Mr. Duniway looked at Avery. “I can dismiss you as one of those creative sorts who wants attention,” he said, then turned to Mary, “but what is this?”
Mary picked up her skirt, rustled it side to side, and grinned. “I'm told it's the latest fashion from Paris,” she said.
Mrs. Winchester huffed. “I hope you didn’t think Newport too artless to appreciate fashion. Your joke is not at all amusing, Miss Harting.”
Mary was stunned—but just for a second. She bowed with ease and asked we accept her apologies while she changed into something more appropriate. Mrs. Winchester stopped her, claiming there was not enough time before dinner and she did not want the food to get cold. This was when Avery turned to me and said, “Wait, the girl in San Diego?” This time I did elbow him in the side. Avery got the message to hold his tongue, but Mrs. Winchester saw our exchange and frowned.
“Harting from New York? Is your father Charlton Harting?” Mr. Duniway asked.
Mary’s voice caught when she asked if he knew her father.
“Only of him,” he said, then turned from Mary and demanded a tall gin.
Cocktails were served and small talk included the long winter blamed for souring the stock market, Avery’s complaint of bootleg printing in Europe, and Abigail’s obscure reference to a Vaudevillian act none of us had seen. Mary was polite, but quiet, and I was distracted by Mrs. Winchester’s malicious game. At last dinner was served; however, the addition of silverware only provided an excuse for the stilted conversation.
Mary asked Mrs. Duniway when they would return to Newport. Mrs. Duniway asked her husband who replied, “In the summer.” Mrs. Duniway turned to Mary and said, “In the summer.”
In a gallant effort, Mary then turned to Mr. Duniway and asked how he knew of her father. He waved his knife at her. “That’s not dinner conversation,” he said. Mrs. Winchester barked for the servers to clear the plates and bring the lamb at once.
We continued in silence, though Mr. Duniway had a raucous way of chewing, and our misery at last ended when Mrs. Duniway announced a headache just as dessert was cleared. I was buttoning my coat by the front door when Mrs. Winchester tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to stay. There was something she wanted to discuss with me. I looked to Avery.
“Oh, your houseguest can go with Clara and Walter,” Mrs. Winchester said. Neither looked enthusiastic but agreed.
I watched the carriage pull away then turned to confront Abigail. There was something I wanted to discuss with her too.
“She went back into the parlor,” Mary said.
Mary and I were alone. I stepped toward her, straightening my tie and flashing a wide smirk, but Mrs. Winchester bellowed and Mary did not want to keep her waiting.
Mrs. Winchester stood by the fading fire with her arms wrapped around her like a child in the snow. As I stepped forward, Abigail sighed. “Oh, my dear, Mary, I’m so sorry. I say and do things even I don’t understand. My doctors have no idea why, only that it may have something to do with my brain. It could be a hemorrhage or even a tumor. I think it must be a tumor. I can feel it growing. Oh, I just know it’ll get so big I won’t be able to pick up my head.”
Mary glanced at me but all I could do was shrug.
Mary led Mrs. Winchester to the flowered settee then rang the servant’s bell and asked for three strong cups of tea.
“Make it two,” Mrs. Winchester added. “Thomas, you must go. I want to speak with Mary alone. Thank you for coming. I’ll see you soon.”
It was so abrupt and unsettling that I left Mary sitting on the loveseat patting Mrs. Winchester’s hand, her expression that of tender compassion mixed with confusion.
Though the awful dinner is over, the folly continues. Can I share the subsequent decline? It is maddening.
The following afternoon I left Avery in the library with my revisions and went to the market to meet Mary. I wanted to know if Mrs. Winchester had explained herself. I loitered in front of the market for an hour, but Mary never showed up. Overcome by visions of henchmen in bushes, I went straight to Winchester Manor.
From the doorstep the butler assured me Mary was inside and had not left all day. I begged entry, but the madam was not up to accepting visitors. The butler closed the door without further explanation.
As soon as I returned home I wrote a note inviting Mrs. Winchester and her temporary companion for tea the next afternoon. I dispatched Mr. Fowler and was tickled by a quick reply. Mrs. Winchester was too fatigued for tea, but Mary was free to go unless she was needed. My delight was short lived.
The next day I endured one of the worst of my literary career. Putnam’s “simple edits” for Foster included reworking the entire second half, and Avery described my new story as unimaginative and without a clear audience. I tried to explain, but Avery compared my drafts with other writers in his care and emphasized his deep concern no less than five times.
Nearing two o’clock, the appointed time for tea, I handed Avery his hat and directed him to Mrs. Potter’s for fish fry and cobbler.
“Is someone calling? Mary, perhaps? She’s extremely handsome; however, the last thing you need right now is a damsel in distress. At least now I understand the trip to New York. I should have known.”
“Have a nice afternoon, Avery. Don’t get lost on your way back.”
Ten minutes later I heard a soft knock on the door. I was so excited I tripped on the braided hall rug and caught myself on the door handle. I thrust opened the door with boyish delight to discover a lad in a thick Cavalry coat holding out an envelope. Mrs. Winchester apologized for Mary’s absence and declared Mary a dear to stay and help an old woman who felt like “the underside of a barge.”
Since then, I have hand-delivered flyers about upcoming town elections and asked to borrow coffee, but Abigail will not let me in or Mary out. As I write these words, Henry, my blood is hot. I must do something—anything.
Thomas
April 29, 1889.
DEAR MOTHER —
Thank you for the brown bread and cherry preserves. Your package came as a nice surprise, and I was thoroughly buttered up by the time I read the enclosed note. Father held out longer than I expected. How did you persuade him to tell you? Yes, Mary is still in Newport but you need not worry. Our scarce time together is not worthy of summertime gossip. Plus my agent, Avery, arrived just in time to catalogue my writing flaws and play chaperone.
Do you remember Avery from the Easter party? He was the man Father seized by the arm to badger about paper manufacturing. After an hour, the poor man looked ready to gnaw off his own arm. Avery left yesterday morning. Before catching the ferry, however, he cornered me in the kitchen. His grim expression was halting. Then when he began scratching his head, I prepared for the worst. Avery’s itchy scalp means bad news.
To his credit, Avery managed to convince Putnam to buy two books. Before you plan a celebratory dinner, there is a caveat. I must have final edits of my second book and a polished draft of a third finished by the middle of June. It was the first I had heard of a deadline. The panic on my face prompted Avery to offer me one of the padded dining room chairs.
The time constraint is my own fault. The publishing world is small, and Harpers gave an unflattering reference about my punctuality. I recall similar remarks about turning in homework assignments on time. Even so, Putnam is giving me a second chance. But if I miss the deadline (in which case Avery will kill me), they pull the deal. As Avery puts it, “You either submit the work on time or they cross you off and go on to the next author. It’s that simple for them.”
Mother, this seems a daunting task. How can I write well under duress? Avery is convinced I can meet the deadline if I rid myself of distractions. He, of course, means Mary.
When Avery stopped me, I was on my way to find Mary. My determination to see Mary matches Mrs. Winchester’s resolve to keep her from me. At least in this instance, my tenacity was rewarded. Mary and I managed to slip away for a few hours. As you delight in a bit of romance, I feel obliged to share this with you.
The brisk morning air held a dense mist that settled like a stout man awaiting his dinner. I considered taking the carriage but feared drawing attention to visiting Mary without a plausible excuse. As I considered my options, I remembered Mrs. Winchester’s ridicule of Mary’s pedestrian habits. Walking was not only foolhardy but leads to all manner of illnesses, not the least of which is flat feet. Mrs. Winchester scolded Mary for her daily sojourns—at least three turns through the gardens and one pass around the front drive. I thus decided to walk.
