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.
So, dearest, I have packed our memories alongside the penny postcards and shell-encrusted fruit bowl for my parents and leave tomorrow. I promise my next letters shall be filled with an ingenious scheme for our secret rendezvous. I must also warn that the cognac seems to have had a lasting effect. I plan on spending the train ride to New York dreaming of your tender lips and masterminding how I shall steal a kiss.
Your adoring,
Thomas
FALL 1888
August 5, 1888.
DEAR MARY —
Is it true God speaks to a man with his own rail car? According to the New York World, your private rail car has marble sinks, gold chandeliers, stout fireplaces, and a ne’er-do-well flopped against the bar claiming he never sported an Imperial beard in his youth. The C. P. Huntington is not quite as well appointed; though I believe we too can boast of freeloaders aboard.
I take comfort in my own compartment with a private shower, a full oil lamp, and a quaint bed that would fit quite well if I were three inches shorter. The dining car offers tasty silver cake but has run out of Earl Grey. The linens are a fine blend; the observation car has lush leather club chairs; and the porter gave me a bottle of unbranded hair oil compliments of Union Pacific. Can you smell me from New York? Ladies have taken to walking the passageway with handkerchiefs over their noses. However, my unfortunate choice in men’s furnishings does not explain why your letterbox is empty.
Four days have passed since I last penned your name, yet the delay was not from lacking something to say. By now you know I am seldom without words. I could tell you I desired time for thoughtful reflection, but I admit I needed the train stop in the Utah territory.
I, of course, understand if you no longer wish to consort with a man who, unable to locate a mere scrap, incurred a hefty fine for writing a letter on the tablecloth. I blame my senselessness on what I must stare at all day.
How impassive it is to dismiss the barren flats from the vantage of passing by. But even after a second viewing I find the remote, scorched plains redundant to the point of exhaustion. The rush to settle all thirty-eight states is best left to men more desirous of land ownership than a hot bath. Alas, indifference has left time for wandering thoughts.
It is senseless to ruminate about your father’s rash actions and hostile mood while stuck on this jarring steel box without any way to receive your letters. Still, I keep thinking about his preoccupation with business and the forceful hold on your arm as he pulled you through the lobby. As I admit my apprehension (blackmail you will someday use to enlist my help in choosing lace curtains) it seems the neighbors are again drawing blood.
A young mother and her two boys are in the adjacent sleeper. Through the walls I hear the boys wrestle over marbles while their mother insists they work on their McGuffey Readers. In truth, I enjoy listening to their familiar antics. They give me pause to remember the feeling of rolling down grassy knolls and imagining you as a child.
I envision your leather toecap shoes dangling from the kitchen stool as you gobbled chocolate ice cream and taught your cook to read. You had the face of a cherub with a sharp mind scorned by headmistresses concerned for your proper station. Someday you must further explain how you developed such strong opinions while in the oppressiveness of Port Chester Preparatory School for Girls. Young ladies are depicted dressing dolls and sipping tea with pristine gloved hands. This is absurd. A woman able to throw a rock straight across the sea must have seen many days with dirty gloves.
As for the young lad my good friends called Gads, I was a quiet boy with a talent for mischief behind a credulous, thoughtful gaze. Of course this appearance did not fool a mother ready with punishment even before the offense occurred. The last anyone called me Gads, I avoided my own reader. To now think of the nickname brightens a tiresome ride indeed. Will you indulge me? I cannot explain the actions of senseless boys but do suggest you may learn why you rightfully crossed the street to avoid passing too close.
Like most boys of ten I was fearless and slapdash, and in the endless summer of 1869 I spent all my time with three great friends.
Our leader, Malcolm Weston, stood a solid four inches taller than the rest of us and had a straightforward likeable manner. As neighbors, we played since infancy but my father compared our differences to the Republicans and Greenbacks.
Unlike Malcolm, with his thin frame, unruly blond hair, and deep-set green eyes that girls found alluring when we entered puberty, my smooth dark hair and round features did not suit me until well past puberty. Still, most found me as agreeable as Malcolm. And as the planner, my creative ideas always found an enthusiastic home with my good friend.
Talkative twin brothers, Gregory and William Crawley, moved from Baltimore earlier that year. They finished each other’s sentences and did fantastic tricks like walking on their hands and flips in the air. Malcolm and I could only tell them apart by the way William’s right nostril flared as he spoke. Even then I knew girls considered Gregory and William handsome by the way the girls pushed past me to talk to them. But the brothers preferred frog ponds and flips to the fairer sex, and that suited Malcolm and me quite well.
Early that summer the four of us felt the need for a men’s club, a hamlet where we could discuss such weighty matters as the best kite design. Buckley Pond was no more than a swimming hole and less than a mile from our city homes, but as we spent long afternoons lounging under the sweet gum trees, it seemed fitting to design a tree house with a lakefront view. We drew detailed plans in the mud, and our ambitious sketch included a generous porch, peaked roof, and a swinging saloon door. The James-Younger Gang enthralled us. It turned out our gang was just as ill-fated.
