Thomas
April 19, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
Your suggestion of a vicious dog is under advisement, despite your exploiting my distress to inspire a book title. A story called The Turn of the Screw? It sounds like a tradesman’s manual. Then again, you might look dashing in shapeless trousers and a sporting cap.
By now you must have received my enthralling but brief letter announcing Mary’s visit to Newport. I have kept a vigilant watch since her arrival, and at least for the time being it appears we are safe. The stress of it, however, is taking a toll. I wish I could convey things here were as chipper as the last stop on your European tour.
To my complete surprise and growing hostility, Mary insists we continue hiding our affections. We are caricatures of lovers drawn by a cheap novice and pretend a pleasant acquaintance in snapshots of placid outings. In fact, the ongoing concealment of our affair began the evening Mary arrived. A strong wind stirred the sea to angry waves, and the relentless rain so soaked the wooden dock it appeared to sag in the middle. It was a treacherous night on Newport Island—a forewarning had I paid attention.
I tried to remain calm as the minutes ticked by with the steamer nowhere in sight. But when Mary’s ship was more than an hour late, I paced in front of an advertisement for salt by the pound and imagined the fiery sinking in such horrible detail I became light-headed and had to sit down. In my torment I never considered the ramifications of such an outward display of concern while in the company of a woman who gossips for sport. It was a tell that revealed my hand to a more experienced, and fiendish, player.
At last the mooring lines were secured and Mary stood on the gangway. The tumultuous ride had ashened her cheeks and her gait was a bit unsteady, but she looked even more ravishing than I remembered. Upon seeing her for the first time in months I grinned like the useless joker card. In response she curtsied and said, “Mr. Gadwell, nice to see you again.”
Once introductions were made, Mary turned her full attention to Mrs. Winchester and had little need for my assistance except for arranging transport of her trunks. I attempted polite conversation while longing to take her in my arms, but Mary was aloof and Mrs. Winchester had other plans.
Over the next few days my attempts to visit Mary were thwarted by Mrs. Winchester’s butler who insisted the ladies were indisposed. At least with Mary tucked away I felt assured of her safety from island intruders and broken wheel clips. Thankfully, there are no new sightings of cigarette butts or reports from Mr. Everett. Then this morning a most implausible messenger delivered a special invitation.
“Thomas, you’re looking well for an ill-tempered artist. I hope that rosy glow is from your writing and not some rare disease that requires two weeks at the spas in Baden Baden.”
My agent stood at the door holding a travel case in one hand and an embossed envelope in the other.
“Avery? You made it after all. A bit disheveled and inconvenient, but here you are.”
“I’m so fond of your quips, T. G., perhaps you should write a comedy.” Avery handed me the envelope, stepped over the threshold, and put down his satchel. With a flourish he took off his raincoat and posed with his hands on his hips.
We chuckled in short bursts that swelled when Avery spun in a circle. I stared at a middle-aged man in round wire glasses wearing a lime-green dinner jacket with purple buttons. When I told him he was a rare vision, he opened his satchel and retrieved a matching hat.
“You found a green Bollinger? I don’t believe it,” I said.
“I brought it for you, T. G. I have exciting news.”
I know his stylish ensemble makes little sense to you, Henry, but Avery and I have always enjoyed a bit of tomfoolery.
As Avery’s updates are sweeter than Swiss bell ringers, I first suggested he warm himself by the fire. I have learned to steel myself for Avery’s good news which is a combination of conjecture and wishful thinking.
We exchanged pleasantries that included the inspirational successes of another client (I was inspired to light a Cuban) and the passionate details of Avery’s latest invention.
“So, wait, you're telling me there are metal teeth that overlap and hold fabric together tighter than a button? Whose teeth?” I asked.
“Not real teeth for heaven’s sake. Who in the world would give me their teeth? It’s made from metal coils that remind me of teeth, and so, well, you understand. I’ve only begun the drawings but it could be revolutionary, truly revolutionary. I’m working on a coat that won’t gap and shoes without laces, and —”
“Not on finding another publisher for The Awakening of Foster Green.”
He claimed peddling my second book for months without sleep. I countered his lack of sleep was from convincing pretty girls at the groggery he had forgotten his specs and needed them to read him the wine list.
“Touché, but if that were true I couldn’t report we have a bite on the line. That’s why I’m here with your hat, Thomas. I sent Foster Green to Putnam. To my unequaled delight, short of tinkering in my shed on Saturday afternoons, they’re interested in a two-book contract.”
I recalled similar enthusiasm with Harpers, so I implored Avery to understand if I refrained from joyous dancing and donning that preposterous hat. Avery seemed disappointed in my guarded attitude but bounced back by handing me Putnam’s notes for Foster and demanding I complete the simple edits before continuing with my new book. “Or do you first have to build a doghouse for your pet emu?” he asked.
I agreed to his agenda in exchange for feedback on the new story. Avery took off the jacket and went straight to work. With Avery locked away in my study, I spent the rest of this afternoon excited about his special delivery.
The invitation is for dinner this evening. In fact, I have an idea and must leave you here to get ready. I may just have thought of a way to at last capture a few moments alone with Mary.
With veneration,
Thomas
April 19, 1889.
DEAR ABIGAIL —
Thank you for the invitation to join you for dinner. I accept with gratitude and ask for a small indulgence in allowing me to bring an unexpected houseguest. He is a fine gent, and I trust you will enjoy his fetish.
Until this evening,
Thomas
April 25, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
Your telegram was so enthusiastic, you forgot to mention when you sail for home. How fortunate to find a porthole in history. I have read about the RMS Etruria in the news. Do you think the captain can break the record? Crossing the Atlantic in less than a week makes me think of a dog with his tail on fire. Stay away from the stern. It will likely pitch from the speed.
When last I wrote, Avery and I were headed to Abigail’s for dinner. Though our argument lasted until we had to leave, Avery agreed to accompany me in the hideous green coat and hat in exchange for additional draft pages locked in my desk drawer. I thought the whimsy might distract Abigail. Had the dinner gone as planned, I would leave you to here to imagine napkin rings and salmon croquettes. The evening turned into a spectacle, but not because of Avery’s stylish jacket.
We found Abigail waiting for us in the parlor. I introduced Avery and was humored when she sneered and asked if his work as a literary agent required such “bizarre attire.” As Avery’s nostrils flared, I interjected how well Abigail looked. She wore a formal teal gown. It was one of the few times I had seen her without an animal mask or powdered wig.
“Thank you, dear. I do prefer costume parties and anything with feathers, I’m sure you understand Mr. Avery, but I didn’t think it appropriate tonight. Not when I’m sharing my house with a young lady obviously without such fancies,” she said.
I asked how she and her companion were getting along.
“A lovely girl with exceptional manners, well-trained I believe, although,” she paused, “I find her chatter a bit, shall we say, tiresome. I’m sure it’s just nerves or the sea air. It has such a raw bite this time of year she may be moving her mouth just to keep warm.”
Avery chuckled. If not for Mrs. Winchester’s immobile gaze I would have elbowed him in the side. Then movement on the staircase caused us all to turn.
“There you are, Mary,” Mrs. Winchester said. “Well, my dress looks stunning on you. Don’t you agree, Thomas? What a marvelous figure you have my dear. I can hardly remember myself so petite, but then in some areas I was more, shall we say, endowed. Oh how youth escapes so quickly. Come, come, the other guests shall be here and I’ve changed my mind and want to entertain in the living room this evening.”
Before I could make introductions, Avery chuckled at Mary and trotted after Mrs. Winchester. I, however, could not look away.
Mary’s dress had faded to a dull orange that hinted it may have once been scarlet. Trimmed in yellowed lace, a tall velvet collar sagged against Mary’s face. Her delicate shoulders were lost in fabric and the dropped waistline skirt, out of fashion even in my mother’s prime, was so long Mary was holding up the skirt to keep it from dragging on the floor.
I commented the dress looked lovely, to which she said, “Funny, Thomas. You’re very funny. She insisted I wear this dreadful thing.” She turned toward the door and stepped closer to me. She was close enough to embrace as she explained Abigail refused to come down to dinner unless she put on the gown. “She acted like a three-year-old,” she whispered. “Thomas, you failed to mention in your letters that she’s plumb crazy. She’d make a marvelous character for your next book, my love.”
I think she mentioned something about keeping notes but I heard little beyond Mary calling me her love.
Mary then asked about my company. “He has gall looking at me like I’m off my nut.”
