“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.”
I explained the galling lad was my agent and the garb my doing. It seemed my whim might help the evening’s situation. Mary wanted to know what he was doing in Newport, but that was still unanswered.
“Never mind him. Are you well? I couldn’t have waited another minute to see you. She must have you frantic.”
“You could call it that. There’s really too much to tell you before dinner, but I’m going to the market tomorrow. I’ll be there at noontime when the eggs are fresh and the store well-stocked. She must have said it had to be noon at least four times. If I return with eggs that have even the tiniest spot she’ll be upset, and no, her girl can’t go because she’s washing sheets and simply won’t have time.” Mary fluttered her hands and shook her head. “Anyway, I’m sure you must need something from the market now that you have a houseguest.”
Mrs. Winchester called for me to come see her new crab spider. I leaned close and pressed my lips to Mary’s ear. I felt her warm breath shudder on my neck. “I’ve missed you,” I whispered.
“Mary!” Mrs. Winchester shrieked.
Mary jumped, knocking me in the jaw. She apologized then grabbed a wad of the long skirt. “Thomas, please tell her I’ll be right in. I have to pin this or I’m afraid I’ll tumble over it.”
The other guests arrived as I joined Mrs. Winchester and Avery in the living room so I was spared another viewing of spiders pinned to cardboard. Introductions were made to the Duniways from Connecticut, a stately couple on the island to handle a household crisis.
Seems Abigail saw their house girl wearing the mistress’s chinchilla coat around town. Mrs. Duniway was beside herself with gratitude for Abigail’s letter. On the other hand, Mr. Duniway wanted to know why in the world his wife needed a fur coat in summer. The building tiff was interrupted by movement at the door. We turned. Mary stood in the doorway.
She had indeed attempted to pin the dress, and it was a valiant effort but of little use. If not for her twisted hair secured by a pearl clip and the composed, delicate way she carried her slight frame, I would have mistaken her for a gutterpup.
Mrs. Winchester waved her arms in a grand sweeping motion as she presented her companion, Miss Harting from New York. I then expected her to explain the dress, perhaps share that it was sentimental and she had asked Mary to wear it as a reminder of a departed relative. Mrs. Winchester remained silent as her guests gaped.
