Mary sighed. “I don’t. I believe you, Thomas. Really, I do. I’m at my wit’s end. It’s that ill-tempered woman and her—”
I suggested she ignore Abigail, but Mary gave a bitter laugh and claimed ignoring her was impossible. After hearing the routine Mary had shouldered for five weeks, I had to agree.
While I burrow in my study, Mrs. Winchester wakes Mary in the middle of the night to share gossip from the maids. Over breakfast she rambles until Mary’s ears ring. By lunch Mrs. Winchester has read to Mary for at least two hours (an inconceivable chore by anyone’s standards), and then Mary is dragged into the foundry to help identify bugs. By nightfall Mary is exhausted, yet evening cake is served with tears about a brain tumor and Mrs. Winchester’s impending death.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Mary asked.
I had no idea she was so grueling and shared this with Mary. My mistake was adding that Mrs. Winchester never acted so strangely with me.
“Are you implying this is somehow my fault?”
“Of course not.” I sat back down and motioned for her to do the same. She shook her head and remained standing. “Mary, you mustn’t stay here. You’re obviously exhausted, and she’s completely incorrigible. You should go home and rest. See your sister. I’ll meet you soon.” She mistook my intent.
“I look exhausted? Oh, never mind that. I can’t leave when it’s obvious she wants me to. Don’t you see, Thomas, she’s playing games. It all began with that horrible dress.”
I had almost forgotten about the medieval frock and asked if Abigail explained her antics. Mary told me that as soon as I left that night, Abigail’s tears dried up and she went straight off to bed. Nothing had been said about it since.
“I don’t understand why, but I think this has something to do with you,” Mary said. “She’s attached to you in some way.”
As Mary left the fireplace to take a turn around the room, she speculated about a tragic dead son or whether I might represent the son Abigail always wanted. I watched Mary's brow twitch as she paced with her hands clasped behind her back. Held by her concentration, for the first time I looked at Mary without her becoming self-conscious and turning away. Worry struck me like Malcolm’s fist in the fourth grade. She was rare and precious; far too precious to lose.
“Mary, please sit down. A man can only watch a handsome creature strut about for so long. Keep pacing and I’m afraid I’ll lose my status as a gentleman.”
She stopped, and a faint blush rose from her chest. “You always know just what to say. Someone taught you well.”
I wanted to know what she meant and asked if she thought of me as some sort of Casanova. She made a good point.
“Shouldn’t I wonder about a man who spends hours writing dialogue?”
I felt edgy from the obvious strain between us, but instead of a quip I told her I was not well versed in womanly innuendo and asked that she tell me plainly what she was driving at.
“I suppose that’s fair because I don’t understand you sometimes, either. You want it plain? All right then. You’ve got a well-polished silver tongue which I first noticed at the hotel. Maybe the moonlight softened the edges but don’t think I haven’t questioned your skills. If I didn’t know you and happened to overhear you enticing another young lady, I might think you some sort of smooth talking bilker.”
I imagined a man with thick side whiskers pitching hair cream from a cart and chuckled. “A bilker? Me?”
Mary tipped her chin to hide a smile.
“What gave me away?” I asked, “Was it my finely choreographed stumbling or maybe the stuttering at your father’s dinner table?”
We laughed together for the first time in months, though exhaustion and tension fueled our jittery amusement. While I caught my breath, I asked if she really found me puzzling when most of the time I felt like a bumbling gull.
“All men are a bit of a mystery to our sex. Look at my father and his antics. He actually calls you …” she paused with wide eyes. “Do you want to know?”
I assured her not much was worse than what I had long imagined.
She took a breath. “He says you’re just another gadabout wasting your father’s money and using fancy words to—”
“I get it.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t say anything to change his mind.” She stepped forward and collapsed into a burgundy wingback chair across from the couch. “When I was in Abilene, I tried to tell him how I feel about you, but he wouldn’t listen. He told me I’m too young to know what’s important. Did you know you’re just a silly girl’s infatuation? He actually said a new gable hat with a pretty lace veil would cure me. What could I say to something so stupid?”
She went on to tell me how they fought constantly. When they were alone, he accused her of being ungrateful. Then when others were around, he fawned over her. Mary was shocked and revolted by his behavior, and by the time she left Abilene they were barely speaking to each other.
Mary looked frail and despondent. I wanted to take her hand, tell her everything would be fine, but the sense of worry had returned.
She wrung her hands together before running them over the folds in her skirt. “When I was a girl, Father would take me for cake after church. Just me, while Sarah practiced her piano. He’d order two large slices of chocolate and let me talk about anything. He asked about school and my friends and listened as if there were nothing more important. I was his princess.
“In Abilene he ordered me to stop acting like a selfish child and hollered for my silence before I could even finish a sentence. I don’t know what I’ve done to make him so angry, but he looks at me as if he has no use for me. I think he hates me.” She paused to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. “He’s broken my heart, Thomas.”
I was about to take Mary into my arms when the parlor door flung open. Mrs. Winchester stood at the threshold holding knitting needles and a ball of blue yarn. Mary turned away, but not fast enough.
“Thomas, what have you done? I feel more like knitting so I came to ask what color scarf you’d like and I find my young companion’s face all flushed and puffy.”
Mary assured Mrs. Winchester I had done nothing and her tears were over all the immigrant children in New York dying from rheumatic fever.
“Oh … yes … that, well … tragic.” Mrs. Winchester opened her mouth, closed it, and then looked at me. “Blue it is, and Thomas, please help Miss Harting find more uplifting topics to discuss. It’s all very depressing and unladylike.”
Mrs. Winchester turned to leave then stopped. “I almost forgot. I have another letter for you, Mary, from your admirer.” She waved a thick tan envelope with a bright red seal. “You may have competition, dear Thomas. But then how could any girl resist your gentle smile and thoughtful brown eyes— unless of course she’s sensible enough to consider your irregular occupation.” She shrugged. “Well, here you are, Mary, dear.”
She placed the letter on the table closest to me then left. My jaw tightened. Mary stood up, went to the table, and examined the seal.
Henry, a knock at the door. Mary has come to apologize!
Thomas
May 9, 1889.
DEAR HENRY —
