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 —
I feared my anecdote about mistaking Miss Astor’s elaborate wig for a travel bonnet and asking to hang it in the cloak room was in poor taste until your psychic lost a full glass of Bordeaux through her nose. Thank you for an uncommon Thanksgiving. Also, I appreciate your assistance with my delicate situation.
Your acquaintance, Mr. Everett, sent a note stating his prowess in the practice of “private and discreet investigations.” Though securing a referral for this type of personal research has proven difficult, do you stand by this man’s reputation?
As it is too late to develop a musical talent and my clumsiness prevents me from performing card tricks, I caution that if I am again invited to your magnificent home the only entertainment I can offer is amusing tales.
With gratitude,
Thomas M. Gadwell
P.S. — Did your driver have an errand after the party? I was surprised to see another carriage on the road in the wee hours.
November 28, 1888.
DARLING MARY —
I know you are still at your sister’s house but I must write about Thanksgiving dinner before I forget even one fantastic detail. The outlandish folly was a welcomed distraction from dwelling on your father’s preposterous demand. Still, I am beginning to wonder if your father’s unpredictability is his most reliable quality.
Our hostess for dinner, Abigail Winchester, hails from Long Island so I thought it curious she planned her holiday celebration away from home. I soon discovered the dinner party was not in good measure by Southampton standards. This of course made the evening even more enjoyable.
