverer and deserving of loving such a woman.

She was silent, and he worried she did not want his declarations of love. He was leaving, putting down his sword and walking away. She had asked him to, but he wondered if it was too late to stay and fight. Thomas was ready to suggest just that, when Mary lifted her head. Fresh tears streamed down her face.

“I love you too, Thomas. I love you more than I ever thought it possible to love anyone.”

She collapsed into his arms, and he felt her silent sobs against his chest.

“Everything will be all right. I promise.”

Her tears turned to deep shuddered breaths, and when she lifted her head, Mary stared at him for a few moments. “You know your mother’s right. You do have the mischievous eyes of an attorney.”

“And what do you know about lawyers? Should I worry?”

She shook her head. “The only lawyers I know are old men with sagging bellies.”

“Not handsome like me.”

Mary tilted her head. “Who said you were handsome?”

He moved closer. “I believe a certain young lady mentioned my fine looks not minutes ago.”

“Well, now you’re just bragging,” she said.

“Am I? So if I kissed you right now you wouldn’t fall under the influence of my gifted appearance?” He leaned toward her, “And my wild charms?”

“Now I’m certain there was no mention of wild charms.”

“Poetic license,” he whispered.

They embraced in the quiet courtyard until Thomas noted the late hour. While Thomas checked the street, Mary replaced loose hairs that had escaped her chignon and put on her bonnet.

They went through the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. The pavement felt callous and the air cooler than in the shelter of the thick shrubs. Unsure what to say, they walked together in silence.

The restaurant and street were quiet so Thomas was disappointed when a hackney-coach appeared and stopped at his signal. He helped Mary into the carriage and shut the door.

“Mary, I know he’ll change his mind. He just needs more time to accept the situation,” Thomas said.

“I hate not knowing when I’ll see you again. I don’t like the unknown.”

“Then you’re missing the adventure, my love. Living is what we do between the expected and the mundane.”

“A quote from your novel?”

“Not mine, but it’s true just the same. I know it will all turn out as it should.”

Mary sighed. “Sometimes your optimism is maddening. Aren’t you even a little bit afraid we’ll never see each other again?”

Thomas shook his head with confidence. “We’ll have a lifetime of courtyards, my love. I give you my word.”

Mary nodded, but her lower lip quivered and fresh tears pooled in her eyes. Thomas winked and tapped the side of the buggy. He waved until the carriage disappeared around the corner.

 

The power of imagination is most curious, my love. If we replay this scenario again and again it will become as real as any memory. I intend to do just that.

Mary, we must endure and wait for your father’s blessing. Until then, I will make a quick visit to Boston then head to Newport to start my third novel while your gracious friend, Miss Ross, delivers our words of life and love. Keep busy with your family and volunteer work. And above all else, my dearest, be careful.

With all my heart,

Thomas

September 17, 1888.

AVERY —

The train pulled into Boston a little past ten o’clock last evening yet you denied me the pleasure of watching you streak across the window in your wool nightshirt and cap. Where were you? As my father is in rare form, we must meet right away. I plan to leave again without even a plate of pig’s knuckles at Jake Wirth’s.

T.G.

September 17, 1888.

DEAR BEAU —

Thank you for the unique evasion techniques and passionate warning about fish glue. Did you really have a yarn mustache stuck to your lips for three days? Now that I am back in Boston, I suspect I am unworthy of a shadow and will not need to “borrow” a barrel organ and monkey. I hope you gave them back to the organ grinder. Should I worry about you on foreign soil? Sometimes your antics get a little close to crossing the line of decorum.

Thomas

September 17, 1888.

DARLING —

The hall table is empty. I expected a letter with the afternoon post telling me how much you already miss my rambling tales. Have you forgotten me already?

Though my train arrived late, first thing this morning Father called me into his study to battle the merit of the Chinese Exclusion Treaty. Declaring my need for poached eggs and a good shave was insufficient. Since childhood I have despised everything about our infinite debates. It would be cleaner to draw pistols and have it done.

The torment begins when my father bellows for me from the base of the staircase. He has never found my company worthy of climbing the stairs. This is followed by loud, quick footsteps in the back hall. He wants to be sure I know he is waiting but he will not call for me again. The one time I ignored him I was sent to bed without supper. I have never thought to ignore him as an adult. I suppose I would have to dine out.

As usual, Father waited for me in the doorway. My greeting met with his low grunt, followed by his pointing to the window. That was his way of saying it was time to take our positions.

My father propped himself against the corner of his Partners’ desk with his arms folded and his face taut. The study smelled of the penny cigars he chews but never lights; newspapers he will not allow our girl to toss; leather bindings and withered parchment; and dust from the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line the room. As we inspected each other like ladies across a buffet table, I moved to the window and rested against the sill.

My usual manner is to pick up a glass bottle from father’s apothecary collection, something I can roll about in my hands to give the illusion of disinterest when I need time to formulate a rebuttal, but Father had cleared the display case. In defiance, I plucked my father’s letter opener from his desk, held it before him with a grin, and waited for him to begin pacing. Unlike the rigidness of our dispositions, the mode of our debate depends on the time of year.

In the chill we remain motionless, resting upon the marble fireplace while holding cups of steaming tea. When the weather is stifling, we open all of the windows and strut back and forth across the chintz rug searching for the right spot to declare our poignancy encouraged by a cooling breeze. In twenty-two years we have never once availed ourselves of the leather chairs.

Our chat began with his usual rancor and belittling of my progressive ideas. Then as he rationalized how forced labor does not violate civil liberties, I forgot myself and pulled a copy of Surveying America from the shelf. He stopped mid-sentence, huffed, and handed me a sterling silver marker the size of a berry fork. The library is littered with shiny reminders that one of their own is missing.

I took the marker and held it for a moment. “Please continue, Father. It’s such fun to hear you degrade an entire class and dismiss common sense.”

“That’s not what … I … was … Thomas, just use the marker already. I don’t want another book misplaced.”

“For land’s sake, I was seven years old.”

We continued in this manner until my father checked his watch, stubbed his unlit cigar in the copper tin on the mantel, and walked out of the room indicating he was either hungry or tired. My dismissal, however, has never meant our discussion is over. Our vicious cycle shall repeat soon enough.

My father and this house were so distant when you and I were together, but I apologize for evading your questions. Not every family sings carols and plays The Checkered Game of Life. Now that I am submerged I suppose it is easier to address your curiosity about my home life. Still, is it best you learn what else goes on behind velvet curtains?

Our residence at 84 Chestnut Street is a sturdy, four-story Second Empire with a boxy mansard roof, rounded cornices, and dormer windows that look like eyebrows. The front bay window is used to display Mother’s needlepoint to the neighbors, and though my mother is fond of wishing it was as large as the Carnegie Mansion, our ten thousand square feet has all of the required rooms Mother has never decorated to her satisfaction.

We entertain with polished silver and china, ring our bell when ready for supper, and have the drapes aired each spring. When blue trellis wallpaper was stylish, we had blue trellis wallpaper in the front hall and receiving room, and my mother loves cherry wood and ivory trinkets. An attractive house, and yet I have not described our home.

In the summertime we ate fried chicken on an old red blanket in the backyard and my mother always hummed unrecognizable tunes as she went up and down the staircase. I was never allowed to play in the guest rooms, and our cook, Lilly, loved to make chocolate bread pudding. The whole house smelled of chocolate—except, of course, on Sundays.

On Sunday evenings we always had a light supper then gathered in the family room. Father sat on the settee, his thick legs crushing the delicate rose pattern, and Mother put away her needle. From my spot on the floor, I watched Father stroke his mustache with a devious grin that made me laugh and shiver at the same time.

Father told stories. Sometimes he even acted out scenes and spoke in character voices like a performer in a company show. I never knew if his tales were original or borrowed from one of his many books, but it never mattered. We all looked forward to Sunday stories. Father even taunted us with cryptic hints during the week. But like the blue trellis wallpaper, story time was replaced, and Sunday nights were never the same.

Father had endless business meetings and missed church. He became hostile without provocation and began slamming his study door. He never discussed what happened with me, though Mother remembers the exact night when everything changed.

All the same, my childhood was