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

live in Sicily? Beau, there’s a thousand questions. You can’t rush into something this important.”

“Take a deep breath, Tom. I’m the one that’s supposed to be jumpy. Funny, but I don’t feel nervous.” He slid down the window and slapped the side of the carriage. “Isn’t it a handsome day?”

“You never call me Tom.”

Beauregard shrugged then gazed out the window and whistled an odd tune. In a rather confounded state, I had so many questions my head began to pound. The most pressing question was how Francesca arranged a wedding on the fly.

Beauregard shrugged again. “I don’t know. Francesca knows the parish priest at a little Catholic chapel named …” he paused, “well, dash, now I can’t remember the name of the chapel. But it’s in the center of town with a nice view of the lake, and Francesca was sure the priest would marry us today.”

“How does she happen to know of a village chapel? For heaven’s sake, Beauregard, you’re not even Catholic.”

He bragged how Francesca traveled a great deal and knew the area well. “And so what if I’m not Catholic. He can legally marry us, can’t he?”

A disturbing thought entered my mind. Beauregard once said he admired Francesca’s modest style, how he had grown tired of women using the illusion of French perfumes and diamond tiaras. I said he was daft, but his words were forefront in my mind.

“Beauregard, does she know of your inheritance?”

His silence confirmed I had overstepped my bounds, and I wanted to apologize when Beauregard turned from the window. His merry smile had faded.

“Thomas, you sound just like your father.”

I reacted just as he intended. We were young, driven by rash emotions and at that moment I was too insulted to speak. We stared at each other in silence then Beauregard turned away and continued looking out the window. The tension in the carriage rose until I was glad when we at last arrived and found the church. Beauregard tumbled out of the carriage and rushed inside. I refused to follow and sulked outside.

We were perched on a rise surrounded by lush farms I had failed to notice while brooding in the carriage. There was indeed a breathtaking view of an azure lake and a quaint chapel with terracotta walls and a listing bell tower. Beside the chapel was a graveyard. A narrow gate held together with chicken wire scuffed across the soft dirt, and crumbling stone markers were laden with fresh dandelions. The chapel and cemetery reminded me of dear old chums who had exaggerated tales of their youth and complained of a chill in June. As I thought about Beau and the importance of our friendship, the bell rang releasing bits of rust into the breeze.

Beauregard bounded out the chapel door. His eyes were wide and he snapped his head back and forth between me and the road. “She’s not here yet. The second service begins in a few minutes and she’s not here. Where is she?”

I then noticed a few wagons and assumed the parishioners were already inside. “Oh, my very young friend, you should know that blushing brides have a great deal to primp and fluff and who knows what. You can’t rush these things,” I said, then winked.

Beau grabbed my shoulders and hugged me. “Thanks, Thomas. I knew you of all people would understand. You’re a foolish romantic at heart.”

“And you’re just a —”

“Don’t say it. I want us to stay friends.”

We chuckled, and I told him to go inside while I waited for Francesca. “You’re getting married without anyone’s approval and in a language you don’t understand. You could at least follow one of the rules of matrimony.”

He looked at me with a blank stare, so I waited for him to state the obvious. Instead he rolled his eyes and said, “Sakes alive, just tell me what you mean. My head feels like I’m wearing your stupid collar.”

“The groom’s not supposed to see the bride before the wedding, you ninny.”

He slapped his forehead and agreed to go inside. Before he left, he made me promise I would let him know the moment she arrived. I saluted, and he trotted back into the church.

A few minutes later a cab rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the chapel. I waved off the driver and helped Francesca from the carriage. She was dressed in a simple white tea gown with small pink flowers on the crown of her head. Though she wore no jewelry or veil, a little surprising for a young bride on her wedding day, I found myself in agreement with Beauregard. Her simplicity was elegant and fitting for a country ceremony.

“Good morning.”

“Buon giorno. Is here Beauregard?”

I was about to reassure her he was inside panting like an overheated dog when the breeze caught the edge of her dress. As she collected her long skirt she dropped her colorful bouquet so I bent to pick it up. This was when I saw the heels of her shoes. If not for my close examination no one would have ever noticed. I handed her the flowers and she nodded, unaware of what had just happened. The church bell rang again, and she took a step toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Francesca, but Beauregard isn’t here. He’s made a mistake.”

“Miz take?”

I nodded, unsure if she understood, until she lowered her bouquet. I asked if I could do anything, knowing I had done enough, but she stared at me and said nothing. I attempted to ask in French but my pronunciation was hopeless. Francesca touched my arm and shook her head. She got back into the carriage, and I watched her leave.

I intended to find Beauregard but instead leaned on the cemetery fence and listened to the worshippers sing “Angus Dei.” When Beauregard found me I could not bring myself to tell him what I had done. We waited by the cemetery for a full hour. He was confused, angry, and then remorseful, but he never suggested we search for Francesca. I still believe this was because Beauregard knew it was for the best.

We went back to the hotel, packed our bags, and I offered to go anywhere he fancied. Beau would not agree to shorten our trip and go home, so we continued on to Austria and Switzerland. In time we took up our rounds of social calls and late nights, but we were both more subdued and Beau was distracted. Our trip went about in this manner for the rest of the full year and Beauregard did not mention Francesca until we were aboard the Isthmus sailing for Boston.

“Thomas, how did you know? You were right all along. She only wanted to marry me for my money,” he said to my question of how he was enjoying his filet. “I told her all about my father’s company, my holdings, and even bragged we could travel the world on my enormous allowance. What I don’t understand is why she changed her mind. I guess she decided money wasn’t enough to make her happy.”

He was quiet a moment then mumbled, “Dollymop.”

“Beau, that’s a bit harsh. She wasn’t —”

“I want to think of her as a dollymop or strumpet but I can’t because I still love her. She probably only wanted my money and I still love her. I’m a darn fool, Thomas. You tried to warn me, but I would have socked you if you had said anything else in that carriage.” He tossed down his fork and pushed away his plate. “How long will it take? How long until I don’t think about her every minute?”

All I could do was shake my head.

Had I not seen the careful application of white paint she had used to conceal the shabbiness of her shoes they would have married. I made a grand assumption she lusted only for his property and that Francesca was just another of Beau’s passing infatuations. I wanted to protect his future. It was brash and egotistical, and I curse my arrogant youth. What if theirs was true love? I may have ruined his life.

Cousin Penelope’s wedding brings up many painful emotions. Though I wish to share in Penelope's happiness, I resent leaving my work and cringe at the thought of New York without you. Most of all I detest writing a special toast to love and the vows of marriage for someone else.

Though jealousy taints my pen, I will not disappoint Penelope. I ask you to judge if my “talent with words will keep the evening from turning into a total and utter shambles.” You are truly the only person with whom I long to share this sentiment.

A man walks his path with purpose until he is distracted by a rose-scented breeze. He has found his way though he never knew he was lost.

A woman steps through her gate dreaming of the road ahead. She is cautious but moves forward with optimism.

Two paths cross and the man and woman move as one. Unexpected and divine, the excitement of life begins.

To the happy couple.

Thomas

February 22, 1889.

DEAR BEAU —

Are you enjoying your escape from the arduous occupation of finding amusing society and resting from afternoon strolls? If you can soon pull yourself away from the beauty of the Greek climate and inhabitants, I should like to see you when you return. After you entertain me with a sensational narrative that ends with you not changing your shirt for three days, I have much to confess.

Your friend,

Thomas

March 5, 1889.

MR. EVERETT —

Your incompetence is intolerable. Knowing Mr. Kennard was jailed in Omaha for three days then released without charge does not ease my fears. What I want to know is why he was arrested. Your claim the police report is sealed is outlandish. You forget my background in law. Only children and presidents have their records sealed. And as for your startling information about Mr. Harting, I am well aware of his associations with racketeers.

Had I the time, I would already know more about Mr. Kennard, including his whereabouts before moving to New York. Mr. Kennard did not materialize as a ghost. You will not extort any more money for information already promised. I demand you fulfill your contract.

T. Gadwell

March 5, 1889.

FATHER —

I will not apologize to your man Fowler. That you are blind to his incompetent caretaking must be another convenient effect of the laudanum. – T.

March 5, 1889.

MARY —

I returned from the wedding elated to see your delicate script, yet I was accosted the moment I opened your letter. I would like to know which of your friends wrote such slanderous gossip. You know full well I did not escort anyone to Penelope’s wedding. You have no right to claim me insincere and untrustworthy, nor do you have any foundation for rebuking alleged actions. While I share my love and concern, you report on the eiderdown pillows. You are angry with me?

In case you care to learn the facts before accusing me of being a libertine, my arranged dinner companion was not on my arm the entire evening and is a cousin I have not seen since childhood.

The idea you think my love is some kind of game is preposterous. If that were true I should hope I could find better amusement than dealing with a family who finds me beneath contempt without reason. I dare say, most parents consider me a desirable suitor. I am an eligible gentleman of means with a reputable family