AVERY —
Final edits are enclosed and I am now focused on the polished draft of the next book. I have no intention of missing the June deadline.
T. G.
May 19, 1889.
DEAR MARY —
This letter may never see an envelope. Given my current state it may fuel the fire before I finish. Why then do I make overtures I will not fulfill? I must release my emotions at least on paper or wake one morning, put on my overcoat and heavy hunting boots, and walk into the sea until the world is again peaceful.
It has been over a month since our parting, yet when I stop writing and sit in the quiet for even a moment I am haunted by images of you and the Muskrat taunting my foolishness as you plan your happy future together. By now you may be living as newlyweds, setting up your household and waking in each other’s arms while I nibble crackers and sleep just a few hours each night.
There are so many regrets forever trapped in Abigail’s salon. If I could go back in time, I would change so much of what I said and how I reacted. I was caught off guard, and my anger flared more readily than I ever thought possible. But even so, I am still unable to reconcile your secrets with the forthright woman who so dazzled me in our seaside gazebo. Worse yet, I loathe myself for not proposing when I wanted. If I had, mine would have been your first. Instead you forever share that precious memory with someone else. Nothing can change that now.
And how could we let that meddling old shrew ruin our time together? I do believe her regard for me has changed. Mrs. Winchester seemed shocked by the tongue-lashing I gave her at the market. Perhaps I should have had better hold of my temper, but she chose a most fragile moment to confide her designs I marry her little protégé. She had the audacity to speak to me as a loving grandmother safeguarding my interests. My only regret is I must find a new grocer.
Mary, our spiteful words have not changed my feelings for you though I pray for such a release. My torment continues because I still love you. I love you. I have run out of fancy words for my affection and metaphors for your smile. But will I ever know your true feelings for me and my work?
Our fight could have ended with soft apologies had you refrained from attacking my Achilles heel. My pride, my oversized ego is too bruised. I wait for an apology but there is no letter in the box or telegraph at the office. I yearn to leave the image of your face here to gather mildew with the trinkets on the shelf and flee to a yacht in the sunshine. You were the woman to whom I pledged my heart, the mother of my children, the love that inspires writers to …
May 20, 1889.
DEAR MISS PETROVA —
Thank you for another generous invitation. I can think of nothing more intriguing than hearing you sing; however, a trip to Chicago is not any more plausible than San Francisco. Your tour sounds flawless, and I hope you are delighting in the fruits of your labor. Though unsure how long I will remain in Newport, I shall keep your schedule on my desk in hopes I may someday see you perform.
I wish you continued success.
Thomas M. Gadwell
May 24, 1889.
HENRY —
I thought you had traded Faneuil Hall for scones with the Queen. Welcome home.
As you have been submerged in the repressive ways of our forbearers, I take no offense. You are welcome here any time and never need wait for an invitation. I look forward to a visit. We can make considerable use of the wine cellar and immerse ourselves in the trade. If your stay includes any consolations other than my literary inadequacies, I ask that you remain in Boston until the spasm passes. My sights are stationed forward.
It might humor you to know that after Mary left Newport, Mr. Everett sent the missing arrest information on Lowell Kennard. He caught me at a most unfortunate time. I replied with a rather frenzied tirade on his tardiness and the societal lethargy that leads to economic devastation and men wearing open-necked shirts. The report itself did nothing to sweeten my mood.
The Muskrat was arrested for stealing a pipe and tin of tobacco. He was released to Mr. Harting, who I assume paid to have the record sealed. Of course Mr. Harting should prefer a petty thief for his daughter. Also, Mr. Everett still cannot find any records on Lowell Kennard prior to his employment at Harting Railways in ’79. Perhaps he did, in fact, appear as a ghost. I know I feel haunted.
Never mind, I am no longer worried about marauders and the Harting family. Life offers more productive endeavors like a visit from an old friend and finishing my draft on time.
See you soon,
Thomas
June 5, 1889.
DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER —
My delay in returning home is not from the interruption of interesting company or fine weather, as there has been little of either. My continued confinement is self-imposed and most critical.
With great humility I write to beg your permission to stay in Newport a bit longer. I know the summer home is soon full and apologize for the inconvenience. You know I would never ask for such a grand concession with so little notice unless the situation imperative. My deadline is fast approaching. I must and will meet my deadline. Regardless of the sacrifice, I shall not fail Avery or myself.
Your grateful son,
Thomas
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM
Newport Island Office
JUNE 8 1889: URGENT TELEGRAM RECEIVED.
MY SHIP SAILS TONIGHT.
SUMMER 1889
June 10, 1889.
TO MR. LOWELL KENNARD —
Your shameful display at the hospital this afternoon supports your reputation. That you were shocked by the circumstances does not explain your abhorrent behavior. As I wish to stifle any more unpleasantness, I request we meet this evening at the New York Polo Club. If you can employ civilized manners, we shall discuss our differences like gentlemen. If this is beyond your capacity, quite possible based on your colorful use of vulgar language, we shall reach a settlement in a more direct manner.
Thomas Marcus Gadwell
June 11, 1889.
MY DEAREST MARY —
Last evening I met with Mr. Kennard, and he is not the man he claims. I know this sounds ludicrous, but I must speak to my father at once. I leave New York for Boston in an hour.
My darling, this is urgent or I would never leave your hospital bed. Rest well and listen to the nurses. I shall return as soon as possible with what I hope are the answers to all our questions. If my theory about Lowell Kennard is correct, your father will never again insist you marry him.
With love,
Thomas
June 14, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
Have you ever been amazed by how much can change in just a few days? This letter is meant as a chronicle of events, but as it is fantastic, you must read it straightaway. By the way, if you seek my company in Newport you will find only crusty bread and an even crustier caretaker.
As you may have read in the news, New York is still reeling after last week’s horrendous riot. Wall Street has reopened even though ladies still slip on soot from the burned buildings and some men have taken to carrying pistols in their breast pockets. I applaud the honest Irishmen who took to the streets to protest oppression, but the battle against the corrupt union was indeed bloody. It was reported thirty-five men were slain and another fifty-five were wounded. The count, however, did not include the injuries of a young lady on her way home from teaching English.
