My sweet Mary found herself trapped in the rampage for almost an hour before she was rescued by her student. With a broken ankle and deep cuts across his face and arms, Mr. Tzukernik carried Mary to safety. My gratitude is overwhelming; I just wish he had arrived sooner. I have yet to comprehend the terror she must have felt.

Miss Ross sent a telegram stating Mary was in the hospital but the inept girl gave no indication of her condition. You can never imagine the horrors I conjured on my way to New York. For the first time in my life I was seasick. Then my arrival at the hospital caused a ruckus.

Mr. Harting was seated in the waiting room with Mary’s older sister, her husband, and their new son. Before I could inquire of Mary’s condition, Mr. Harting seized my arm and told the hospital staff I was involved in the riot. A nurse sent for the police while two orderlies held me down in a chair.

I gave the policeman my steamer ticket as alibi, but when Mr. Harting mentioned his personal friendship with the police chief, the officer pinned my hands behind my back and reached for his ruffles. It was a Harting of equal influence who rescued me.

Mr. and Mrs. Harting argued before Mr. Harting left in a rage. When I approached to thank Mrs. Harting, she demanded my silence, dragged me by the forearm to a seat in the corner of the lobby, and insisted we speak before she would allow me to see Mary.

Mrs. Harting recounted that when Mary returned from Newport she would not consider visitors and locked herself in her room. She refused to dress for dinner and could be heard crying through the bedroom door for hours on end. “That was your doing, I’m sure,” she said.

I tried to apologize but she waved her index finger to stop me. “There’s no need to apologize to me. I understand all too well, I assure you. I have two daughters.” She lifted her handbag, fluffed the lace detailing on her skirt, then reset the bag on her lap before she continued.

“Mary wasn’t eating much. She had no color at all. I tried to talk to her, but she’s as stubborn as her father. Well, I couldn’t let her continue that way, could I? She wasn’t taking any air at all. I made her go. She didn’t want to leave the house, but …” Mrs. Harting brushed a nonexistent hair from her cheek. “I made her go and tutor that horrible family. I just wanted her to enjoy an airing.”

With a gloved hand she tugged down the edge of her black bolero jacket. “After the attack Mary begged me to write to you. She wasn’t sure you’d ever want to see her again, but I knew you’d come. Men always show up at the last moment.” She examined me as if I were a prospective end table and sighed. “I knew Charlton’s shenanigans would only make matters worse. He’s never understood girls. I kept telling him … well that doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing to be done with girls in love. I should know.” She stood and said, “Go and see Mary. And steady yourself, young man, she needs you.”

She walked away before I could ask, but I suspect Mrs. Harting instructed Miss Ross to send the telegram.

Once I found Mary’s room I paused in the hallway to do as Mrs. Harting suggested, but Henry, nothing could have prepared me. When I opened the door my knees buckled.

The deep olive walls and walnut floor were a stark contrast to the crisp white linens covering Mary’s puny frame. She was sleeping, breathing as if napping on a summer’s afternoon, but her forehead was bandaged with thick gauze and her left arm was set in a sling. When I stepped closer I saw her lips were swollen and cracked, cut marks covered her neck, and a deep purple bruise ran the length of her right cheek. The doctor told me her physical injuries will heal; however, Mary is so idealistic. I fear more than her arm broke that afternoon.

I have not cried since crushing my finger at summer camp, but right then I fell to my knees at her bedside and wept. My eyes were still closed when I felt Mary brush the tears from my cheek. I opened my eyes to find her looking at me with a tender smile. I took her hands and kissed the scratches on her palm and fingers. She never looked more radiant.

“Thomas,” she whispered. Fresh tears ran down the side of her face and onto her pillow.

I pulled her hand to my heart. “Mary, can you ever forgive me? I was a complete and utter imbecile. You were right about everything, my ego and my pride. I acted like a loon because I was jealous and afraid of losing you. Mary, I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment we danced under the stars at the hotel. When I learned you were hurt …” I was unable to continue.

Her voice was small but clear. “I love you too, Thomas.”

She looked as if she wanted to say more but was too weak. Mary turned toward the sunlight streaming in from the window over her bed and I watched her body sink into the mattress.

I was still on my knees and what came next was so simple; so unlike my usual style of fumbling over too many words. “Will you marry me?” I blurted. Henry, you are the first to know we are engaged.

Mary never agreed to wed Kennard. Mary’s sister, however, told me Mr. Harting accepted Kennard’s proposal on Mary’s behalf and has begun planning their wedding. It gives me chills to think my arrogance and her father’s chicanery might have forced her to marry that swine. This brings me to what I must tell you, Henry. Mr. Kennard is a fraud.

Kennard had the unfortunate shock of walking into Mary’s room just as we sealed our engagement with a kiss. He was flabbergasted, expressed his disgust in ruffian terms, and knocked over a tray of instruments as he stormed from the room. At my request, he agreed to meet with me that evening.

The Muskrat shook my hand like a long lost friend then bragged about the notable size of his real estate investments. This was distasteful and contrived to avoid the topic at hand. Sensing my disapproval, or perhaps realizing I was about to discuss the finality of his attachment to Mary, he began speaking of his childhood. I believe he was hoping to find common footing and felt my being from Boston, so near his home in Worcester, was the closest he would come. He had no idea how close.

Mr. Kennard told me he was a twin, though he lost his twin to smallpox. He and his brother loved to do acrobatics and once spent an entire summer building a fort on a lake. Have I ever told you of my childhood adventures? Henry, he was telling the story of my old friend William Crawley. That was my lake and my fort. I still have no idea how I stayed on the barstool. Of course he had no way of knowing my intimate knowledge of his tale. I let him foam at the mouth until his fabrication so exaggerated he stopped like a galloping horse before a pond.

He has stolen William’s story as his own, and I must find out why. I have an idea, a sneaking suspicion of intrigue and malice. You see, along with his lies I was also left with a terrible rash on my palm. How coincidence has played its hand—no less than a royal flush.

The train has just arrived in Boston so I must leave you wanting more. Seems you have taught me well.

Thomas

June 15, 1889.

MY PRECIOUS MARY —

I love you and hope you are healing with speed. I met with my father and unearthed gold. My prospecting now takes me to Worcester where all, I hope, shall be revealed. Our future depends on it.

Your adoring,

Thomas

June 19, 1889.

HENRY —

The treachery of deceit appeals to the wicked in ways honest men can never fathom. If I understood such altered minds I too would be tempted by money and command, but such ways are best left as stories to liven parties and debate over cigars. Sins unravel until the dishonest are left naked and shivering.

When last I wrote I had just arrived in Boston, rather late, and my parents were asleep. The quandary to wake my father lasted a full ten minutes, to which reason prevailed. I had a fretful night and was dressed and waiting for my father in the front hallway early the next morning.

Mother rose first. Fearing I was a thief, she threw a pewter candlestick at my head from the upstairs landing. My fortune was her awful aim. The candlestick knocked over a flower vase before making a pronounced chip in the marble floor. In response I glanced at the broken vase then asked if Father was awake. She shook her head and demanded we all eat breakfast before the inquisition.

It was not until I pushed cold eggs around my plate that Mother noticed my hand. She had seen that rash before and wanted to know why in the world I had handled talc.

“I haven't,” I said. I eyed my father.

My mother huffed as she picked up our plates. “You’re both giving me a rash. Go talk already, get it over with. I’m going to make some bread.”

Father and I went into his study, but before he could take his usual debate position I said, “I know you wrote to me about it, but I need you to go through your dealings with William Crawley one more time.”

He leaned against the corner of his desk with the dejected look of a felon awaiting sentencing. He said again he was not proud of what happened and saw no reason to dredge up the past. But his feeble protest did not crack my resolve. I told him it was time I knew all the details.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re so interested or perhaps you want me to guess?” he asked. “From the look on your face, I agree with your mother. This has to do with a woman, not an old friend.”

“Please, Father, you already admitted a great deal in your letter. I just have a few more questions then I’ll never bring it up again. It’ll be like the bribes that went in Boss Tweed’s pocket.”

He grumbled his consent then opened his humidor and shoved a cigar in his mouth. I took my place by the window but was too nervous to lean on the sill.

“I ran into William in ’79 when I went to New York City to look into vacant land investments,” Father said. “William was unshaven and had on a dirty overcoat. I started to walk away because he looked like an absurd soaplock. That's when he grabbed my arm and told me he worked as a bank teller at the Midland Bank in Worcester and found himself mixed up in the bank robbery.”

I knew all of this, so I stopped him. I wanted to know more about the counterfeiting. Why did William agree to hold the counterfeiting plates instead of going to the police? Father told me William admitted wanting the bribe money to impress a girl. My father then looked at me hard. “He was acting like all stupid boys in love.” When I ignored his comment, he added, “I think William was hornswoggled by —”

“Hornswoggled?”

“Don’t be smart with me, Thomas. I think he was tricked into holding the counterfeiter’s plates. The plates were evidence that would have convicted William and not the real shofulman. When William ran into me, federal agents wanted to question him.”

I shook my head. The pieces did not fall into place. If William was in so much danger, why had he risked taking the plates to New York? He could have disposed of them in Worcester. My father looked a little troubled. He never thought to ask William that question.

I then asked my father if William had the counterfeit plates with him when they bumped into each other. No. William left everything at his hotel.

“Did you go to the hotel with William to get the plates?” I asked.