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

kinds of logs.” She grinned and told me to keep my hands on her elbows.

We continued but I was so nervous that I took her down the wrong path and we had to circle back. Then I realized I missed the trail and had to turn her around again. I was beginning to feel my plan was folly and Mary would demand we return to the hotel when I at last saw the clearing. “We’re here,” I blurted. I let go of her arm then grabbed it again and made her promise she would wait for my return before removing the handkerchief.

At least a minute passed before I returned to find Mary twirling her thumbs; a sideways smile curled the edge of the blindfold. I wanted to kiss her pastel cheeks.

“Miss Harting, breakfast is served,” I said.

In the center of the small clearing was a table draped in white gauze. Yellow rose petals were scattered on and around the table and crystal glasses sparkled in the morning light. Two servers stood beside a cart filled with silver trays and as soon as I nodded, an oboist stepped from the brush and began to play.

“You … how … this is just lovely, Thomas. When did you have time to plan all this? We’ve seen each other practically every day for the past two weeks.”

“I don’t sleep much,” I said as I pulled out her chair.

The servers filled our plates with poached eggs, broiled tomatoes, and oranges before Mary cocked her head and stared at me as if she had something to say. When I asked what was on her mind, she adjusted her napkin before answering, “I suppose there is something I’d like to share. I’m just not sure it’s going to make any sense.”

“Don't let that stop you. You should know by now I’m an expert at not making any sense.”

She grinned and said, “Now, that’s true.” When I remained silent, Mary rubbed the back of her neck then looked toward the sky. She started by thanking me, but not just for the breakfast. Her gratitude was for our conversations. “It’s so nice to speak,” she said. “I don’t often share my opinion on property taxation or if New York should reinstate the lottery. There’s just so much I think about beyond how to wear my hair.” She lowered her eyes and looked at me. “Maybe I have too many big ideas, but very few people want to listen, especially to me.”

When I complimented her insight and poetic candor she interrupted.

“And I’ve been meaning to talk about all the flattery. You’re embarrassing me, even though I sort of enjoyed it … the embarrassment I mean. And, well, the compliments too.” She shook her head. “See, I told you this was nonsense.”

I insisted she continue. Mary chewed on her bottom lip before sharing her wonder over why she let me persist with my compliments. Until that moment I had not thought myself too carried away but then I am numb from years of listening to your flowery tongue. Mary confessed many sleepless nights before at last arriving at a conclusion.

“Thomas,” she said, “you’re the only person who’s ever really made me a little flustered. I like it. I’m usually stuffed in the corner minding my manners. If I’m asked anything, it’s to entertain my parents’ friends with piano music and interesting comments on the weather. I’ve run out of interesting comments on the weather.”

“I can imagine,” I replied.

“Can you?” She paused and held my gaze. “I think you can. I think it’s the writer in you. I’ve noticed the way you watch people. You get kind of a funny look in your eyes.”

Our conversation then turned to books and music and we chatted with ease and humor. As soon as the plates were cleared, Mary went over to one of the serving girls and whispered in her ear. The server nodded then scampered down the trail toward the hotel. When I asked what she was up to, Mary raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps I have a few tricks of my own,” she said.

The girl returned and handed Mary three apples. “If father knew Uncle Donald taught me how to do this he’d probably never speak to him again.”

Mary juggled the apples with the skill of a music-hall performer. As I watched, I felt a warmth rise from the pit of my stomach. Beau, is that how you felt in Rome? Did you have such fascination and admiration you found it almost too much to contain? It was all I could do to keep from sweeping her into my arms.

After the juggling, we left our hideaway and strolled together farther down the path away from the hotel. The trail narrowed and we were forced to crouch under branches and push aside sharp brush. I asked Mary if she wanted to turn back but she was curious to see where the trail ended. Mary took my hand when it was steep, and our trek was rewarded with a vista overlooking the cliffs.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

I turned to find Mary watching me. “You have some sand,” she said. As she brushed my cheek her hand lingered just a second on my chin.

In that moment I wanted to divulge all of my intimate secrets and beg her to do the same. It took great willpower to keep myself from blathering.

After enjoying the view for a few minutes, Mary took a deep breath. “Thomas, I’m so sorry about my father’s behavior at dinner. Father hasn’t been quite himself this trip. I hope you weren’t offended by his smart remarks. I’ve asked him to apologize to you personally. I’ll be sure and remind him.”

I assured her there was no need for her father to apologize in person and was prepared to give an elaborate rationale, when Mary pressed her hand to her forehead. She had forgotten an appointment with her mother and had to get back. As we left, a brisk breeze kicked up sand adding to the melancholy of leaving our intimate view.

We parted at the lobby but met later for dinner. After dessert by the pool, we danced in the ballroom until the orchestra asked us to leave. I debated trying one of your tricks for a goodnight kiss then remembered all the times you were smacked. Still, it was a marvelous day and one I shall never forget. Alas, I fear it is also a night Mary’s father will never forget.

After sharing but one awful dinner with Mr. Harting, facing him outside his own suite well beyond a respectable hour made me feel like a nefarious cad. He glared at me before seizing Mary by the elbow and dragging her inside. Before I could apologize for our late night, he slammed the door. This brings us to my boulder.

Meeting Mary’s parents was one course shy of a disaster. If the name Harting sounds familiar then you are more astute than your Economics professor gave you credit. The owner of Harting Railways has earned every bit of his grisly reputation.

Beau, as your expertise in such matters is renowned, I must ask. Is there a subtle way to pursue a young lady while dodging her father? I have no desire to spend my vacation anywhere near a man who called me a lazy bummer even before the soup was served.

Your friend in hiding,

Thomas

 

June 19, 1888.

DEAR MARY —

Recalling the details of yesterday’s delightful breakfast brightens this overcast morning. My intent was a quick note to confirm this afternoon’s plans, but perhaps this is a good time to squelch any lingering concerns. Seems we have something else in common. Like you, I often find myself making apologies for my father.

When I was a boy, my father was obsessed with the intricacies of language. He required I spend hours in his study with the writings of literary masters like James Fenimore Cooper and Charles Dickens. A typical lad, I was more interested in frog ponds; nevertheless, my father trapped me in his library every afternoon. You can imagine my unending delight during the summer months when the light beckoned through the study window and my friends were turned away at the door.

Upon my eighteenth birthday Father released me from this responsibility. He is not a sentimental man, and yet on that last day in the study my father's stoic expression turned to one of genuine sadness. In that moment I understood a parent’s love is unique and complex, and beyond understanding without firsthand experience. What I am trying to relay in a most round-about way, Mary, is that I understand your father’s reaction. His apology, especially in person, is wholly unnecessary.

All fathers are inquisitive of their daughter’s acquaintances. Yes, his attitude at dinner was halting, but the restaurant was boisterous and your mother’s graceful smile never wavered. If not for my befuddlement at his abrupt contempt for my occupation, I could have better explained my work.

Unlike your father, I will never command a railroad consortium responsible for shaping the economic future of our land, and I have neither the taste for political glory nor the aptitude for science. My ability to turn a phrase, in truth, has little worth in a coal mine, and insinuation I am squandering my family’s income is quite familiar. As a matter of record, book sales cover my expenses. True, my novels are far from masterful and plagued with weaknesses artists like Dickens would find an affront to the craft; still I believe judgment is often cast without proper reflection.

If there were no poets, how would one describe the majesty of a ship’s maiden voyage or chronicle the wild landscape of our expansive country? If journalists, editorialists, or even satirists put down their pens, how would we expose marvelous advancements like pasteurization? If society was forbidden fictitious escapes, where would those who must work in coal mines find solace? I conclude, therefore, that without those willing to commit creative words to paper, the very society that values tangibles such as railroad tracks would be without means of acclamation.

Seems my soapbox is out of the closet. I hate to imagine the breadth of this lecture were I not lounging on my balcony eating a raspberry tart.

Now that I have charmed you with a sermon, perhaps we can chat about this over our ice cream this afternoon. There are many who find my profession odd and uncivilized for a proper gentleman. Since you have not commented on my work, should I worry you share this view? Though I have yet to even ask your middle name, I am most interested in your thoughts about my career as a novelist. But as you may find further comment on my regard for your opinion inappropriate, I will save those words for another day.

With respect,

Thomas

June 23, 1888.

DEAR FATHER —

Before you invest in California land, I suggest you plan your own trip west. My schedule does not include sweating in the dingy office of a man who won his campaign by threatening to stuff the ballot box. There are far more interesting activities than “befriending” the new mayor.

For the past three weeks I have embraced the challenge of staying afloat as the sea tries to cast me out. Perhaps you should refrain from sharing this with Mother. She may worry I will be swept out to sea, or worse, seen by an acquaintance in my swimming costume. Dry land, however, is far from tame. Impropriety is found even in this oasis where vulgarity is an unmatched parasol or full hour’s wait before procuring a wicker chair on the veranda.