When I returned, Mary had removed the old bandage. I held out the tin for Mary, trying not to stare, but the sight was a new experience for me. The skin around the stump had bruised and puckered where stitches closed the wound. I noticed a bit of dried green fluid but Mary told me it was ground herbs and not infectious pus. I again looked to the door.

Mary wet a cotton ball with alcohol and dabbed at the wound. Once used, she tossed it into the tin still in my grasp then asked me to prepare another one. I set the tin on the bed and did as she instructed. Mary also needed me to cut several strips of paper tape. I floundered until Olenka handed me a pair of scissors from the bedside table.

Inspired by Olenka’s composure, my nerves settled and I became a passable assistant. I handed Mary salve and gauze on command, then when Mary finally re-wrapped the wound, she trusted me to hold the ends tight while she tied a knot. I did not flinch at touching the wound.

While Mary stacked the extra supplies on the table, I cleaned up the used materials and took the tin to Mrs. Tzekernik. In a mix of stilted Polish, hand gestures, and simple English, Mary gave instructions to continue changing the dressing every day and said she was pleased with the progress and saw no signs of infection. Though I remained silent, I wondered if Mary was too optimistic. The stump looked a bit ragged.

With doctoring finished, Mary suggested Olenka take a nap while she worked with her mother. The girl looked to me so I clasped her hand and said I would stay right by her side while she slept. Mrs. Tzekernik muttered something in Polish then whispered in Mary’s ear. Mary blushed.

The English lesson was labored, yet Mary remained patient and tender as she corrected the young mother’s backward letters and helped her pronounce a list of simple nouns. For over an hour they took turns reading aloud and reviewing basic numbers. The afternoon passed in an instant, so I was surprised to notice the fading light and cool breeze through the door. I checked my watch.

We were invited to stay for dinner and Mary accepted, hoping to have enough time to give Mr. Tzekernik his lesson. While Mrs. Tzekernik lit a fire in the stove, Mary pulled a bundle of carrots from her bag and held up a knife to me. “Everyone works here,” she said. “Though based on your nimbleness I’m not sure you’re safe with a knife.” I prepared to defend my honor when the girl awoke and begged me to play Old Maid. I held up my hands in submission. Mary huffed, but when she turned I saw her smiling.

After the game, Olenka taught me a Polish birthday song that sounded like “The Farmer in the Dell.” Her mother joined in, and soon she and Mary were doing a high-stepping folk dance around the apartment. What a delight to watch Mary have so much fun. Then Mrs. Tzekernik grabbed my elbow and dragged me to my feet. Just as she swung me around, Mary’s other student arrived.

Mr. Tzekernik is an enormous man with calloused hands and startling auburn hair. He served as a fishing boat captain in Poland but could only find work selling roasted chestnuts from a street cart and mucking the East End stable. As soon as he saw Mary he nodded and said, “Welcome.” He then saw me, my arm still interlocked with his wife, and he looked back to Mary. Mary nodded, and he held out his hand. “Welcome.”

After checking on his daughter, Mr. Tzekernik stepped behind the curtain and returned with a thin book clasped against his powerful chest. Without any prompt, he sat at the table, opened the book, and began. Mary leaned close, seemingly unaware he smelled of sweat and grease, and listened as he read aloud. His pace labored, but from the pride on both of their faces it was as if he read a scientific journal instead of a child’s reader.

Dinner was simple but well cooked, and with the help of Olenka’s translations we talked about baseball. Everyone loves baseball.

The evening ended with hugs and Mrs. Tzekernik again kissed my cheeks. As we reached the door, Mr. Tzekernik slapped me on the back and said, “You are nice to Mary. She is dobry.”

Although not sure of the exact meaning, the message was clear enough. We shook hands before he escorted us as far as the stairwell.

The streets were deserted and most of the lamps were broken. Gusts of wind swirled loose trash around our feet, and in the distance I heard the sounds of fading cries and breaking glass. Mary took hold of my arm.

“I’m very proud of you, Thomas. You handled yourself well.”

“Me? I was about to say the same of you. You’ll make a terrific doctor.”

Mary dismissed the idea with a shrug and shared again how much the amputation had healed. This was when I voiced my earlier concern, though in retrospect there are some details best kept.

“Trust me, Thomas, it looked much worse. There were no doctors, as I said, and the family doesn’t have money for hospitals.”

My heart seized. “Did the father have to—”

“The butcher. Did it in the slaughter room. At least he cleaned the knife. If it was during the war he probably wouldn’t have wiped off the cow blood first. We’ve learned a lot from the cleanliness of midwives. Still, it’s taking a long time to heal properly.”

“That poor girl.”

“I’m blessed to know them. They are so very special,” Mary whispered.

I squeezed her arm just as a man appeared from the shadows. He had a black hat pulled low over his eyes, and Mary tightened the grip on her handbag as he passed. Looking again at the isolation, I had a disturbing thought about Mary’s travel arrangements.

Mr. Tzekernik walks Mary out of the neighborhood when he can, but she is not comfortable with an escort. She worries the families will think she is afraid of them. Her rationale was absurd, so I told her I could not permit her to travel without an escort. It was perhaps the wrong choice of words but I stand by the sentiment. Mary replied she did not need my consent, and a quiet, but intense, argument ensued. She called the idea of a chaperone nonsense; I was shocked she was so stubborn about something so obvious.

When we had reached a stalemate, Mary flicked her chin forward. “Look, we’re almost back. I see a few buggies and the street lamps are lit. This is hardly much of a walk. Please, Thomas, let’s not talk about this now. I’m glad you worry about me, but I don’t want this to ruin our day.” Mary nudged my shoulder with hers. “You know, I think I may have a little competition. How do you feel about redheads?”

We concluded our evening without further incident, and overall it was an enlightening outing. Yet the following morning I was still agitated and again addressed the subject of her safety. My attempt to explain the realities of a harsh world soured by violence led to a

passionate disagreement. Our heated quarrel swelled until it became obvious that these weeks of clandestine trysts have taken a toll on our nerves. In the end, Mary even revealed a deepening guilt from our secret outings. So, Henry, we have made a difficult decision.

After four glorious weeks it shall be excruciating to leave, but the time has come. We plan to continue our correspondence by means of Mary’s dear friend, Miss Ross, who has agreed to act as messenger for our letters and keep Mary’s confidence. However, the dubious fate of our courtship remains in the hands of a tyrant. Worse still, Mr. Harting’s threat may not be so idle.

There is a chap in a charcoal coat. When I try to get a good look at him, he turns to peer in windows or raises a newspaper. Still, I am certain it is the same man because his right shoulder droops when he walks. Maybe I am paranoid, but I could not risk exposing my meetings with Mary. Hoping to thwart any attempts to follow me, I have crisscrossed the city like a hound on a scent and began carrying a change of hat. I suppose this is another good reason for me to leave the city. My absence means Mary is in less danger—at least from the obvious thugs.

The industrious Mr. Kennard has graced the Harting household no less than five evenings these past few weeks. I must wonder what else he is stealing. It seems clear Mr. Harting is grooming Mr. Kennard for a place in the Harting family, my place to be exact, but his choice is peculiar. Mr. Kennard is of some importance to the company, but there is nothing obvious about his prime placement or sticky fingers. I must figure out how to send him away.

My friend, I leave you here. Enjoy Edinburgh and your adoring Scottish fans. While you prove Yankee hacks can win a game of snooker, I must somehow find a fitting way to bid farewell to my dear love while dodging the man with the drooped shoulder, in the charcoal coat.

Regards,

Thomas

September 12, 1888.

DEAR AVERY —

Have you considered wearing a green felt Bollinger to the book signing gala? They are the trend in Milan and such a distinguished hat would suit your narrow face. Fashion tips and your attempt to motivate me by dangling another’s success aside, I have news.

Hayes and his guards were most uncooperative and refused even to throw me a life preserver after my failed attempt to leap onto his private yacht. I had to dog-paddle to the dock using my pith helmet as a kickboard. Nevertheless, I am not heading home empty handed.

My train arrives late tomorrow evening. With me, I bring the nearly final pages of the second book and an idea for my third. You see, Avery, now I am ahead of schedule.

Thomas

September 14, 1888.

MY LOVE —

My despair is deep and unresolved. Our goodbye this evening was so awkward and filled with regret that I yearn to turn back the clock and do it again.

Our parting should have been memorable in a way that brings a secret smile, not this gnawing ache in my stomach. I felt certain that boisterous group of men would leave but they seemed intent on ruining our private moment outside the restaurant. Right then I should have taken your hand and led you to a quiet place but the carriage driver was so impatient. My composure was shaken. I feel like a buffoon.

Had Cousin Penelope not accosted me as I walked through the door, frantic to share news of her engagement, I would have rushed to you without concern for your father’s reaction. Sitting in Penelope’s drawing room as she gushed about wedding plans was agony. After an hour, I pleaded exhaustion and returned to my room to write to you.

Although my impulse to rush to your door has softened, my breath is shallow and I am plagued with the image of your bewildered face when I mumbled something about a nice visit. A nice visit? Those are the words I shall say to Penelope when I leave, not what sums up my time with the woman I love.

I do love you, Mary Harting. Our time in California was brief; the smell of the salty air mixed with honey-glazed scones may have made me giddy, and it could be said with some conviction I charged forward like a stripling. But now I have discovered a real woman.

Should a man recite his reasons for love? Of course it would be easy to list your fine attributes and point to that as reason enough. But what would that prove? Were a man to skim the surface he would fall in love with a fairytale, an ideal that would soon enough shatter and scar.

I love you for your zealous opinions and impatience when you want to finish a task. You make impulsive decisions when provoked, and yet I have watched you brighten a room with your unguarded compassion and openness to new experiences. Your passion for kindness inspires, as does your heartfelt love of your family and good works. Perhaps in my vanity, I also love you because of your appreciation for my writing. At the hotel I did not even think to give you a copy of my first book, yet you quote dialogue and long passages from Chancellor’s Fate with practiced ease. You are a magnificent woman and my affection for you is genuine. Regardless of your father’s opposition, we shall continue our affair and wait with anticipation for the day we reap our reward.

Now that I have released some of my burning emotions I hoped to feel better, but you should have heard these words whispered from my lips. Cold letters upon a page are a poor substitute, and you should call me a clod. I am a clod. I long to shout into the night, scream until my throat burns, but that would not ease what causes my hands to shake. Our parting must be replayed. I do what any man in my situation, and with my abilities, must:

Thomas and Mary stepped from the restaurant into the cool evening air. Though Thomas tried to lighten the mood, their last dinner together was stilted and Mary looked flushed from the café’s bustle. Thomas watched Mary take a deep breath as she tied the thick sapphire ribbons on her bonnet. “Better?” he asked her.