Thomas
February 8, 1889.
MY DEAREST —
Your resourcefulness in engaging a young embroidery student as messenger was inspired. I just hope you are not miffed by my actions as I awaited word of your safe arrival. Upon my request, the editor of the Abilene Chronicle sent some fascinating back issues. I have not read such obscure prose since Henry’s class on seventeenth-century essays.
Did you know Abilene cowboys herded over three thousand head of cattle each summer? This is impressive for a one-horse town run by hooligans living in clay shacks. Wild Bill Hickok served as marshal until he accidentally shot his friend, and a group of drunkards once tore down the jailhouse with their bare hands. Then the cattle yards closed, and the town crumbled. Today they grow some wheat and mourn a dead economy. So naturally, Abilene is the perfect locale for a winter holiday.
Your description of vacant, bullet-riddled buildings and weeds growing in the streets is dismal. Though the town is not the wild village I imagined, I still worry for your constitution in such a depressed area. My concern for your welfare, however, does not mean I underestimate your abilities. You are indeed capable of taking care of yourself. Men simply desire to protect their loved ones, and my inability to shield you is more frustrating than you realize.
Also, please accept my apologies for comments against your father. I was discourteous to you and your family and now understand young ladies have few liberties while living in their parents’ home. Of late I received some wise guidance. It was not my intent to add to your burdens with my hostile and suspicious mood. My actions were unfair. Still, Mary, I must encourage discretion when delivering mail to your embroidery student. I believe your father is watching. Please be careful.
Once you have set photos on the nightstand, I pray you will share more than a few thin comments on the atmosphere and weather. Mary, you seem despondent. Your pen is labored; the thickness of the ink betrays your contemplation and the deep creases tell of a letter that was opened and closed many times before it was sealed. When you are ready, I ask you tell me what weighs your heart. Darling, what you can never hide from a man of words are the ones that are missing.
With loving concern,
Thomas
February 21, 1889.
MY LOVE —
My work is sometimes consuming and days run on like too many of my sentences. Can you forgive me for not writing in almost two weeks? I was trying to finish another chapter before leaving the island and time slipped away. That you have written only a few brief notes about the comfortable inn eases my guilt but not my worry. Are you unable to hide your letters or are there other troubles you wish to conceal? My prayer is that your father realized his mistake and you are on a train heading home.
I had planned to slip away to Penelope’s wedding without incident, but Mrs. Winchester insisted I join her for a send-off dinner. Though she dressed like a pirate (complete with an eye patch and sword) and commented I should marry before I have jowls, she has a wonderful cook and interesting company.
We were joined for dinner by Miss Katya Petrova, the Russian opera singer I met at Thanksgiving. Mrs. Winchester has taken a personal interest in the girl; I dare say Mrs. Winchester has supported all of her music lessons since arriving in this country. After a passionate aria, Miss Petrova demonstrated her developing skills on the piano. The moment her fingers touched the keys, I thought of you.
She played the score you played on our last afternoon at the hotel. I felt the damp breeze from the open window and the chords vibrated off the polished oak in the empty ballroom. The memory of how I longed to kiss your cheeks and take your hands in mine was so clear it took Mrs. Winchester’s abrupt shove to startle me from my daydream. I regret Miss Petrova misinterpreted my distraction.
The poor girl became nervous and quiet before retiring earlier than Mrs. Winchester expected. As I was putting on my gloves, Mrs. Winchester plodded toward me and I prepared for a lecture to rival my grandmother’s sermon on civility. Instead, she asked a peculiar question.
She wanted to know if I were acquainted with you. In my surprise I blurted meeting you and your family in California but said nothing of conviction. She dismissed me without further inquiry or my usual plate of blueberry muffins for breakfast. Have you forgotten to mention your family’s acquaintance with Mrs. Winchester?
My ferry to New York leaves tomorrow morning. Though uplifted by a reprieve from the island’s shadows, thinking of Penelope’s wedding stirs memories I wish forgotten. The ceremony has developed into a grand affair with at least three hundred guests, and according to my mother, that many doves. I was corralled into serving as usher, and Penelope just wrote to ask if I would make the final toast. She was reluctant to impose but declared “only my talent with words will keep the evening from turning into a total and utter shambles.”
I have attended many weddings but been asked to participate just once before. It was during a time I call the lost year, a boundless chapter in my life I often wish I could go back and edit. Truth be told, I regret my arrogance even more today than I did eight years ago. Meeting you has opened my eyes to the impetuous young man I was. Though I have never shared this painful event with anyone, I feel compelled to share my dishonorable behavior with you. Few secrets are kept well for long.
Right after college graduation, as I planned to start my first novel, Beauregard appeared on my doorstep. He had a smirk that bragged he was up to mischief, and in retrospect I should have closed the door. Instead, I invited him to dinner with my parents.
Confining himself to pleasantries and flattery, Beau waited until Father sliced the roast beef and set the carving knife on the sideboard before announcing the purpose of his call.
“If I may, Marcus … Mr. Gadwell, sir, I came here tonight to ask if you will allow Thomas to accompany me to Europe. We shall begin in Paris.” He turned to my mother and added, “Where we will not see such finely twisted hair.” Looking back to my father he continued, “Then we will tour the French countryside, meet with society in London, and explore the Swiss Alps. My interest is in paying homage to historical cathedrals and visiting my third cousin in Lisbon. I expect such an extensive and educational trip might take up to a year, but as you know, Mr. Gadwell, that’s the standard these days.”
Of course I understood full disclosure of our escapade would commence over a lager at the pub.
“You should go, Thomas. Travel broadens the mind. Your mind could use some broadening,” my father said. His quick agreement was such a shock that Beau muttered something a bit vulgar and spent the next five minutes apologizing to my mother.
Just one week later I stood at the dock shaking hands with my father. Mother was too upset to see us off. She feared I would marry a French coquette and never return home. Father wished me a safe journey and added, “When you’ve tempered your wilds you’ll be ready to get back into law.”
The next month we enjoyed a grand time of endless festivities. We indulged in rich wines and company, and had yet to even leave Paris. When the weather cooled, we headed south and moved about the extravagant ports of Nice, Cannes, and Monaco—our stops dictated more by amiable girls than our tickets.
When Beau lost a tidy sum at baccarat, we departed Monte Carlo for Rome and vowed to enrich our minds by exploring the sights. As respectable lads touring Italy we made acquaintances with fellow Americans renting apartments for the winter and often secured invitations to evening gatherings in crowded parlors. We were not discriminating and indeed met striking characters. Someday I will tell you about our wager with a bullfighter from Madrid. I still use his banderilla as a letter opener. During one such evening, the parlor busting with extravagant velvet costumes and exotic accents, Beauregard met Francesca Ferrara.
Francesca was someone's niece visiting from Sicily, though I never met an aunt. She wore her long black hair pulled behind her ears with loose strands down her back. A tall woman with a slim physique and oval green eyes under thick dark eyebrows, there was something fluid about the way Francesca curtsied to the Americans and fluttered her unadorned fan as she gazed around the room. Beauregard was captivated. Although Francesca had but a meager mastery of English, she knew French well enough for them to chat for three hours that first night.
For the next two weeks Beau stayed out every night past midnight. When he returned to our room, he tossed his top hat on my stomach to wake me up and babbled about Francesca. I had never seen him so enthralled. Then one morning he woke me at dawn. It was Sunday. The bell from the Basilica San Clemente was announcing daybreak when Beauregard began shaking my shoulder.
“Wake up, you coot. I’m getting married,” he said.
It was either the shocking news or wet washcloth Beauregard slapped against my face, but I jumped up. In the process I knocked over the bedside table and stubbed my toe.
“What?” I asked, holding my foot.
“I’m getting married.” He had already put on his charcoal morning coat and pinstriped trousers.
“To whom?” I blurted.
“Get dressed, Thomas. We have to hurry. That means you don’t have time to decide between a kerchief and that ridiculously tall Piccadilly collar. A tip, my friend, little boys all around the world are begging not to wear their Piccadilly collars.” He plucked the pillow from his bed and thumped me on the head. “Now, pull foot. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
He rushed out the door before I could ask any questions, and I remained startled for a few moments. Not knowing what else to do, I dressed and met him in the lobby.
“My God, Thomas, what took you so long?” Beauregard waited by the bell desk. He examined me like a woman choosing a frock and said, “Good. I can see your neck. That’s a start. Francesca thought you were an altar boy.”
I asked again what was going on. “I’ve already told you,” Beau replied. “I’m getting married. Francesca is meeting us in a little village outside the city. The concierge is getting us a carriage, and you’re my best man. What more do you need to know?”
“I need to know if you’ve lost your crackers.”
