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.
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
