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

an unflattering reference about my punctuality. I recall similar remarks about turning in homework assignments on time. Even so, Putnam is giving me a second chance. But if I miss the deadline (in which case Avery will kill me), they pull the deal. As Avery puts it, “You either submit the work on time or they cross you off and go on to the next author. It’s that simple for them.”

Mother, this seems a daunting task. How can I write well under duress? Avery is convinced I can meet the deadline if I rid myself of distractions. He, of course, means Mary.

When Avery stopped me, I was on my way to find Mary. My determination to see Mary matches Mrs. Winchester’s resolve to keep her from me. At least in this instance, my tenacity was rewarded. Mary and I managed to slip away for a few hours. As you delight in a bit of romance, I feel obliged to share this with you.

The brisk morning air held a dense mist that settled like a stout man awaiting his dinner. I considered taking the carriage but feared drawing attention to visiting Mary without a plausible excuse. As I considered my options, I remembered Mrs. Winchester’s ridicule of Mary’s pedestrian habits. Walking was not only foolhardy but leads to all manner of illnesses, not the least of which is flat feet. Mrs. Winchester scolded Mary for her daily sojourns—at least three turns through the gardens and one pass around the front drive. I thus decided to walk.

What felt quick in a carriage, grew quite tiresome on foot. By the time I reached the Winchester’s drive, mud weighed my boots and my face was damp from mist and sweat. I unwrapped a turn of my wool scarf and searched for Mary. It was a senseless desire, but I hoped against reason I would arrive just as Mary was coming out for her walk. The driveway was empty.

I waited by the street for a few minutes, feeling rather conspicuous and more than a bit like a bluenose. To avoid the police captain and anyone having a reason to flag you down at the Independence Day parade, I strolled down the drive until I found an opening behind the hedges. There was no one watching so I pressed myself behind the bushes, tearing a small hole in my overcoat and scraping my knuckles on the thorny overgrowth. If you are now worried your son is a lout, I submit even a gentleman must sometimes take extraordinary measures.

Waiting in the frigid, wet wind did nothing to improve my mood. Even the thought of seeing Mary could not overshadow the dread of a new deadline. My legs stiffened and lips burned, and after hopping in place and breathing into cupped hands I considered Mary might fear the looming clouds and choose a book and stoked fire. I began chastising myself for a brainless idea that wasted precious time, when I heard footsteps on the gravel drive. I called out Mary’s name. She jumped.

Instead of a bright smile, she tightened the black wrap around her chin and wanted to know what in the world I was doing. My explanation prompted Mary to shake her head and ask, “And it never occurred to you to knock on the front door?”

Even if it had, I doubted getting past the butler. I tried to explain but Mary held my gaze and said in a soft voice, “I wish you had come sooner. You have no idea what’s been going on in that house.”

Though I encouraged her to tell me what was wrong, Mary’s description of Mrs. Winchester’s antics confirmed a growing suspicion about our new neighbor. You must come to Newport prepared.

Mary moved about as if admiring the bushes while she explained. “It’s not just one thing, it’s everything. At first I thought Mrs. Winchester was just quirky and a little unorganized, but I think I was too kind. Truly, I believe she’s as nutty as a fruitcake. Did you know she changes her plans all day long? One moment she’d like breakfast then the next just milk and a carriage ride to the bluffs. Once the horses are bridled, it’s too cold and she’s decided to stay in and read. She pulls books from the library, scans the front and back cover, sighs and tosses them aside —”

I interrupted, claiming I sometimes found myself unsure of what I wanted to read.

“Sometimes, yes, but she does it for hours while I must sit and watch. Then she wants to read aloud, of course once she can find the right book. I usually enjoy listening to someone read but she skips sentences and mispronounces words seemingly on purpose. Then she laughs and says the mistake is of no consequence to the story.” Mary ran her gloved hand across her forehead. “Is it possible for someone to drive you crackers?”

“This isn’t working. I feel ridiculous talking through weeds,” I said.

“Now you feel ridiculous?” she replied.

I ignored her wisecrack and parted the bushes. Mary squeezed through and I took her hand. Not wanting Mary to suffer on my account, I suggested it might be well advised for her to go back home. Perhaps my wording was clumsy, but I meant the sentiment as a comfort. Mary’s eyes welled with tears.

“Thomas, don’t you want to spend time with me? I’m upset and irritated, but I still want to see you. You’ve been so tense since I got here. Is that because you want me to leave?”

When I told her how much I wanted her to stay, she fell against my chest and I hugged her. I kissed the top of her head and smoothed her wind-cast hair.

“I’m being so fragile, and my nerves are a jumble. I just can’t relax. She’s always watching me and listening at corners. I can’t even write you a note for fear she’ll read it. I just know she will. This is just so infuriating. I’ve thought of almost nothing else but seeing you again. Instead I’m imprisoned with those disgusting bugs.”

When you meet Mrs. Winchester this summer, you must claim to have a lethal allergy to all kinds of bugs, specifically spiders. Trust me on this.

Mary broke our embrace and let out a long breath. She looked at me with damp eyes as she pulled a leaf from my hair.

“So you admit imagining us together?” I said.

Her shy grin raised both our spirits. Warmth radiated from her smile, wisps of hair swirled around her cheeks, and her hand was still in mine. Without forethought, I pulled her toward me and kissed her. She kissed me for a moment then pulled away. Her blush deepened as she looked at the ground with the embarrassment of a schoolgirl.

“Thomas, this isn’t proper.”

I placed my index finger under her chin and raised her head. She was beaming. I kissed her again. This time she leaned close and wrapped her arms around my neck. Captured by joy, I never heard the carriage.

Mary jerked away just as a coach passed. “Mrs. Winchester will hear of lovers frozen in a secret embrace. That would definitely ruin her day,” Mary said.

A glorious way to end, I say.

With Mary out of reach and shuffling from the wind, I suggested it was too cold to stay outside. Mrs. Winchester, however, required canned peaches and Mary was on her way to the market. She asked if I would escort her into town and give her a tour. Even after three weeks, she had seen little of our winter haven. I could think of nothing finer.

“Wait here and I’ll get the carriage,” she said. “It’s definitely too brisk to walk.”

“I know a way to warm you up.”

“That, sir, is why I’m fetching the carriage.”

The next two hours were bliss. We rode to the market nestled beside each other and reminisced about New York and California. When the road was empty we held hands, and just before we turned onto Bellevue Avenue she kissed my cheek and pressed her cold nose against my neck.

After the market, I led the carriage past the charming cottages and shops on Ocean Drive. Then we rode along the shore by Fort Adams before I stopped the carriage on the west bluff. Thick clouds skirted across the sky. Mary burrowed closer.

“The climate of the sea,” I said, then slipped my arm around her shoulder. “Did you enjoy the climate in Abilene?”

Mary stiffened at the mention, saying there was nothing she enjoyed about Abilene. I gathered that much from her letters, or really lack of letters. I squeezed her shoulders and asked if she wanted to tell me more.

She gazed at me for a moment then turned away. “I will, Thomas. I want to, I really do, but not right now. I don’t feel like talking about that right now. This has been such a pleasant afternoon. Let’s not ruin it.”

My curiosity heightened, but I nodded and changed the subject to how her sister was feeling. Mary’s tone darkened as she launched into her sister’s difficult pregnancy. The doctors insist she must lie-in for the next few weeks until the baby is due. Mary is not only concerned for her sister’s health; she feels guilty for wanting to leave Newport to see the newborn.

A loud crack of thunder startled us both and a strong breeze shook the carriage.

“I’d better get you back,” I said. “That’s Newport’s promise of an angry storm.”

We chatted about Newport on the ride back, but my thoughts were on figuring out a way to see her again. Then when I steered the horses down Mrs. Winchester’s drive, Mary gasped. Mrs. Winchester stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

“I suppose stopping the carriage to coax you into a proper goodbye is out of the question,” I said.

Mary smiled behind her hand. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Most definitely.”

When we reached the house, Mrs. Winchester flung aside the door as one casts off bedcovers and marched toward the carriage. I helped Mary to the ground and stood beside her.

“I suppose you enjoy frightening an old woman to her grave, young lady.” Mrs. Winchester scowled at me and added, “I see what’s kept you so long. I nearly sent out a search party. I was at my wits’ end with worry that you were blown into the sea. Really, Miss Harting, you should show more courtesy. You’re a guest in my home and I will not tolerate insubordination.”

Mary nodded, but I stepped in front of her and bowed. “It’s I who must apologize, Abigail. Mary insisted we hurry back, but I’ve been so confined and consumed with my writing, and Miss Harting was kind enough to indulge me. I had no idea the hour was this late. Please accept my apologies.”

Mrs. Winchester shook her head. “Go home, Thomas. I won’t spend all evening worrying about you too. Go quickly before the storm hits.” Mrs. Winchester huffed, then pivoted like a Union soldier and disappeared into the house.

Mary allowed me to walk her up the steps but did not offer her hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Gadwell. I hope we see you again soon,” she said. Mary curtsied then leaned toward me. “But no bushes,” she whispered.

The storm was indeed fierce. For several days I confined myself to the study. Though you may find this hard to understand, it was marvelous. Creative ideas burst forth like tulips through the bitter earth, and I wrote with a zeal I thought lost.

The storm is over, but I am unable to stop working. Mary and her soft kisses haunt me, yet I feel desperate