FOWLER —
Cigarette wrappers have collected by the stable door. Father may tolerate your idleness, but I expect a property caretaker to care for the entire property. This includes dusting the guest rooms and sweeping out the stables. Must I again remind you of your duties? And when did you take up smoking?
Thomas
January 1, 1889.
DEAR AVERY —
The new year brings promise and redemption. My resolution is that you will not be disappointed in me, nor me in myself. While I imagine you indulged in the usual festivities, I spent my New Year's curled up with what I hope you will soon agree is a good book.
Thomas
January 4, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
Do you love writing your first drafts as much as I? All of my rough drafts are masterpieces until I read them. However, based on the short story you enclosed, your drafts really are works of genius. Did I like it? That you are asking my opinion reminds me how far we have come since you christened my early prose. I am pleased you no longer consider my writing drivel and am honored to reply as a colleague, a friend. Your story is stunning. It is the highpoint of the collection. Your brilliance also underscores the inadequacy of my antagonist, though my excuse is undeniably colorful. Since opening a fresh calendar, my reality is more like your fiction.
For starters, Mary’s father wants to drag her to a city once called the “bloodiest town in the West.” This is more than unorthodox, Henry, it could be dangerous. Even a bookish fellow like you must have heard of the infamous Abilene, Kansas.
I remember sitting with my mates passing around sketches of Abilene saloon girls. Even as a boy I understood Abilene was a lawless, drunken sprawl ruled by armed cowboys and the cattle trade. We, of course, wanted to visit. But why in the world would a loving father risk taking his daughter to such a place? And what sort of dealings require that Mr. Harting trek to Abilene in the worst of winter? As I start to unravel this new development, another is in knots.
My father’s solicitor was insulted by my request and would not provide a reference for a detective. Fortunately, I met a woman with the splendid combination of eccentricity and affiliations; however, I have yet to decide if Mrs. Winchester is a whimsical gentlewoman or offbeat harridan. After full exposure to her collection of dead spiders in specimen jars, she believed my rather chilling story about searching for a lost friend last seen in the opium dens of San Diego and provided a reliable referral.
I have hired a Mr. Everett to handle the delicate research of Mr. Lowell Kennard, the antagonist in my plot. Thus far I have been encouraged and shocked by Mr. Everett’s enthusiasm. Tidbits of interesting information are in my custody, and some are quite suspicious for a man looking for suspects.
As I studied the preliminary dossier last night, a full glass of cognac warming in my palm, I was ill at ease. I have no claim against Kennard so great I should know the amount of his income (impressive) or that he saw a physician for a purple rash. My ego is certainly robust. Nevertheless, I was unable to stop reading.
Mr. Kennard started at Harting Railways as a junior payroll clerk. After just two years, Mr. Harting promoted Kennard to Vice President of Development. Why would he promote an inexperienced man to such a high rank? Also, Kennard made a big show of telling Mary about his philanthropic work for the downtrodden. He even spoke of organizing a charity ball with a guest list to rival Carnegie’s annual Memorial Day picnic. It might interest Mary to know the bilker has considerable investments in dilapidated tenements and makes a considerable profit on inflated rents.
Mr. Everett has not yet ascertained Mr. Kennard’s birthplace or childhood records but is confident his roots are not in the state of New York. Kennard never made any specific claims; still, he led me to believe he was a native. Does he want everyone to suppose he hails from New York because his background is less than desirable? Of course, I am reading more than what is written on the page but shall continue with vim. At least I was relieved Kennard’s rash was not typhus.
Mr. Everett’s next report is expected soon, and a criminal profile is also available provided I am interested and generous. This begs the question why Kennard has a criminal profile. Maybe he is just a kleptomaniac caught pinching carnations for his lapel, or maybe he is involved in something more dangerous. I am ill at ease, my friend, ill at ease.
Thomas
January 5, 1889.
HENRY —
Amazing what can change in just one day. Yesterday I had one worry. Today my distress is doubled. It feels like one more turn of the screw.
This morning I trotted into town for something other than rotting potatoes and canned corn. Mrs. Potter, owner of Pelican’s Cove, gave me her annual bear hug then led me to a seat by the window. My mind was on cakes and eggs, so when Mrs. Potter leaned against the table and began asking questions, I was a little confused. Once I sorted it out, I was dumfounded.
She was most curious to know if I enjoyed visiting with my old college roommate. His coming to see me was a secret, she said, and she was dying to know if I was surprised. Henry, you may remember Beauregard was my roommate. Beau is in Greece.
Mrs. Potter left to fetch salt for the corner booth, so I looked around the room trying to imagine where my mystery “pal” sat and if he ordered the clam chowder or lobster bisque. I jumped when Mrs. Potter returned with a plate of buckwheat cakes and scrambled eggs.
“So how come you never told me you spent a year in Europe and played lacrosse in college? And I didn’t know your mother’s from Albany. I have a cousin in Albany,” Mrs. Potter paused to wipe her forehead with her apron. “So is your friend one of those animal doctors? He knew a pot full about trolleys and horses. Told me most hackneys are in better shape than private carriages.”
A shiver ran down my spine, and I pushed my plate aside.
The questioning continued in this manner, to which I created an occupation, heritage, and political affiliation for my friend. Then I learned Mrs. Potter and her fourteen-year-old daughter spent an hour sharing all they knew about me with the stranger. I had no idea they knew so much about my habits. They left out only my shoe size.
Henry, what if Mary’s father actually sent his henchman? Do people do that? I never confirmed my being followed in New York and, until now, cast it aside as paranoia. But what if the man in the charcoal coat was one of Mr. Harting’s many eyes? I must be rational. Even if someone is watching there is nothing much to see. My days are spent huddled in my study, and from now on I will keep watch when I post letters to Mary. Whatever comes of this, I must admit this stranger’s knowledge of my background is unnerving. Perhaps Mr. Everett is not the only detective snooping around.
Thomas
January 6, 1889.
MARY —
The hour is late. I am huddled under the blue afghan my mother crocheted as a gift for a friend but never wrapped because she thought she dropped too many stitches. She warned what is imperfect is flawed, and what is flawed is unfinished. So I blame my mother for the pile of torn pages in the corner, the plate I smashed against the sideboard, and a frightened messenger who shall think twice before again knocking on my door.
Tonight I have rested and waited for a moment when I can address my concerns like the man you met in California and not the one who needs a good shave. My time in contemplation has welled mounting fears about you accompanying your father to a cow town infamous for ladybirds and the Chisholm Trail. Your assurance the gambling halls and brothels moved north with the cattle trade was not at all amusing. Even if the area is now as quiet as your father claims, dragging a young lady on a grueling business trip in the midst of winter is, to say the least, dubious. Even you admit this trip is queer and uncivilized. What will you do for two months in Kansas?
Surely your mother is upset and will worry for your well-being without proper society or a companion to tour the area. Does your father expect you to spend your time trapped in your hotel room or shall he take you to tour the stalls? Yes, you may indeed have time to convey my fine qualities and exceptional breeding to your father, like those of a purebred bulldog, but what if you are unable to find a sympathetic inn keeper to deliver our letters? I doubt your father’s discovery of our conspiratorial exchange would win me a blue ribbon. On the contrary, his knowledge of our continued courtship could cause considerable harm.
Must you always obey your father’s commands? Mary, I remind you of your adulthood. You can refuse his request and deal with the consequences. On many occasions, like your going to the gala, I prefer you do just that. I state with bluster that I loathe the generous details you included about the Muskrat’s New Year’s Eve party. Solitude is not always best for an imaginative man.
You forget I have indulged in extravagant society balls and can envision the bounty of four-in-hand drivers alleging dry throats for reason to whisper in a girl’s ear. I can see you with your hair swept in a low knot, dancing and laughing with every eligible gentleman with able vision and fair health. Even though your father insisted, you did not have to so enjoy the party. I would expect the Muskrat’s duties as host and masher kept him quite busy. Did you in fact spend much of the evening with Mr. Kennard?
True, the Alliance Literary Program shall make great use of his charitable donation; nonetheless, his motives are most obvious and less than altruistic. I feel it within my rights to abhor such an open display for your attention. At least if you must go to Abilene, and it seems you are packed, you will have time away from Mr. Kennard and his charity balls. This is a thin but strong vein of encouragement.
Mary, my tone is like rotting milk thistle for a reason I have yet to share, though I take nothing away from my previous disgruntlements and would like to keep my distrust of the Muskrat and disapproval of your upcoming voyage on the record. When I was in New York Cousin Penelope spoke of a June garden wedding, but I just found out Mr. Lancaster must go to England on extended business so the wedding is now set for the end of February. While you are traipsing through Abilene cow fields, I will be in New York.
This is maddening. Penelope’s wedding was to be our grand unveiling. You were to sit beside my father so the two of you could chat about politics then dance the Jenny Lind. Mother would ask how we met and you would charm her with descriptions of the hotel and snicker at the extra bit of bourbon in the mint juleps. Circumstance again shoves our affection into a gulch. How long can we fight to reach sunlight?
