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.
She nodded, looked down, and then shook her head. When she lifted her chin, her cheeks were ashen. Thomas stepped forward, ready to sweep her into his arms, when a group of overindulgent young men rounded the street corner. Thomas took Mary’s elbow and led her away from the commotion.
They strolled along a row of brownstones with scrubbed iron gates and trimmed potted ferns posed on small front porches. Reminders of the horses were cleaned so the couple could smell the elm trees mixed with bread from an open kitchen window.
When Thomas spotted a community courtyard, he led Mary across the street. The gate was unlocked, so he pushed it open for her. Before she stepped through, she checked the street for observers.
Thick evergreen shrubs that had grown up the full height of the tall iron fence surrounded the courtyard. Golden light from the gas lamps gave only a muted glow, but Thomas could see a small rectangular yard with a lone elm surrounded by a patch of grass, a gravel path, and a small stone bench. He closed the gate with a heavy clang then heard Mary whisper his name.
“There’s no one here to gossip about us,” he assured her.
As she removed her bonnet, she turned and looked him in the eye. “Who said I was worried about gossip? Perhaps I find you too forward for a man on his way out of town.”
“Perhaps, but I didn’t push you through the gate. I certainly didn’t hear any desire for a chaperone.”
She stiffened and seemed ready to reply when Thomas wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her toward him. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Her skin was warm and soft, and as he caressed her face she tilted her head and closed her eyes.
“Thomas,” she whispered
He kissed her cheek then let his lips slide down to kiss her neck. She smelled of lilac perfume and smoked meat from the restaurant. He tightened his grip on her waist, feeling the rigid corset and stiff crinoline pressed against her soft shape.
“Thomas, we shouldn’t—”
He covered her lips and kissed her. She hesitated, and then they kissed as lovers in the shadowed light.
Mary broke their union and moved a few steps away. “I’m not sure even my sister would approve of this.” She took a few quick breaths and sat on the corner of the stone bench.
Thomas paused, unsure what to say, until Mary turned into the light and he saw her teasing grin. He wanted to rush to her side and kiss her again.
“What time does your train leave in the morning?” Mary asked as Thomas sat down beside her.
“Too early for gentlemen, but I’ll be ready by eight,” he said.
“You’ll be ready by seven so you have plenty of time to say goodbye to your cousin Penelope. You’ll miss her.”
“That’s not all I’ll miss,” Thomas said. He wanted to say more, but his pending departure hung like a brittle branch.
Mary faced Thomas and tightened her jaw. “So what happens now, once you…?” She turned away and pulled a handkerchief from her purse.
“Leave?” Thomas put his hand on her shoulder but she shrugged him away.
