“I suppose you enjoy frightening an old woman to her grave, young lady.” Mrs. Winchester scowled at me and added, “I see what’s kept you so long. I nearly sent out a search party. I was at my wits’ end with worry that you were blown into the sea. Really, Miss Harting, you should show more courtesy. You’re a guest in my home and I will not tolerate insubordination.”
Mary nodded, but I stepped in front of her and bowed. “It’s I who must apologize, Abigail. Mary insisted we hurry back, but I’ve been so confined and consumed with my writing, and Miss Harting was kind enough to indulge me. I had no idea the hour was this late. Please accept my apologies.”
Mrs. Winchester shook her head. “Go home, Thomas. I won’t spend all evening worrying about you too. Go quickly before the storm hits.” Mrs. Winchester huffed, then pivoted like a Union soldier and disappeared into the house.
Mary allowed me to walk her up the steps but did not offer her hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Gadwell. I hope we see you again soon,” she said. Mary curtsied then leaned toward me. “But no bushes,” she whispered.
The storm was indeed fierce. For several days I confined myself to the study. Though you may find this hard to understand, it was marvelous. Creative ideas burst forth like tulips through the bitter earth, and I wrote with a zeal I thought lost.
The storm is over, but I am unable to stop working. Mary and her soft kisses haunt me, yet I feel desperate to finish on time. I must pull myself away. A full week has passed with clear skies. What will Mary think? Perhaps I understand a little better why Henry prefers bachelorhood. My approaching deadline is pressing. But so is my guilt.
Your loving son,
Thomas
May 6, 1889.
HELLO, AVERY —
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 else—I shall scratch the date in my forearm.
T. G.
May 7, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
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 Mary’s 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. “What brings you here today, Thomas? Mary, I suppose.” 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 Mary’s room leaked but Abigail felt repairs could wait until summer. I offered to send Fowler right over, but Abigail was incensed. “I’ll not hear another word, Thomas. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my own affairs.” As I followed Abigail into the parlor, I worried for Mary’s 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. “Mr. Gadwell, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
I cleared my throat. “As I was just explaining, I’m 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. I’ve neglected you both and am ashamed of myself.”
Mrs. Winchester inquired how my wordsmithing was going, to which I gave a quick outline. “But enough of that. You don’t want to get me started or I might ramble all afternoon.”
“Don’t be so modest, Mr. Gadwell,” Mary said. “Hearing of your little novel is rather intriguing. In fact it sounds so simple, really. I should think anyone could give it a try.”
Mrs. Winchester’s face lit up. She clapped and chimed in how she finds reading easy enough. She wanted to know if writing was so simple.
“That’s a matter of opinion I assure you. Nevertheless, I do sincerely apologize again for my delay.”
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.
“Isn’t that a lovely rendering? And what a talent. The dear girl writes only that she’s enjoying herself tremendously. She’s so modest.” She turned to Mary. “She really is a beauty, isn’t that so, Thomas?”
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.
“Russian, oh dear me, no. She’s been taking English lessons at a fantastic pace. Beauty and intelligence is such a rare combination, don’t you think? Well, I must finish my needlepoint for the charity auction. I’m sure, Thomas, you prefer chatting with a pretty young girl than an old crane like me.” She eyed Mary. “Men are so fickle, don’t you agree, Mary? I’ll be in the sewing room, within earshot I remind you. Thomas, you mind your manners. I don’t believe the gossip I hear about you, but still a young woman must take precautions. Ta ta.” 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.
“Now she’s gone. She likes to eavesdrop.”
“I gather. What was that nonsense about my being fickle and town gossip?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard? You’re 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.
“You two are the perfect couple,” Mary continued. “She’s tall, much taller than me, a perfect height for you. She has long dark hair, longer than mine, thicker too, with lovely amber highlights. Isn’t it a shame I don’t have highlights like Miss Petrova.”
“What are you talking about? What’s wrong with that woman?”
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. Winchester’s 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.
“If you’re speaking of Rebecca,” I paused, “I mean, Gertrude, this is quite a different situation. And I didn’t drool. I hardly paid her any attention at Thanksgiving. She didn’t even speak English.” I stood up and faced Mary. “This is ludicrous. I have no interest in Miss Petrova. I was polite, she was polite, but that was all. She’s pretty, I suppose, but not in any way I found remarkable or even that memorable. That night, every night, I think of you. You’re so much more beautiful, Mary. You mustn’t believe Abigail’s idle chatter.”
