Had I not seen the careful application of white paint she had used to conceal the shabbiness of her shoes they would have married. I made a grand assumption she lusted only for his property and that Francesca was just another of Beau’s passing infatuations. I wanted to protect his future. It was brash and egotistical, and I curse my arrogant youth. What if theirs was true love? I may have ruined his life.
Cousin Penelope’s wedding brings up many painful emotions. Though I wish to share in Penelope's happiness, I resent leaving my work and cringe at the thought of New York without you. Most of all I detest writing a special toast to love and the vows of marriage for someone else.
Though jealousy taints my pen, I will not disappoint Penelope. I ask you to judge if my “talent with words will keep the evening from turning into a total and utter shambles.” You are truly the only person with whom I long to share this sentiment.
A man walks his path with purpose until he is distracted by a rose-scented breeze. He has found his way though he never knew he was lost.
A woman steps through her gate dreaming of the road ahead. She is cautious but moves forward with optimism.
Two paths cross and the man and woman move as one. Unexpected and divine, the excitement of life begins.
To the happy couple.
Thomas
February 22, 1889.
DEAR BEAU —
Are you enjoying your escape from the arduous occupation of finding amusing society and resting from afternoon strolls? If you can soon pull yourself away from the beauty of the Greek climate and inhabitants, I should like to see you when you return. After you entertain me with a sensational narrative that ends with you not changing your shirt for three days, I have much to confess.
Your friend,
Thomas
March 5, 1889.
MR. EVERETT —
Your incompetence is intolerable. Knowing Mr. Kennard was jailed in Omaha for three days then released without charge does not ease my fears. What I want to know is why he was arrested. Your claim the police report is sealed is outlandish. You forget my background in law. Only children and presidents have their records sealed. And as for your startling information about Mr. Harting, I am well aware of his associations with racketeers.
Had I the time, I would already know more about Mr. Kennard, including his whereabouts before moving to New York. Mr. Kennard did not materialize as a ghost. You will not extort any more money for information already promised. I demand you fulfill your contract.
T. Gadwell
March 5, 1889.
FATHER —
I will not apologize to your man Fowler. That you are blind to his incompetent caretaking must be another convenient effect of the laudanum. – T.
March 5, 1889.
MARY —
I returned from the wedding elated to see your delicate script, yet I was accosted the moment I opened your letter. I would like to know which of your friends wrote such slanderous gossip. You know full well I did not escort anyone to Penelope’s wedding. You have no right to claim me insincere and untrustworthy, nor do you have any foundation for rebuking alleged actions. While I share my love and concern, you report on the eiderdown pillows. You are angry with me?
In case you care to learn the facts before accusing me of being a libertine, my arranged dinner companion was not on my arm the entire evening and is a cousin I have not seen since childhood.
The idea you think my love is some kind of game is preposterous. If that were true I should hope I could find better amusement than dealing with a family who finds me beneath contempt without reason. I dare say, most parents consider me a desirable suitor. I am an eligible gentleman of means with a reputable family and full head of hair.
And what do you believe of my work? You carried on as if I spend my time cavorting and sipping champagne because I sometimes dine with my elderly neighbor. Most days I am sequestered with only the sounds of my scratching pen. My nights are long and often sleepless; I dine on burnt roast and stale bread; and my only company is the lushington in a stupor on my study floor. When I venture to the market, I am cornered by saps eager to know if I am done with my next masterpiece. It has been four months, so of course I must have finished by now. How easy it is to write. How entertaining and simple; they should also take it up as a hobby so they can afford an extra girl in the summer.
The warmth in this friendless winter is your letters, and now that is tainted. Must I wonder what irrational feminine hysterics await me because I was seen in the company of another woman? What does it matter? I am a cad, “an insincere letch using my fancy words to woo every woman in town.” Think what you will and do what you must. For now I am too busy wooing every woman in town!
March 6, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
As soon as I arrived back in Newport I felt as if someone were watching me. I have not seen anyone yet but am unable to shake the feeling I am back in harm’s way. Then again, after the last row with my father I would rather face a scalawag. I took your good advice to make amends with my father now he is recovered. My father has healed well; back to his old self I would say. My mistake was assuming a mere brush with death would change him.
After the wedding, I knocked on my parents’ suite and Mother showed me into the sitting room. Her needlepoint canvas was on the floor.
“I need to speak with Father. Is he awake?”
“Yes, but he’s not accepting visitors.”
I threw my gloves on the coffee table. “I’m not a visitor.”
“Keep your voice down. Of course you’re not a visitor,” she said. “That’s not what I meant. He’s in a fine pucker, Thomas. You know how he gets. Why don’t you leave him a note before —?”
“A note? This isn’t something to write in a note. Mother, I have to speak to him.”
She looked out the window to the bustling street below. “You know how I feel about the grief between you and your father, but you need to give him more time. Go and work on your wonderful book. He’ll send his letter when he’s ready.”
“Yes … well … I’m ready now.” I plucked the top hat from my head, dropped it beside my gloves, and strode into the bedroom.
My father rested in bed, his torso propped up on a thick pile of pillows against the carved oak headboard. His face was far from the sunken frame when I had last seen him lying in a bed. He had on a fresh nightshirt, his hair was combed, and his thick mustache was trimmed. In fact he looked a little tanned and was smiling at something amusing in the newspaper on his lap.
