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

to finish on time. I must pull myself away. A full week has passed with clear skies. What will Mary think? Perhaps I understand a little better why Henry prefers bachelorhood. My approaching deadline is pressing. But so is my guilt.

Your loving son,

Thomas

 

May 6, 1889.

HELLO, AVERY —

I found the note you left in the pantry. The accompanying box of pen nibs was a nice touch.

No need to worry, good chap, I sniffed out my lucky socks. The fifteenth of June or else—I shall scratch the date in my forearm.

T. G.

 

May 7, 1889.

DEAR HENRY —

If you were here slouched on the chaise washing down my melancholy with Irish coffee, you would tell me to sift through my torment for book fodder. I shall endure your firm hand if you allow a man must first purge his thoughts to see them clearly. My affair is like a tragic fable. I just wish I could blame Mary’s trickery and lies on a magic potion. Pray my seeping wounds dry with the ink.

I arrived at Winchester Manor just in time for afternoon tea. It was a presumptive gesture, but I needed to apologize to Mary for disappearing. For the first time, Henry, my writing imprisoned me in an overwhelming, maddening anxiety to perfect each word. You are correct; passion is not for the frail. But those outside the wondrous experience see only the neglect it causes. To my surprise, the butler let me in without an argument and directed me to the front sitting room where Mrs. Winchester was cataloging specimens. A fight, however, was still to come.

Mrs. Winchester raised her head from thick piles of cardboard and jars of milky liquid. She wore a full black dress with a high lace collar and swung a pair of magnifying spectacles between her thumb and index finger. “What brings you here today, Thomas? Mary, I suppose.” I found her biting tone filled with detestable innuendo most inappropriate.

She listened with a bland expression as I asked forgiveness for my rude behavior in staying away so long. I believed her shrug meant to show indifference, but then she suggested I stay for tea. She tossed her glasses onto the cluttered workbench and led me to the drawing room.

I commented on the nice sunshine after the terrible storm and asked how her window fared. The window in Mary’s room leaked but Abigail felt repairs could wait until summer. I offered to send Fowler right over, but Abigail was incensed. “I’ll not hear another word, Thomas. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my own affairs.” As I followed Abigail into the parlor, I worried for Mary’s physical health as well as her mental state.

Mary entered wearing a plain cream colored gown beneath a thick brown shawl. Her cheeks were pale and her lips drawn as she sat opposite Mrs. Winchester and filled our teacups before her own. “Mr. Gadwell, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

I cleared my throat. “As I was just explaining, I’m here to apologize for my abrupt absence. I would have been here sooner if not for the weather and, well, getting carried away with my work. I’ve neglected you both and am ashamed of myself.”

Mrs. Winchester inquired how my wordsmithing was going, to which I gave a quick outline. “But enough of that. You don’t want to get me started or I might ramble all afternoon.”

“Don’t be so modest, Mr. Gadwell,” Mary said. “Hearing of your little novel is rather intriguing. In fact it sounds so simple, really. I should think anyone could give it a try.”

Mrs. Winchester’s face lit up. She clapped and chimed in how she finds reading easy enough. She wanted to know if writing was so simple.

“That’s a matter of opinion I assure you. Nevertheless, I do sincerely apologize again for my delay.”

Mary waved her hand as if dismissing a servant and said there was no need. My hackles rose.

We sat in uncomfortable silence while Mrs. Winchester added three sugar cubes and a healthy pour of cream to her tea. Then all of sudden Mrs. Winchester began gushing about Miss Petrova and how she was taking lessons in Cambridge, right near my family home, and was receiving high praise. She pulled a clipping from her pocket and shoved it in my hand.

“Isn’t that a lovely rendering? And what a talent. The dear girl writes only that she’s enjoying herself tremendously. She’s so modest.” She turned to Mary. “She really is a beauty, isn’t that so, Thomas?”

When I made no reply, Mrs. Winchester continued. According to Mrs. Winchester, I had somehow made an impression on Miss Petrova. Why else, she concluded, would the young lady ask Mrs. Winchester to send her regards. My only reply was to ask Mrs. Winchester if she read Russian.

“Russian, oh dear me, no. She’s been taking English lessons at a fantastic pace. Beauty and intelligence is such a rare combination, don’t you think? Well, I must finish my needlepoint for the charity auction. I’m sure, Thomas, you prefer chatting with a pretty young girl than an old crane like me.” She eyed Mary. “Men are so fickle, don’t you agree, Mary? I’ll be in the sewing room, within earshot I remind you. Thomas, you mind your manners. I don’t believe the gossip I hear about you, but still a young woman must take precautions. Ta ta.” She plucked the clipping from my hold before sweeping from the room with unexpected nimbleness.

I began to question what in the world she was talking about, when Mary shook her head and asked in a loud voice about the weather on the ride over. Mary nodded toward the door and pointed to her ears. I heard the floorboards creek on the other side of the door followed by muffled footsteps leading down the hall.

“Now she’s gone. She likes to eavesdrop.”

“I gather. What was that nonsense about my being fickle and town gossip?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard? You’re madly in love with Miss Katya Petrova, the extremely beautiful and talented opera singer. The fortune teller from Thanksgiving even predicted it. Mrs. Winchester has spoken of nothing else for the past week; ever since she got a letter from the Russian goddess.

“You two are the perfect couple,” Mary continued. “She’s tall, much taller than me, a perfect height for you. She has long dark hair, longer than mine, thicker too, with lovely amber highlights. Isn’t it a shame I don’t have highlights like Miss Petrova.”

“What are you talking about? What’s wrong with that woman?”

Mary put down her teacup and moved to the fireplace. She faced me with her back pressed against the marble mantle and asked if I did anything to encourage the opera singer. From Mrs. Winchester’s account I was a tongue-tied schoolboy who practically drooled the night we first met. Mary mentioned my infatuation with talented musicians, but I stopped her.

“If you’re speaking of Rebecca,” I paused, “I mean, Gertrude, this is quite a different situation. And I didn’t drool. I hardly paid her any attention at Thanksgiving. She didn’t even speak English.” I stood up and faced Mary. “This is ludicrous. I have no interest in Miss Petrova. I was polite, she was polite, but that was all. She’s pretty, I suppose, but not in any way I found remarkable or even that memorable. That night, every night, I think of you. You’re so much more beautiful, Mary. You mustn’t believe Abigail’s idle chatter.”

Mary sighed. “I don’t. I believe you, Thomas. Really, I do. I’m at my wit’s end. It’s that ill-tempered woman and her—”

I suggested she ignore Abigail, but Mary gave a bitter laugh and claimed ignoring her was impossible. After hearing the routine Mary had shouldered for five weeks, I had to agree.

While I burrow in my study, Mrs. Winchester wakes Mary in the middle of the night to share gossip from the maids. Over breakfast she rambles until Mary’s ears ring. By lunch Mrs. Winchester has read to Mary for at least two hours (an inconceivable chore by anyone’s standards), and then Mary is dragged into the foundry to help identify bugs. By nightfall Mary is exhausted, yet evening cake is served with tears about a brain tumor and Mrs. Winchester’s impending death.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Mary asked.

I had no idea she was so grueling and shared this with Mary. My mistake was adding that Mrs. Winchester never acted so strangely with me.

“Are you implying this is somehow my fault?”

“Of course not.” I sat back down and motioned for her to do the same. She shook her head and remained standing. “Mary, you mustn’t stay here. You’re obviously exhausted, and she’s completely incorrigible. You should go home and rest. See your sister. I’ll meet you soon.” She mistook my intent.

“I look exhausted? Oh, never mind that. I can’t leave when it’s obvious she wants me to. Don’t you see, Thomas, she’s playing games. It all began with that horrible dress.”

I had almost forgotten about the medieval frock and asked if Abigail explained her antics. Mary told me that as soon as I left that night, Abigail’s tears dried up and she went straight off to bed. Nothing had been said about it since.

“I don’t understand why, but I think this has something to do with you,” Mary said. “She’s attached to you in some way.”

As Mary left the fireplace to take a turn around the room, she speculated about a tragic dead son or whether I might represent the son Abigail always wanted. I watched Mary's brow twitch as she paced with her hands clasped behind her back. Held by her concentration, for the first time I looked at Mary without her becoming self-conscious and turning away. Worry struck me like Malcolm’s fist in the fourth grade. She was rare and precious; far too precious to lose.

“Mary, please sit down. A man can only watch a handsome creature strut about for so long. Keep pacing and I’m afraid I’ll lose my status as a gentleman.”

She stopped, and a faint blush rose from her chest. “You always know just what to say. Someone taught you well.”

I wanted to know what she meant and asked if she thought of me as some sort of Casanova. She made a good point.

“Shouldn’t I wonder about a man who spends hours writing dialogue?”

I felt edgy from the obvious strain between us, but instead of a quip I told her I was not well versed in womanly innuendo and asked that she tell me plainly what she was driving at.

“I suppose that’s fair because I don’t understand you sometimes, either. You want it plain? All right then. You’ve got a well-polished silver tongue which I first noticed at the hotel. Maybe the moonlight softened the edges but don’t think I haven’t questioned your skills. If I didn’t know you and happened to overhear you enticing another young lady, I might think you some sort of smooth talking bilker.”

I imagined a man with thick side whiskers pitching hair cream from a cart and chuckled. “A bilker? Me?”

Mary tipped her chin to hide a smile.

“What gave me away?” I asked, “Was it my finely choreographed stumbling or maybe the stuttering at your father’s dinner table?”

We laughed together for the first time in months, though exhaustion and tension fueled our jittery amusement. While I caught my breath, I asked if she really found me puzzling when most of the time I felt like a bumbling gull.

“All men are a bit of a mystery to our sex. Look at my father and his antics. He actually calls you …” she paused with wide