Respectfully,
Thomas Marcus Gadwell
June 13, 1888.
DEAR MARY —
As we sat together on the hotel’s impressive veranda I longed to stand upon the chaise and proclaim my true feelings. Is such frankness too presumptuous for our new acquaintance? Conformity be dashed, I must tell you.
I despise lemonade. It tastes like spoiled wine mixed with bits of twine. I confess because I fear you may have misinterpreted my distasteful expression as you spoke of women’s suffrage. On the contrary, you have given me a new perspective.
Your argument for equality was well organized and quite passionate. Few women in polite society share their frustration for a lifetime of quiet reflection, and I understand why you are sometimes bored with needlepoint and summer parties. Your candor is stimulating—as is your astute discretion.
We live in a culture where women in need of employment are forced into factory labor while those desiring employment are ostracized. Women are by design intuitive and clever, and your courage is already proven. These are fine traits for a whole host of careers, including a physician. Have you told even your mother of your desire to attend medical school?
Miss Harting, of all your endearing qualities I have discovered over this past week, I am honored you shared your intellect without pretense of a passing fancy or overheard comment from a man in your company. Our conversation was a bit of a surprise, but I wanted to assure you it was a most pleasant one. Can I expect more of your impassioned viewpoint tonight?
As I pledge my allegiance to root beer and attempt to sort through the many volumes I must research, my thoughts are on meeting your parents at dinner this evening. Does your father know he raised a woman careful in her appearance yet unruffled by the sand in her shoes after our stroll upon the beach?
Yours sincerely,
Thomas
June 18, 1888.
DEAR BEAUREGARD —
My old friend, how long has it been since we opened a bottle of malt whisky and spent an entire evening searching for the melody in a Russian opera? In many ways not long enough.
Are you again trolling Saratoga for girls eager to annoy overbearing mothers? Or have you contented yourself with the companionship of the Baccarat table? My pleasure involves more than parading through town in a white cycling costume; yet, of anyone I know, you most appreciate a vacation filled with warm sunshine, gay chatter, and a radiant woman. Other than a small obstacle the size of a boulder, your apprentice is faring quite well in California. For the sole purpose of bragging, allow me to share the good parts before humbly asking for your help. And for the record, she agreed to our private outing without any begging.
My new friend, Miss Mary Harting, greeted me in the lobby at sunrise. She had an infectious grin that showed nothing of the early wake-up call. After we shook hands, I motioned for her to sit on a settee and then sat beside her.
She tilted her head. “Why are we sitting down, Thomas? I thought you said the surprise was outside. Aren’t you ready to go?”
“Actually, you’re not ready yet,” I said.
She flattened the pleats around her narrow waist, lifted the hem of her paisley skirt to examine her black boots, and gave a quick tug to each glove. “This is about as ready as I get.”
My heart began to pound. I reached across Mary to the end table beside her. She pulled away, but not too far. I felt her warm breath on my neck as I grasped the black scarf I had tucked underneath a crystal ashtray. When I sat back up, Mary plucked the scarf from my hand and held it in her open palm. “Yes, this was definitely too heavy for your pocket. You certainly are smooth.”
I should have known better than to try one of your stupid maneuvers.
She wanted to know what I had in mind for the scarf so I explained seeing where we were going would ruin the surprise. I waited for her refusal but instead of a protest, Mary placed the cloth to her eyes and turned. As I slid closer to tie the ends, my hands brushed against her soft hair and I smelled lilac perfume.
Mary took my hand, and I led her out past the gardens and beyond the far side of the hotel. When we stepped into the soft sand, she gripped my forearm.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall,” I said.
“Who said I’m worried I might fall? Have you forgotten about the Crown Room where you bumped into me, or the rock you didn’t see? Oh, and then there was that branch on the —”
“Okay, you have a point.”
She giggled. “I just don’t want to go down with the sinking ship.”
“Traitor.”
I led her across the beach to a narrow path lined with sea grass. As we moved farther from the water’s edge, the breeze quieted and I listened to her shallow breath. Neither of us spoke. We were silenced by anticipation.
Though her hand was firm on my arm and I brushed against her shoulders to move branches from her path, when I grasped her waist to keep her from tripping she jumped.
“There was a log,” I said.
“My mother warned me about those kinds of logs.” She grinned and told me to keep my hands on her elbows.
We continued but I was so nervous that I took her down the wrong path and we had to circle back. Then I realized I missed the trail and had to turn her around again. I was beginning to feel my plan was folly and Mary would demand we return to the hotel when I at last saw the clearing. “We’re here,” I blurted. I let go of her arm then grabbed it again and made her promise she would wait for my return before removing the handkerchief.
At least a minute passed before I returned to find Mary twirling her thumbs; a sideways smile curled the edge of the blindfold. I wanted to kiss her pastel cheeks.
“Miss Harting, breakfast is served,” I said.
In the center of the small clearing was a table draped in white gauze. Yellow rose petals were scattered on and around the table and crystal glasses sparkled in the morning light. Two servers stood beside a cart filled with silver trays and as soon as I nodded, an oboist stepped from the brush and began to play.
“You … how … this is just lovely, Thomas. When did you have time to plan all this? We’ve seen each other practically every day for the past two weeks.”
“I don’t sleep much,” I said as I pulled out her chair.
The servers filled our plates with poached eggs, broiled tomatoes, and oranges before Mary cocked her head and stared at me as if she had something to say. When I asked what was on her mind, she adjusted her napkin before answering, “I suppose there is something I’d like to share. I’m just not sure it’s going to make any sense.”
