Thomas M. Gadwell
WINTER 1888
October 15, 1888.
DARLING —
Do you recall your first time playing in the snow? My earliest memory is sitting beside Malcolm on a sled tied to the collar of his overgrown yellow Labrador Retriever. The previous summer the corner of our yard was tiered for mother’s tulips; however, this was of no concern until we rounded the corner and found ourselves flung into the air. Before falling on my head, I remember thinking I might see an angel in the snow.
I still think of that day on mornings such as this. The air has turned; you can smell it, like the freshness of sheets as you slip into a chilled bed. It is the promise of winter, a reliable one to be sure, and like a good lad who has landed on his head too many times I wonder when I will see my angel.
Yesterday I arrived in Newport in fine health, if not spirits, after an arduous night on the steamer. The sea was in a foul mood and a light rain turned into an angry storm. I had wanted to begin outlining my next book but could not steady the gas lamp or my hand. Land was a welcome sight. Unfortunately, the heavy rain soaked my little hideaway.
All but the Newport market was closed when I arrived, though the market’s colorful fruit baskets where I hid toads to frighten unsuspecting shoppers were tucked away. Each winter I am saddened by the island’s drastic conversion from summer frolic—like a vivacious young girl pulling on a gray shawl. Newport is known as a summertime jewel.
In the warm months, fresh villas with vibrant green shutters dot the hillside, and gravel roads lead to marble mansions overlooking the sea. Ladies carry lace parasols and tie colorful ribbons around their necks. They crowd the streets to buy fresh cranberry tarts then eat their snack on benches facing the ocean. Errands are forgotten, and those in carriages stop in the road to gossip until Officer Henderson dispenses the traffic with a warning about strong winds along the cliff. I assure you he was not as polite about the frogs.
The true islanders are hospitable for profit. They have a keen sense of when to stock extra lemon cream for the mosquito season and will give directions to the Old Stone Mill for a modest tip. However, when summer ends the vacationers close up their retreats and the local men leave to take factory jobs in Providence.
The streets are deserted, the cobblestones are slack until the thaw, and the remaining shopkeepers lock their doors by two o’clock. Fog settles on the island like an uninvited houseguest, at times so thick it conceals the ocean, and a walk on the sand sounds like crossing a plank floor. The area is also partial to forceful gusts, sleet, and sudden, dangerous storms. For me the frost means isolation and forced concentration. True, when I sit by the window and watch strips of lightning explode through the clouds I miss the warmth and uncommon fellowship of summertime in Newport. Still, I thrive in the dreariness. I am not here to gossip in the streets.
Tomorrow I shall begin my sojourn into the creative field of roses. At least this is where I hope to end up. It seems I have been lost in many other locations—the Bewildered Forest, the Pond of Stagnation, and from what I believe is too much time on holiday, the Coast of Trite. I can already feel the energy of my novel and am excited to get to work. And though my mother worries for my health, I have yet to find a better place to write than within the walls of Highflier.
Perched on a modest cliff, our family retreat is a grand specimen of a shingle style summer cottage with one of the broadest views of the Atlantic. Repulsed by the island fancy of gauze curtains which provide shelter neither from the sun nor neighbors, Mother spared no expense on sterling umbrella stands and leather upholstery. Nevertheless, I spend most of my time cloistered in one room.
Before long the library will smell of unwashed teacups, crumbs brushed from my desk, and crumpled sheets I pile in the corner. There is no use hiding such repulsive behavior and admit my habits so you can never claim I was a bottom dealer. Lest you worry for my health and hygiene, rest assured I shall encounter at least one person every day.
Mr. Fowler, property caretaker the last ten years, is the only winter staff. He is a curmudgeon who grumbles about housekeeping duties and lets the bushes cover the walk. When I arrived, I found Fowler in front of his bungalow singing “Amazing Grace” into an empty bottle of malt whiskey. His continued employment is a mystery. Nevertheless, unlike Father’s ongoing tirade over luxury tax, discussion of Fowler’s dismissal is taboo.
Though my hands tremble with anticipation to begin what I believe is my best story, Fowler has just brought round my horse. Soon I shall tell you about my idea for an adventure story set in your fair city, my heroine the handsome daughter of a wealthy railroad tycoon. Right now I must beg your pardon and leave to check on the neighboring estate. The mansion at the far end of the sea cliff has been vacant so long it was quite startling to see every room aglow. I shall take the rifle and alert Fowler to my destination. The dock master warned of robbers.
Your love,
Thomas
October 21, 1888.
DEAR MRS. WINCHESTER —
Thank you again for inviting me to stay for tea. After the dubious way our acquaintance began, you were most gracious.
Sincerely,
Thomas M. Gadwell
October 22, 1888.
AVERY —
I am already working. Never fear, my friend, this time the ferry did not drift off course and run aground in Bermuda.
Thomas
October 27, 1888.
MY DEAR MARY —
The book has begun with exhilaration, and I have again found my passion. My enthusiasm casts a long shadow, so I must beg your forgiveness for not writing sooner. You need not worry for me in a quiet house; imagination is fine company. And Mother writes that Father is mending well and she is in good spirits. Mary, I am more concerned about you.
To spend days folding napkins into Prince of Wales feathers deserves a footnote in the Workwoman’s Guide. I have watched my mother oversee preparations for Thanksgiving dinner and often ask why she invites people she finds disagreeable, lazy, ignorant, and gullible. Her response is routine.
“Thomas, it’s a blessing I gave you a passable face, because you’re not at all funny.”
As you said, at least sorting orange cups is more productive than quarreling with your father. Will you at least tell me what brought about such a harsh exchange? You relayed your profound guilt, though the details were so vague I suspect you were arguing about me. Rest assured, your apology will melt his anger. He knows you love and respect him even if you called him a “heartless beast.” Your daring is proven, though I still advise taking small steps with your father. He is not a man you push into anything.
My darling, of course I understand why you want to go to Albany for Thanksgiving. As you enjoy a few weeks visiting with your sister and her husband, you must promise to imagine me brushing your knee under the dinner table. My plan was to endure Mother’s wrath and remain here with cold turkey and a warm pen, but I have already accepted an unexpected invitation.
I am celebrating with my new neighbor, Mrs. Abigail Winchester. Though she was startled by my armed intrusion as she arranged glass beakers in a china cupboard (I was startled by glass beakers in a china cupboard), she appreciated my readiness to combat bandits and invited me for tea.
The parlor walls were washed with a pale stain giving them a feel of European antiquity but formal portraits rested against the walls and the tea service sat on two moving crates. Except for a few servants, the aged woman is alone. She explained her husband died several years ago from what she called a “hunting accident.” It seems his train derailed while traveling home after shooting a moose in Alaska. He survived the disaster but was then run down by a herd of fleeing elk. I stayed for a second cup.
She touted the virtues of naturalism though proclaimed a preference for staying indoors and addressed her girl in French. After the third request to remove the tea service, Mrs. Winchester snapped, “I said take it away.”
The girl replied, “Sorry, ma’am, but I don’t speak French. Begging your pardon, I told you that yesterday.”
Mrs. Winchester huffed and said, “Yes, I know, but that shouldn’t be my problem.”
I expect Thanksgiving will be quite interesting.
Mary, I should return to my work. Distraction is my failing. I pray you enjoy visiting your sister even though our letters must wait for your return. Also, please ask Miss Ross to take more care. I see no reason for her to have delivered my last letter in your parlor. It is most critical your father is unaware of our correspondence. Are you certain he did not see my seal?
With love,
Thomas
November 12, 1888.
MARY —
Your last letter was delayed by the bumbling post. By now you have left for Albany, so I am left to stew.
With all due respect, was your father drunk when he made such an appalling request? He has again baffled me. Does he know his irrational and impetuous actions are potentially dangerous? Mary, you must refuse him at once.
Thomas
November 28, 1888.
DEAR ABIGAIL —
