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

You, of course, have heard of the Harting Rails, but I understand you have never met the owner. I suggested you might have crossed paths at a charity event but was corrected in rather gruff and definite terms. He is here on a family vacation, though he is as relaxed as any railroad profiteer. It seems running an empire requires late-night escapades.

Still unable to sleep, I have found warm milk and satisfying gossip with the overnight shift. At one o’clock in the morning I was learning of Wyatt Earp’s tawdry gambling hall when Mr. Harting burst into the kitchen. I stood out of his line of sight, but his voice was unmistakable. So was the shrill tone of panic.

Before I could make my presence known, he ordered the staff to unlock the telegram room. One of the domestics offered to summon the operator, but Mr. Harting shoved the man aside and whispered something under his breath. A maid gasped and ran from the room. Mr. Harting then slammed the door and used the machine himself. A few minutes later he emerged holding a bundle of cash and shoved bills into each of the server’s hands. “Lock the door. I was never here.”

What sort of legitimate business requires such measures? And who is even awake to receive a telegram at that hour? He is a difficult man, and his actions are even more disconcerting than the inflammatory remarks in your last letter.

Father, it is impossible to be contrary when one is surrounded by strolling violinists and a breeze warmed by the scent of cinnamon. For now I bow to the argument in your letter without rebuttal. If you are rested from your cough (a judgment reserved for Mother) we can debate the effectiveness of violent labor strikes when I return to Boston in August.

Do rest, lest you forget last year I made the mistake of assuming eight-and-twenty was old enough to care for my own crimson nose. Mother was a martinet. While you were in West

Virginia speculating on steel mills, I spent days in and out of hot salt baths.

Your son,

Thomas

July 1, 1888.

DEAR AVERY —

In the thick of it now, but the utopian weather is causing delay. How can I write of storms when not a cloud passes? Not to worry; I meet with a rainmaker in the morning.

Thomas

July 1, 1888

DEAR MARY —

This wonderful month was crowned by a magical evening. Of course, if I told my friend Beauregard about tonight’s rendezvous, he would lecture me on the wastefulness of conversation. Beau has a gift for entertaining ladies and likes to think of himself as my mentor. According to his teachings, however, moonlight serves just one purpose.

I apologize if my zealous fawning embarrassed you too much. I expected other guests to stumble upon our garden gazebo, interject a note about the day’s fine weather or fresh salmon appetizers and draw my attention from your angelic face. Instead the echo of high tide and the chamber orchestra danced around us in a private, romantic serenade, and I was captivated by the way your pale eyes flared with excitement. If my flattery again too forward then I have my excuse. But, Mary, you are unlike anyone I have ever met.

Your intellect and convictions give you grace beyond your years. You have thoughtful, knowledgeable opinions yet listen with an open mind and forgiving heart. As you shared your concern for the inhumane conditions in parts of New York, I realized I have never considered the strength of character it takes to leave a homeland and immigrate to a foreign country. Indeed, they deserve our respect and help. How rare it is to find someone so benevolent in a society often cruel and blind to anything but selfish desires. How could I not be captivated by one so passionate and tender?

When I was sixteen I escorted a young lady and her chaperone to my first cotillion. To my dismay, we were also joined by three aunts who found it necessary to straighten the shoulders of my coat and demand I speak up. My mother warned the evening must end at goodnight—this was by far the most needless warning ever given a young lad. At the time I thought my mother feared for our family reputation. I now believe she had a different concern.

A wise man would not hazard writing a note after such a perfect evening but I was not ready for our time together to end. Instead, I shall thwart orthodoxy and slip this note under your door. My mother would find this impolite and insist I apologize for troubling you. I can only hope I am not troubling you.

Fondly,

Thomas

July 2, 1888.

MARY —

The beach is restless this morning. A stern breeze rattles the café tables stacked by the bar and a thin fog hovers around the shoreline like a boxer waiting for the bell. It is a fitting start to a day without your company. I just wish my note was not the cause of our separation.

As you embark on the city tour with your mother and her homily on decorum, I shall stay locked in my room and try to get some work done. You have derailed me, Miss Harting. I came here to devour a stack of research material and finish the edits on my last novel. Avery has taken to sending daily threats. But how can I work when such a lovely creature is near? Still, I cannot blame all of my procrastination on you. Even in your absence there are many distractions. My room affords a generous view.

The stewards have not yet marched out all of the lounges on the veranda so sand glides unfettered across the wooden slats. I see the Roth sisters are poised at the top of the stairs ready to correct any indiscretion on the beach; Mr. Farling is stroking his waxed mustache as he talks with a tall woman in an emerald pelisse; and I have just noticed a young waif by the tearoom. You are indeed correct about my writer’s curiosity and propensity for observation.

The girl is pale and wrapped like a rag doll in a cream shawl. Her childish eyes lack an awe of innocence, and fresh tears dampen her sunken cheeks as she stares at a gent throwing rocks into the sea. Is she weeping over a troubled past? Perhaps she had trusted a man’s sweet lies and now mourns the sin of passion.

On that fretful day, she found herself soaked and shivering in the moss-covered doorway of the home she wished to avoid. She had always thought fate mischievous, but she clung to her juvenile ideals of love. His declarations were more powerful than the sense God had granted, and she now lamented her carnal sin.

A light appeared in the window and she wanted to flee before he found her with her hair in long wet tangles and her clothes pressed to her frail shape. Yet her mind was as murky as the bogs. The door opened, and he stood at the threshold. Even in the dim light she saw the loathsome thoughts his eyes failed to conceal.

She took a step back, but he seized her forearm and she had no choice but to go inside and meet the woman for whom he had promised his love before God. She wished she could instead thrust a sword into her heart.

Mary, do you think this is an interesting opening for a novel? My literary life began by observing others, creating imaginary lives from noticing a raised brow or wrinkled collar. I have never shared the start of my writing career with anyone—not even with my good friend, professor, and mentor Henry James. I would like you to meet him someday, provided you do not gush over his well-deserved popularity. His ego is sufficient for a man his height.

When I started at Harvard, I felt at last freed from my father’s tether and therefore pursued anything contradictory to his rhetoric. Though not proud of my youthful exuberance, I admit membership in the Viking Council of the Mystic Brotherhood. We were a boisterous lot of privileged wastrels serving mankind by proclaiming edicts and charming pretty ladies. Moreover, I blame the brotherhood for my appalling turnabout from the pursuit of a respectable law degree.

During one of our weekly meetings at Horatio’s Beanery, a rum-hole popular with all sorts of contrary college clubs, I noticed two men arguing. Shouting matches were commonplace at the Beanery, but these men were too engrossed and well beyond the age of college.

The elder was red-faced, leaning forward with the linen tablecloth clasped in his fist. The younger man was slumped in his chair as his gaze wavered about the room in obvious disobedience. At once I recognized the tension between a father and son (my area of expertise), so I bid my friends good night, ordered a glass of scotch, and gawked. A habit developed in preparatory school, I carry a small pad and pencil in my breast pocket. Before I was even aware of it, the pad was on the bar and I was taking notes.

The son’s hair was mussed as if he had started to run his hands through it but changed his mind lest his father see weakness in his frustration. His clothes were pressed, but there were bread crumbs on his vest that neither noticed, and several times the father folded his arms across his chest and checked his watch.

I noticed other details too; the way the forks scraped against the dinner plates in the rhythm of the father’s hands; the waiter’s padded steps against the worn paths in the carpet; and the sharp musk of cheap cologne and spilled whiskey. My hand trembled as I wrote it all down like a witness unable to turn away from a gruesome accident.

That night I went back to my dormitory and wrote a short story about the scene. It was my first attempt at anything more creative than a legal brief, so when the draft was finished I tucked it under my bed. For the first time in my life I was unable to sleep. Law classes continued, but suddenly I could not focus on due process. I edited and reworked my tale until I thought it a masterpiece. When a stunned classmate agreed to read it, I was devastated by his review.

I envisioned him falling to his knees and proclaiming my genius before rushing to share my story with our friends. Instead, he laughed and warned me to stay away from scotch. My efforts thwarted, I put down my pen until one morning I bolted upright from a crushing pain in my chest. At once I knew it was the unperfected pages tucked in the drawer. I also knew what I had to do. That afternoon I changed my major to English Literature and altered the course of my life. It took the next several years, however, to realize the consequences of that decision.

Strange that I should keep something so unremarkable secret, though I suppose we all choose to veil what makes us most uncomfortable. What I find remarkable is that I am at ease sharing such an intimate experience with you. This is perplexing for a man who works for months in solitude, so perhaps I should change the subject, lest this new found candor is beyond my control—an unsettling thought for any man.

Will you sail with me tomorrow? I have let a fine, thirty-four-foot sloop with a spinnaker and two-man crew. All men from New England know how to captain a ship. I guarantee my