She then turned to me and said, “I’m confident you aren’t offended by strong family bonds, Mr. Gadwell, and simply need to clear your throat to regain a proper tone. Then maybe you’ll share the charming story about your adventures in Edinburgh with only a toothbrush and outdated map.”
Tea was rather enjoyable after that.
Is it transparent I am putting Mary’s favors to paper more for myself than your amusement? After knowing her little more than a month I would be a ninny not to question such irrational and powerful feelings for a woman who was seasick not ten miles from the shore. Still, I feel quite rational. My purest desire is that you are someday as much a halfwit. Of course, as you like to point out, bliss comes with a price.
You sent me here to focus on my writing and yet I am more distracted than ever. Your long-winded sermons on discipline vibrate in my head, and I would promise to try harder if you were not so well acquainted with my habits.
For now I leave you to worry for my career and chastise me among our friends. I know you are a decent fellow and feel confident my words fall upon fair, if not gentle ears. As you have endured my mother’s excitable nature and my father’s scorn, my request is that you refrain from sharing any of this with my parents before you leave on your encore book tour for The Portrait of a Lady. Once I have claimed Mary’s affection, which we both know to be inevitable given my formidable charm and modest manner, I shall brave calamity by introducing Mary to my parents.
Yours, in friendship,
Thomas
July 15, 1888.
MY DEAR MARY —
Unspoken desires smolder in the stillness before the sunrise. But the subtle glow is not a glimpse of the day to rise; it is what lingers from the evening past.
Last night I commented on your exquisite ball gown when I longed to say you are exquisite. Had we found a quiet moment away from the seaside gala, I would have taken your hand in mine and described the loveliest woman I have ever met.
If it were just your outer beauty I would have the capacity to admire and go my way. But your splendor goes beyond a fair complexion, graceful manner, and smile that glows from warmth of spirit. Your mind is sharp without insult and your elegance most noted not by dress or practiced refinements, but the quiet intellect that displays your guile while complementing everyone around you.
Until now I have kept my writing, my work, in the shadows out of fear and greed. Yet your enthusiasm for the creative will is like a new beam in a sunken roof. Now that you are in my thoughts, I wonder if I shall ever write anything but a romance novel. Never have I so longed to share intimate details and secret passions; never have I so desired to share myself with another.
During one of our many turns around the ballroom floor you asked me what I see in the future. I must confess I was relieved by your father’s abrupt intrusion, for your question deserves more than the witless comment I would have spouted in my panic. Before we met six weeks ago, the answer to your question was simple.
After the summer, I am to return to Boston to meet with my agent, check on estate affairs, and argue with my father. As I have bored you with numerous retellings, you already know about the expected contract for my second novel. This means I must rush off to our family home in Newport to preoccupy myself with drafting a third book before I decide to re-read my second novel and am overcome with the desire to re-write what has in error been declared finished. For months I shall shut myself off from the world to agonize over each syllable until I drive myself mad and escape for a rest.
I have just stopped to review this prattle; you must now think me a dullard. You know these trivialities, and yet I find it easier to blather than search for a true answer. It seems until now I have not thought much beyond wild literary success. Meeting you has forced me to reconsider, and your inquiry deserves a more appropriate answer.
As I take a few moments to reflect on these wonderful days by the sea, I now foresee knowing all of the porters’ names on the train from Boston to New York and learning to navigate the streets to your door with ease. There are grand family parties with a most remarkable woman on my arm and wonderful moments we will someday murmur behind cupped hands. Perhaps the details are thin, but my feelings for you are true. Mary, you asked what I see ahead, and the answer is you.
I must stand unashamed for an honest answer to your question. Do I dare now ask the same question of you?
With deep affection,
Thomas
July 16, 1888.
DEAR AVERY —
No rain, though I looked dashing in a feather headdress. Fear not, I am undaunted. Below the bluffs is a treacherous seaside cavern where the crashing waves sound like thunder.
I return to Boston in a few weeks and hope to have news to share. I will contact you the moment I arrive. For now I just need rope, a harness, and a guide willing to dangle me off a cliff. Were you here, I suspect you would volunteer for the job.
Your fearless,
Thomas
July 16, 1888.
MY DEAREST MARY —
Be warned, fair maiden, you have opened your heart to a writer and what we mean to say often has no voice. We are left with time and ink.
It was the softness of her lips that stirred his thoughts. Perfection was as sand in the breeze, for the soul is most vulnerable when faced with loss. The devil may be no more than the messenger of sorrowful news for those too afraid of what love requires. Step lively, the wise boy tells himself, for a gift this precious may not be offered a second time.
It was her trembling hands that said more than her declarations of passion. They danced, as they had many other nights, but why did she feel fragile in his arms? Why were their words so stilted, labored and confounded on a night of such rejoicing? He knew that for their wisp of time among the trees happiness was now so dependent on another. They must trust when instinct tells them to hide away.
It was her smile as they parted that changed him forever. Love is not as the sonnet, fancy with blooming roses and dancing violins. The imagination of love is such things. Love is contentment in moments of silence; the peaceful warmth from her touch, so foreign the first time; and the unrestrained grin recalling a shared moment of folly.
How blessed this undeserving boy, how truly blessed.
Yours,
Thomas
July 20, 1888.
DEAREST —
When your father refused me at your door this morning I feared your mother was ill. Never did I expect such rash action. My dear, you need not apologize for his insolence. You were so pale from the shock—can you forgive me for not overcoming my own disbelief to comfort you?
I must know why your father demands you end your vacation and return to New York tomorrow. By now your father must have read my note. I am off to search the grounds so I can better explain my honorable intentions to him in person. I will not stand idle as the woman I adore is snatched from my arms. Your father was once a young man in love. Surely, that man will listen to reason.
Your love,
Thomas
July 31, 1888.
DEAR BEAU,
Thank you. I needed the swift kick. — Thomas
August 1, 1888.
MY DARLING —
Even after ten days for reflection, I am still quite stunned that your father refused to speak to me even as I stood right in front of him. It would have been less insulting had he shoved me to the ground and stepped on my coat. Though I know your mother wishes I were a duke with castles across the pond, at least she accepted my hand and bid me farewell. As your train pulled away you were so dignified that for a moment I felt nothing but pride. I wish that emotion had lasted; what came next was less than gallant.
With you on your way home, I spent long nights in the Babcock Lounge with Simon and his tall glasses of cognac. This ended with my head slumped against the pinewood bar, followed by Simon helping me to my room as I demanded to know how life could continue without your angelic glow to light the unknown path ahead. I must leave him a handsome tip. Unlike the overindulgence in brandy, where all of humanity is dismal, cognac is best when one desires a more personal disdain. Of course no indulgence is left unpunished; my head throbbed as hard as my heart after our first dance. I shut myself in my room and refused even Walter’s assistance. After two days with the curtains drawn, I received good advice from a friend and my inherent optimism was unleashed.
Miss Mary Winnifred Harting, you agreed to continue our affair. As adults in a free society I see no reason to alter our resolve. New York is a city of strangers where a man of average height is anonymous and a woman’s face is easily hidden by the latest fashion. We shall take full advantage of your vast city as we give your father time to calm down. As for my parents, I have given this considerable thought.
I think it best to postpone introductions. My father is quite fond of moral platitudes and my mother, a loving and genteel woman, once decided to throw Father a surprise birthday party then asked him what kind of cake he wanted. Discretion is our most advantageous path.
