“Gadwell.”
He shrugged. “I’m here because Mr. Harting is a true patriot. You obviously didn’t fight in the war, but I enlisted at the tender age of fourteen and braved scenes someone of your sort can’t even imagine. This scar,” he brushed his cheek, “was from an enemy bullet. I never wept, not once. I was incredibly brave.”
I mumbled a polite reply but he was again staring at Mary so I asked him to share his war stories. My plan to keep him talking to me lasted just a few minutes. This was when Mr. Harting strode to the center of the room.
“Guests, you must hear my darling daughter play. Mary, come. And, Mr. Kennard, why don’t you turn pages.”
Kennard bowed and rushed to the piano.
For twenty minutes Mary slid away from Kennard’s increasing interest in the sheet music while Mary’s father, the conspirator, was not even in the room. After the recital, Mary escaped with the ladies to the sewing room while I remained with the men in the study. Cigars were passed around, and I watched Mr. Harting hold a match for Mr. Kennard. This seemed out of character for the man I met in California. Then the most unusual incident went unnoticed by everyone but me.
When Mr. Harting again excused himself, I retreated to the corner to brood and keep an eye on Mr. Kennard. Kennard stood alone by the window checking the weather while the other men smoked cigars in small groups. Unaware of my position, Kennard glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then he slipped an empty glass ashtray into his jacket pocket. A smirk skated across his face before he returned to the group predicting a pleasant ride home.
Why in the world would Kennard steal a worthless ashtray? Why would he steal anything? My dislike for the man is understandable, but rivalry aside, there is something odd about Lowell Kennard.
The ladies returned before I could question Kennard. Then, just when I spotted Mary, the butler grabbed my arm and escorted me to the front door. I was tossed out at just nine o’clock, leaving Mary and Kennard to conclude the evening alone. That was one of the longest nights of my life.
Henry, a messenger just delivered a note. Mr. Harting demands I join him for lunch tomorrow. After his disinterest at dinner, what could he want? The idea his attitude has changed so quickly is beyond even my optimism. I find myself wondering if he also summoned Mr. Kennard, like a bloody clash orchestrated by the King. And I forgot to pack my armor.
With respect,
Thomas
August 26, 1888.
HENRY —
Our letters crossed and I just received your note asking for my assistance. I am humbled. It is a fine compliment for the teacher to need the student, even if the subject of your telegram was startling. The illicit plot you recounted reads like one of your works of fiction. To be honest, I imagined your voice husky from countless engagements in front of large lecture halls not from shouting in over-filled parlors. With all the colorful bloomers and high-pitched giggling, are you certain of what you overheard?
From your description, it sounds like your colleague was deceived by a clever crooked cross. As you suggested, a scheme to forge and sell U.S. bonds requires remarkable ingenuity; however, your puzzlement in how such a con could succeed comes from an erroneous assumption. Bonds are not traceable. Like currency, ownership of a bond is based on possession and is not in any way recorded or monitored. To now think about it, counterfeit bonds are in fact an ideal swindle.
Treasury bonds are purchased at a discount to their face value and mature with time. They are meant to be held, sometimes as long as thirty years, and are preferred by wealthy investors looking to diversify. A mark would not even know he was fooled until it was too late, and who better to defraud into purchasing a fake bond than a foreigner who has never seen a real one?
Seems I have learned a bit from my father over the years. Though I have no suggestion for your friend other than the legal measures you mentioned, I hope this is the clarification you needed. Be careful, Henry. Idle pleasures are indeed tempting, and you will find greedy men are miserly in all aspects of life. I shall never forget the summer when I was one-and-twenty and lured by such fancies. Beware the time spent with those driven by their own importance. I should think this an obvious caution for one so level-headed, but you are toasting success with those corrupted by pride. Hold fast to your moral compass; the gravity pulls hard around such men.
As we are speaking of ruthless sorts, I met Mary’s father for lunch. It turned out the repellent atmosphere of Delmonico’s matched our conversation. That, however, was all that was well matched.
I arrived at noon as instructed. Mr. Harting was not yet seated in the men’s café, so I wandered to the bar and ordered iced tea. The first floor was crowded with prominent businessmen and fashionable parvenus admiring the view through enormous windows overlooking the flower beds in front of Madison Square Garden. Comments on the new chandeliers, obviously of German craftsmanship, were bested by postulating whether American imposters frescoed the ceiling and if the beef filet was tender. Other than an elderly woman near the stairway that led to the bachelor apartments above, the room reeked of men.
After waiting ten minutes I must have looked tense because a gent in a white Panama hat flopped on the next stool, ordered me a rum (which I declined but later regretted), and told me there were swans in the banquet hall. Before he could elaborate, Mr. Harting arrived and we were shown to a table set for two. I checked my pocket watch as I unfolded my napkin but Mr. Harting made no apology for his tardiness. Instead, he waved to a waiter and ordered both of our meals without consulting the menu or me.
Charlton Harting is a bulky man, with thick palms and a long forehead. It is quite fortunate Mary looks like her mother. Sitting face to face with a railroad lord made me feel like a jester before the king and still there was a sense of power at our table. Others were sneaking glances, wondering if I was, in fact, lunching with a volatile madman. As Mr. Harting launched into a monologue, he seemed quite sane.
I considered sharing his speech with you but could not bring myself to write in such graphic and offensive slang. The gist of Mr. Harting's story is that his father was a railway gandy dancer who weaned young Charlton upon the steam beasts. With skill, and the plain admission of good fortune, Mr. Harting consolidated a few struggling lines and turned his hard work into a successful enterprise. He spoke with a lilting fondness for the early years that were vibrant for a young entrepreneur. The rails made him wealthy, but he confessed bitterness for an industry now plagued with enormous debt and ongoing labor strikes. While his idioms would cause my mother to swoon, he seemed sincere and forthright. So much so, I was encouraged. As soon as the salad arrived, however, his demeanor changed and madman again crossed my mind.
Mr. Harting pushed his plate aside, narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward placing both elbows on the table. “I forbid you to ever see my daughter again.”
I grinned. You know the one, Henry, my uncontrollable grimace when I get nervous. My top lip was even stuck to my front teeth.
“I can see you’re as foolish as I thought, so let me make this simple. I’m her father, and I want you to leave Mary alone. Is that clear enough for a Harvard boy? Mary was sweet-talked by a smooth dickens looking for a little fun on vacation, but a wastrel in a silk cravat is easily forgotten. She’s young and doesn’t know what she needs. I know what she needs, and rest assured, Gadwell, it’s not you.”
“Sir—”
“Real men, men with grease under our nails, have a saying. ‘If you can’t make the grade then dump some of your load before you ruin the engine.’ Some pansy with a sharp tongue isn’t going to ruin my engine. You got that? Not when—”
“Sir, I’d like to—”
He slammed his fist on the table. “I’m not here for a discussion. I don’t give a fig about you or what you have to say. This is your one and only warning to stay away from Mary. I have eyes everywhere, Gadwell, and they’re watching you. If you need proof, I’ll gladly let you talk to a friend of mind. I think you’ve heard of Johann Most, though I’d hate to bother him with such an insignificant matter.”
He looked at me hard, just as I imagined Johann Most looked at that young father before pushing him from a bridge during the Haymarket Riot. Without blinking, Mr. Harting signaled for the waiter.
“We’re done here,” Mr. Harting said. Though he had spoken to the server, his words were meant for me. As the young man cleared our untouched salad plates, Mr. Harting commented on the pleasant weather before canceling the Veal Piccata and asking for the bill.
He checked the time on his own pocket watch and adjusted the brown Coachman he had forgotten to remove in his rush to erase me from the family scrapbook. Then he again looked at me as if he would shove me into the street if I got in his way.
“Gadwell, I’m not a patient man. For Mary’s sake, and only her sake, you have until tonight to leave the city.” Then he shrugged and added, “If I haven’t made everything plain for a dandy boy like you, then I guess you’ll just have to learn the hard way … very hard.”
At this point the hero would leap to his feet, proclaim his love, and refuse to leave. I have never proclaimed myself a hero but wanted to believe I would act as one if the circumstance arose. My disappointment still stings.
I mumbled something about leaving but omitted any mention of not seeing Mary again. This seemed sufficient, as Mr. Harting left without another word or paying the bill.
Henry, Mary’s father carries on as if I am a penniless libertine with a scandalous reputation and wooden leg while he befriends a violent anarchist suspected of murder. This of course brings up how in the world Mr. Harting knows such a man. The whole episode was so implausible. Plus, his blasted overreaction has turned us into frauds.
I told Mary her father was still irritable and suggested I leave New York. Neither of us wanted to say goodbye, so Mary and I have been sneaking around the city. Rendezvousing at dusk and slipping into the theatre after the curtain rises is not the courtship I envisioned, though it has some thrills. Still, my quest for Mary’s hand now rests on patience, faith, and watching around corners for Mr. Harting’s many keen eyes.
With admiration,
Thomas
