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

I assured her not much was worse than what I had long imagined.

She took a breath. “He says you’re just another gadabout wasting your father’s money and using fancy words to—”

“I get it.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t say anything to change his mind.” She stepped forward and collapsed into a burgundy wingback chair across from the couch. “When I was in Abilene, I tried to tell him how I feel about you, but he wouldn’t listen. He told me I’m too young to know what’s important. Did you know you’re just a silly girl’s infatuation? He actually said a new gable hat with a pretty lace veil would cure me. What could I say to something so stupid?”

She went on to tell me how they fought constantly. When they were alone, he accused her of being ungrateful. Then when others were around, he fawned over her. Mary was shocked and revolted by his behavior, and by the time she left Abilene they were barely speaking to each other.

Mary looked frail and despondent. I wanted to take her hand, tell her everything would be fine, but the sense of worry had returned.

She wrung her hands together before running them over the folds in her skirt. “When I was a girl, Father would take me for cake after church. Just me, while Sarah practiced her piano. He’d order two large slices of chocolate and let me talk about anything. He asked about school and my friends and listened as if there were nothing more important. I was his princess.

“In Abilene he ordered me to stop acting like a selfish child and hollered for my silence before I could even finish a sentence. I don’t know what I’ve done to make him so angry, but he looks at me as if he has no use for me. I think he hates me.” She paused to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. “He’s broken my heart, Thomas.”

I was about to take Mary into my arms when the parlor door flung open. Mrs. Winchester stood at the threshold holding knitting needles and a ball of blue yarn. Mary turned away, but not fast enough.

“Thomas, what have you done? I feel more like knitting so I came to ask what color scarf you’d like and I find my young companion’s face all flushed and puffy.”

Mary assured Mrs. Winchester I had done nothing and her tears were over all the immigrant children in New York dying from rheumatic fever.

“Oh … yes … that, well … tragic.” Mrs. Winchester opened her mouth, closed it, and then looked at me. “Blue it is, and Thomas, please help Miss Harting find more uplifting topics to discuss. It’s all very depressing and unladylike.”

Mrs. Winchester turned to leave then stopped. “I almost forgot. I have another letter for you, Mary, from your admirer.” She waved a thick tan envelope with a bright red seal. “You may have competition, dear Thomas. But then how could any girl resist your gentle smile and thoughtful brown eyes— unless of course she’s sensible enough to consider your irregular occupation.” She shrugged. “Well, here you are, Mary, dear.”

She placed the letter on the table closest to me then left. My jaw tightened. Mary stood up, went to the table, and examined the seal.

Henry, a knock at the door. Mary has come to apologize!

Thomas

May 9, 1889.

DEAR HENRY —

A day has passed, though, after my indulgence at the pub, much of yesterday is still missing. The person at my door, you see, was not Mary.

I believe I left off with Mrs. Winchester barging into the parlor with a letter for Mary. Did I yet say who it was from? The letter was from Lowell Kennard. Upon hearing his name, the rising tension pressed in against me. The cool room turned suddenly stuffy and uncomfortable. If only I had paused to open the window or take a deep breath for sake of tone. I did not pause—nor did Mary.

My first question was why the Muskrat was writing to her in Newport—why he was writing to her at all.

“Please don’t call him a muskrat,” she said. “I should never have used that name. It’s very cruel.”

My chest tightened. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to offend the fine gent. I take it you’re in contact with Mr. Kennard?”

With her face drawn and eyes fixed on the Persian rug, she told me he was in contact with her. She suspected her mother gave him her address. I remained calm and in a flat voice suggested she open the letter. But when Mary just shook her head and mumbled it was likely nothing, my tranquil façade cracked.

“If it’s nothing, then why are your hands trembling? I demand to know what’s in that letter, Mary. I think I have a right to know.”

She looked at me for a moment, appearing ready to argue, but then nodded in agreement. Her admission that she “should have told me sooner” did nothing to soothe the growing knot in my stomach.

Mary opened the envelope and circled the room as she skimmed the letter. She folded it in half, pushed it deep into the pocket of her dress, and stopped behind the wingback chair. I would later reflect she held the chair as a shield.

“You’ll have to forgive my bluntness, but I don’t think I can say this any other way.” She squeezed the chair and sighed. “The night before I left Abilene, Lowell Kennard asked me to marry him.”

Marry him? She had seen Kennard? Where? When?

“I know you don’t understand, Thomas. That’s my fault.” She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter. But now he wants my answer.”

Her expression was filled with despair. She felt sorry for the Muskrat. I swallowed hard to again push down my anger. It was time for her to tell me what was going on.

“Thomas, the only reason I agreed to go to Abilene with my father was for us. I truly believed I could change his mind. You know how well that went. The best I was able to do was get him to acknowledge that there was nothing inherently abhorrent in the occupation of writing and —”

“How kind, but what does this have to do with Kennard?”

“Please, Thomas, let me tell this at my own pace. You’ve wanted to know what happened in Kansas, and it’s time I told you everything. I kept this from you for so many reasons, but mostly I just couldn’t find the words. This is very difficult.”

I moved to the fireplace. I suddenly felt the need for something to hold on to.

“The day after we arrived in Abilene, Father was already busy with cattle trading or such, so he arranged for an escort to give me a tour of the town. I hadn’t yet met my embroidery student so I couldn’t write to you, and with Father occupied there really wasn’t anything else to do. When the wagon pulled up, Lowell was driving the team. I was so shocked I nearly collapsed. Father arranged it so Lowell was—”

Unsure if I had really heard her say Lowell Kennard was in Abilene, I waved my hands for her to stop. I needed a moment to clear away the wave of frantic thoughts. My hearing was sound. Mary went on to tell me Kennard was in Abilene the whole time she was there. I could hardly breathe.

At first Mary was so vexed she stayed in her room and refused to speak to either of them. Livid at Mary's disobedience, Mr. Harting instructed the innkeeper to lock Mary out of her room after breakfast. He demanded she attend to Kennard.

“Father and I quarreled until our voices were hoarse. I’d never seen him so beside himself. For that matter, I don’t think I’ve ever been so upset in my life. After two days of carrying on like that, I finally agreed to the tour just so I could fix their flint.”

It seems Lowell was very understanding of Mary’s childish antics and patiently followed her for half a mile after she jumped out of the carriage and refused to get back in. He had knowledge of the area and seemed genuinely interested in making sure she knew her way around. Over the weeks, Mary found him polite and extremely attentive. He even arranged delivery of fresh blueberries each morning because he overheard her fondness for them.

To my credit, Henry, I did not say any of what raged through my head—at least not yet.

“Father knew I would seize any moment alone to talk about you, so Lowell usually joined us for dinner. After dinner Lowell and Father ushered me into the guest parlor to read or stitch so they could talk endlessly about business. As often as was believable I had a headache so I could return directly to my room. This was when I would read your letters, Thomas, and imagine our reunion. I wanted to go home, begged my father to let me return to New York, but he wouldn’t escort me and forbade me to travel alone.

“I should have written you about Lowell, but how could I? I was trapped in Abilene and you were so involved with your work. There was nothing either of us could do. Then I wanted to tell you last week, but we’ve seen so little of each other that I didn’t want to spoil our time together. Thomas, I’ve been so overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to do.”

When I remained silent, she went on to share how Lowell made a habit of complimenting her and leaving small gifts at her door. Even so, Mary remained adamant that they hardly knew each other well enough for him to propose. She believes the only reason he did was because he worried she might leave. He was right. Mary left for Newport the very next morning after his proposal. It turns out, she snuck away. Though she wanted to tell her father about her arrangement to visit me, she could not stand up to him. She left without saying a word to anyone.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said. “Once I got here, I wrote Mother so she wouldn’t worry. I begged her not to tell Father where I was, but he’s begun writing me here too. I didn’t tell him you were here, Thomas, but he knows of Lowell’s proposal and demands I marry him.”

Mary came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder. I jerked away. She dropped her hand and said, “That’s what happened in Abilene. That’s all of it.”

My grip on the fireplace mantle was so tight my fingertips were numb. I did not trust myself to look at Mary, but there was still one unanswered question. I turned and faced her. My voice was thin.

“That isn’t all of it, Mary. What did you say to the Muskrat when he proposed?”

She claims he would not let her give him an answer. He said something cryptic about her future and implored she speak with her father before giving her reply.

“And have you considered his proposal?” I asked.

Her eyes widened. “Of course not. How could you even think that?”

I strode to the window to move away from her astonished gaze and glanced through the parted curtains. Dark clouds tightened ranks.

“Thomas, I didn’t think Lowell would continue with all of this after I left. I suppose I liked the attention but I never gave him any encouragement. Any thoughts of love are purely in his imagination,” she said.

“So