HELLO, AVERY â
I found the note you left in the pantry. The accompanying box of pen nibs was a nice touch.
No need to worry, good chap, I sniffed out my lucky socks. The fifteenth of June or elseâI shall scratch the date in my forearm.
T. G.
May 7, 1889.
DEAR HENRY â
If you were here slouched on the chaise washing down my melancholy with Irish coffee, you would tell me to sift through my torment for book fodder. I shall endure your firm hand if you allow a man must first purge his thoughts to see them clearly. My affair is like a tragic fable. I just wish I could blame Maryâs trickery and lies on a magic potion. Pray my seeping wounds dry with the ink.
I arrived at Winchester Manor just in time for afternoon tea. It was a presumptive gesture, but I needed to apologize to Mary for disappearing. For the first time, Henry, my writing imprisoned me in an overwhelming, maddening anxiety to perfect each word. You are correct; passion is not for the frail. But those outside the wondrous experience see only the neglect it causes. To my surprise, the butler let me in without an argument and directed me to the front sitting room where Mrs. Winchester was cataloging specimens. A fight, however, was still to come.
Mrs. Winchester raised her head from thick piles of cardboard and jars of milky liquid. She wore a full black dress with a high lace collar and swung a pair of magnifying spectacles between her thumb and index finger. âWhat brings you here today, Thomas? Mary, I suppose.â I found her biting tone filled with detestable innuendo most inappropriate.
She listened with a bland expression as I asked forgiveness for my rude behavior in staying away so long. I believed her shrug meant to show indifference, but then she suggested I stay for tea. She tossed her glasses onto the cluttered workbench and led me to the drawing room.
I commented on the nice sunshine after the terrible storm and asked how her window fared. The window in Maryâs room leaked but Abigail felt repairs could wait until summer. I offered to send Fowler right over, but Abigail was incensed. âIâll not hear another word, Thomas. Iâm perfectly capable of taking care of my own affairs.â As I followed Abigail into the parlor, I worried for Maryâs physical health as well as her mental state.
Mary entered wearing a plain cream colored gown beneath a thick brown shawl. Her cheeks were pale and her lips drawn as she sat opposite Mrs. Winchester and filled our teacups before her own. âMr. Gadwell, to what do we owe the pleasure?â
I cleared my throat. âAs I was just explaining, Iâm here to apologize for my abrupt absence. I would have been here sooner if not for the weather and, well, getting carried away with my work. Iâve neglected you both and am ashamed of myself.â
Mrs. Winchester inquired how my wordsmithing was going, to which I gave a quick outline. âBut enough of that. You donât want to get me started or I might ramble all afternoon.â
âDonât be so modest, Mr. Gadwell,â Mary said. âHearing of your little novel is rather intriguing. In fact it sounds so simple, really. I should think anyone could give it a try.â
Mrs. Winchesterâs face lit up. She clapped and chimed in how she finds reading easy enough. She wanted to know if writing was so simple.
âThatâs a matter of opinion I assure you. Nevertheless, I do sincerely apologize again for my delay.â
Mary waved her hand as if dismissing a servant and said there was no need. My hackles rose.
We sat in uncomfortable silence while Mrs. Winchester added three sugar cubes and a healthy pour of cream to her tea. Then all of sudden Mrs. Winchester began gushing about Miss Petrova and how she was taking lessons in Cambridge, right near my family home, and was receiving high praise. She pulled a clipping from her pocket and shoved it in my hand.
âIsnât that a lovely rendering? And what a talent. The dear girl writes only that sheâs enjoying herself tremendously. Sheâs so modest.â She turned to Mary. âShe really is a beauty, isnât that so, Thomas?â
When I made no reply, Mrs. Winchester continued. According to Mrs. Winchester, I had somehow made an impression on Miss Petrova. Why else, she concluded, would the young lady ask Mrs. Winchester to send her regards. My only reply was to ask Mrs. Winchester if she read Russian.
âRussian, oh dear me, no. Sheâs been taking English lessons at a fantastic pace. Beauty and intelligence is such a rare combination, donât you think? Well, I must finish my needlepoint for the charity auction. Iâm sure, Thomas, you prefer chatting with a pretty young girl than an old crane like me.â She eyed Mary. âMen are so fickle, donât you agree, Mary? Iâll be in the sewing room, within earshot I remind you. Thomas, you mind your manners. I donât believe the gossip I hear about you, but still a young woman must take precautions. Ta ta.â She plucked the clipping from my hold before sweeping from the room with unexpected nimbleness.
I began to question what in the world she was talking about, when Mary shook her head and asked in a loud voice about the weather on the ride over. Mary nodded toward the door and pointed to her ears. I heard the floorboards creek on the other side of the door followed by muffled footsteps leading down the hall.
âNow sheâs gone. She likes to eavesdrop.â
âI gather. What was that nonsense about my being fickle and town gossip?â
âOh, you havenât heard? Youâre madly in love with Miss Katya Petrova, the extremely beautiful and talented opera singer. The fortune teller from Thanksgiving even predicted it. Mrs. Winchester has spoken of nothing else for the past week; ever since she got a letter from the Russian goddess.
âYou two are the perfect couple,â Mary continued. âSheâs tall, much taller than me, a perfect height for you. She has long dark hair, longer than mine, thicker too, with lovely amber highlights. Isnât it a shame I donât have highlights like Miss Petrova.â
âWhat are you talking about? Whatâs wrong with that woman?â
Mary put down her teacup and moved to the fireplace. She faced me with her back pressed against the marble mantle and asked if I did anything to encourage the opera singer. From Mrs. Winchesterâs account I was a tongue-tied schoolboy who practically drooled the night we first met. Mary mentioned my infatuation with talented musicians, but I stopped her.
âIf youâre speaking of Rebecca,â I paused, âI mean, Gertrude, this is quite a different situation. And I didnât drool. I hardly paid her any attention at Thanksgiving. She didnât even speak English.â I stood up and faced Mary. âThis is ludicrous. I have no interest in Miss Petrova. I was polite, she was polite, but that was all. Sheâs pretty, I suppose, but not in any way I found remarkable or even that memorable. That night, every night, I think of you. Youâre so much more beautiful, Mary. You mustnât believe Abigailâs idle chatter.â
Mary sighed. âI donât. I believe you, Thomas. Really, I do. Iâm at my witâs end. Itâs that ill-tempered woman and herââ
I suggested she ignore Abigail, but Mary gave a bitter laugh and claimed ignoring her was impossible. After hearing the routine Mary had shouldered for five weeks, I had to agree.
While I burrow in my study, Mrs. Winchester wakes Mary in the middle of the night to share gossip from the maids. Over breakfast she rambles until Maryâs ears ring. By lunch Mrs. Winchester has read to Mary for at least two hours (an inconceivable chore by anyoneâs standards), and then Mary is dragged into the foundry to help identify bugs. By nightfall Mary is exhausted, yet evening cake is served with tears about a brain tumor and Mrs. Winchesterâs impending death.
âWhy didnât you warn me?â Mary asked.
I had no idea she was so grueling and shared this with Mary. My mistake was adding that Mrs. Winchester never acted so strangely with me.
âAre you implying this is somehow my fault?â
âOf course not.â I sat back down and motioned for her to do the same. She shook her head and remained standing. âMary, you mustnât stay here. Youâre obviously exhausted, and sheâs completely incorrigible. You should go home and rest. See your sister. Iâll meet you soon.â She mistook my intent.
âI look exhausted? Oh, never mind that. I canât leave when itâs obvious she wants me to. Donât you see, Thomas, sheâs playing games. It all began with that horrible dress.â
I had almost forgotten about the medieval frock and asked if Abigail explained her antics. Mary told me that as soon as I left that night, Abigailâs tears dried up and she went straight off to bed. Nothing had been said about it since.
âI donât understand why, but I think this has something to do with you,â Mary said. âSheâs attached to you in some way.â
As Mary left the fireplace to take a turn around the room, she speculated about a tragic dead son or whether I might represent the son Abigail always wanted. I watched Mary's brow twitch as she paced with her hands clasped behind her back. Held by her concentration, for the first time I looked at Mary without her becoming self-conscious and turning away. Worry struck me like Malcolmâs fist in the fourth grade. She was rare and precious; far too precious to lose.
âMary, please sit down. A man can only watch a handsome creature strut about for so long. Keep pacing and Iâm afraid Iâll lose my status as a gentleman.â
She stopped, and a faint blush rose from her chest. âYou always know just what to say. Someone taught you well.â
I wanted to know what she meant and asked if she thought of me as some sort of Casanova. She made a good point.
âShouldnât I wonder about a man who spends hours writing dialogue?â
I felt edgy from the obvious strain between us, but instead of a quip I told her I was not well versed in womanly innuendo and asked that she tell me plainly what she was driving at.
âI suppose thatâs fair because I donât understand you sometimes, either. You want it plain? All right then. Youâve got a well-polished silver tongue which I first noticed at the hotel. Maybe the moonlight softened the edges but donât think I havenât questioned your skills. If I didnât know you and happened to overhear you enticing another young lady, I might think you some sort of smooth talking bilker.â
I imagined a man with thick side whiskers pitching hair cream from a cart and chuckled. âA bilker? Me?â
Mary tipped her chin to hide a smile.
âWhat gave me away?â I asked, âWas it my finely choreographed stumbling or maybe the stuttering at your fatherâs dinner table?â