The night was brisk, but Winchester Manor (to which it is now referred) is a short jaunt so I ferried myself in the open coupé. I dressed without imagination in a black tailcoat tuxedo with a white bow tie and collar. My beaver-trimmed overcoat was comfortable, but during the ride I wished I had exchanged my top hat for a wool deerstalker. In fact, a flannel checkered hat paired with my black bib and tucker would have been better suited for the evening’s nip and company.
While the estate has a gilded ballroom sought after by Mrs. Vanderbilt, the road to the house runs along a treacherous ledge hovering high above the sea. Wind swept up the bluff in furious bursts jerking the carriage from side to side. My steed’s gait was erratic on the loose gravel, and twice he stopped and tried to back up. When I had at last reached the final turn, a strong gust pushed the tilbury toward the edge of the cliff. Fowler can make the minor repairs, but my father’s lesson on taut wheel bolts has not left my mind.
My nerves more than a bit shaken, I arrived to find a row of blazing torches and counted four carriages stowed in front of the house. As my feet touched the ground, a stable boy wearing leather leggings, moccasins, and a feather headband took my coach. The stressful journey was forgotten.
The house is styled after the Palace at Versailles in Paris, though Mrs. Winchester, who insisted I call her Abigail, may indeed have more bronze statuary in the gardens. Tall columns support an elaborate portico embellished with gilded winged cherubs, and two-story windows line the flat façade of the seventy-room estate.
True to the exaggerated architecture, I charged up a sweeping set of front steps and entered the colossal foyer through a fifteen-foot stained-glass door. The butler, an elderly man dressed in a dark coat and white gloves, took my top hat with what I later concluded was puzzlement, and directed me to the parlor.
I arrived last, a foible of some proportion as I was at least one libation behind. Then when Mrs. Winchester greeted me dressed as a Quaker preparing to break bread with her new Indian friends, I feared I had misunderstood my invitation. But, indeed, the event was not a costume ball. My eccentric host was jovial and blunt about her love of costumes and eclectic gatherings to observe interesting subjects. As is just my luck, I was one of the evening’s interesting subjects.
Mrs. Winchester wanted to know about my writing. She was curious where I found my ideas and how I could spend so many hours alone. For twenty minutes she prodded me, wanting to know if I included island gossip or chewed hallucinogens for inspiration. In exasperation, I told her authors sacrifice chickens to the gods of the press plate and bury the dead birds under a tree. The legend, of course, foretold that the larger the tree, the more readers. She squealed with delight, thought the sacrifice a marvelous idea, and insisted I conduct my next ceremony on her grounds. With Mrs. Winchester appeased, she made formal introductions. By and large I struggle to associate new names and faces. I had no difficulty whatsoever.
First introduced was a Mr. Larimore, noted American flautist with the Belize symphony. Who knew Belize had a symphony? A bony man donned in a white tail coat and red striped vest, he never took off his white gloves for fear of injuring his hands. He had a silver tuning fork poked down through the slit reserved for a boutonnière, and he spoke in short bursts about the strain of living in such a warm climate and expressed scorn for American audiences. When he boasted Europeans were true music patrons, I asked his favorite concert hall abroad. He remarked he had not yet toured Europe and left me with his companion, a Belizean named Marianna.
Marianna, also a musician, was shy but told me she played the contrabassoon before blushing and returning to Mr. Larimore’s side. Nevertheless, she had a pleasant, round face with large dark eyes that floated about the room and widened every time she looked at Madam Rousseau.
A self-proclaimed spiritualist and reader of Asian tiles, Madam Rousseau was swathed in a gold ruffled gown. Around her neck she wore a gigantic purple amethyst she claimed cured chronic back pain and boils. The thick black cord was so tight, her fleshy neck and cheeks were vermeil. Before being properly introduced, Madam Rousseau strode up to me, poked me in the stomach, and said, “You’re a mysterious and reclusive young man. There’s an indigo glow around your manhood.” At this point I begged for a glass of whiskey.
As I took my first sip, I met two men in matching violet morning coats and paisley bowties. Jarrod and Theo (they would not disclose their last names) were businessmen from Atlanta who used phrases like crooked as a dog’s hind leg, guzzled ale from a jug, and burst into song whenever the impulse struck.
I felt stiff and out of sorts in my black regalia until I met Miss Katya Petrova, a budding opera singer from Russia. For the evening she chose a modest emerald tea gown with a beaded collar and matching feather pinned in her piled hair. I found her pleasant, but as she spoke little English, she spent the evening grinning which I felt compelled to return. This grew quite tiresome.
The standard dinner fare was lavish and well served, although our host barked orders to her servants and found fault with the texture of the bread pudding. I found it rather smooth, but Madam Rousseau coughed a great deal during this course and Mrs. Winchester assumed she was choking on pieces of bread rather than acknowledge the Madam’s rather tall glass of rum.
I found a receptive audience for sharing a few of my short stories, in the broadest of outline of course, and was invited to vacation on the coast of Belize any time between the fourth and tenth of June. After dinner we were entertained with an aria from Beethoven’s Fidelio accompanied by the flute and contrabassoon, a rare and unauthorized rendition to say the least, and I concurred that with training and promotion, Miss Petrova might gain a fine reputation. However, the highlight of the evening was still to come.
Madam Rousseau, who regaled us with tales of psychic mysteries I shall someday include in a work of fiction, plucked me from the sofa and asked me to join her at the dining table. I obliged, but not before a wisecrack about also living to regret breaking plates over my head at a festival in Corfu. She muttered under her breath, a voodoo curse by the look on her face, and the entire party hurried to the dining room so she could read my tiles.
We sat across from each other at the cleared table like gamblers ready to draw, and then she pulled a gold tin from her flowing gown. She presented it to the group just as Genovese salesmen display diamond keepsakes to eager American shoppers. I must tell you, my dear, it took great restraint not to ask where on earth she kept that tin.
She removed the lid and emptied ten thick ivory tiles onto the table. A few tiles were colorful but she turned them face down before I could see their design and slid them on the smooth oak. As she mixed the pieces, she closed her eyes and swayed back and forth. It appeared as if her head was ready to fall off and roll to where we had just carved the turkey. Then without warning, her eyes popped open and she said, “Pick three to reveal your future.”
I shrugged and reached for the closest, but she slapped my hand and cried, “You dare to touch the tiles!” Her voice was so shrill Theo spilled wine on Jarrod’s jacket.
“The spirits are close. I can feel them,” she continued. “You must think of what you most desire, what you want deeply.” She grabbed my hands and pulled me forward until our noses almost touched. “But you must think of only one desire,” she whispered. “If you choose more than one you will curse your entire family.”
As she breathed on me I realized the spirits were indeed close.
I pointed to three tiles because it would have been rude to laugh and ask for a second piece of pumpkin pie. She nodded and turned them over. Mrs. Winchester gasped, but I found their design rather intricate and smiled as Mrs. Winchester bit her index finger.
Darling, have you ever seen Asian tiles? They were a new experience for me. What I saw looked like a mix of Mahjong and domino tiles accented with common eastern images. Madam Rousseau was silent as she studied the tiles, and I later overheard Mrs. Winchester tell Jarrod that ghosts required silence to communicate. I believe Madam Rousseau needed time to invent what she was going to say and was jealous at the speed with which she composed a gripping story.
Mary, I hope you are not alarmed by her fortune. Though Madam Rousseau may have hunches like my mother, the idea she can see the future is as silly as her necklace.
“You’re in love,” she declared. “You’re the prowling tiger and the red dots symbolize a strong, fertile heart.”
“Thomas, you devilish boy,” Mrs. Winchester blurted.
Madam Rousseau ignored the interruption. “But you are torn between two loves. The tiger sits between two ladies, pulled in opposite directions. See the cherry blossoms. They mean you will soon face a dilemma that will cause great misery. We must see what will become of this.”
She paused and looked at me as if I was to do something but I waited, not wanting my hand slapped again. She turned over a fourth tile—a green dragon.
“Death,” she shouted.
This time Jarrod spilled wine on my jacket.
“You must choose one love or both will perish. Do it quickly, or you will lose everything.”
She slumped into her chair and claimed the spirits were gone and she was exhausted. Recovering from such strenuous activity required a large glass of bourbon and several pieces of Belgian chocolates.
Mrs. Winchester was delighted and thought the best way to uncover my deep secret was to pester me until I broke like a wild colt. Of course I repeated that I did not have two loves and that the Madam was just excited after a large meal. To this Madam Rousseau called out poppycock and fell asleep on the settee.
The evening concluded well into the morning hours, but as I made my retreat down the front steps Theo tapped my shoulder and mumbled something about my writing. Before I could beg off to go home, his eyes rolled up and he slumped to the ground. I shouted for help, to which Jarrod and Mrs. Winchester strolled from the house. Mrs. Winchester poked Theo’s bottom with the flat front of her pilgrim boot and pronounced he was asleep. This was when I heard snoring. I left to Mrs. Winchester and Jarrod singing “I Know a Youth Who Loves a Maid” as they dragged Theo into the house.
Mrs. Winchester insists I make time for tea and has extended an open invitation to visit. Although she is quite sturdy for a woman in her seventies, it is imprudent to keep such a large home open during months of unpredictable weather. I shall keep an eye on her.
Seems fodder abounds even in the most implausible setting. Lest you worry about my validity, I spoke the truth when I said I am not torn between two loves. I am in love with one extraordinary woman, and that is enough for any man. Hopefully we can soon flaunt our affection in front of witnesses. Until that glorious time, my concerns are more tangible than idiotic predictions.
Your father’s actions are suspicious. Has he ever before demanded you accompany him on a business trip? I must wonder if his desire for your company is to keep you under his watchful eye. Mary, I am concerned he knows about our letters.
Your devoted,
Thomas
P.S. — Before this letter was sealed I received your telegram. Staying with your sister for Christmas is a wonderful change of plans. But why is it imperative you return home for New Year’s?
December 18, 1888.
