From Across the Room by Gina L. Mulligan (sneezy the snowman read aloud .TXT) 📕

not spent in misery. Lest I cast aspersions on a family you have yet to even meet, I shall move on to more pertinent information. It seems my few days in Boston are filled.

Upon my nightstand is an invitation to a garden party and Mother’s sewing circle wants gossip from the West. However, speculating when and how we shall see each other again will occupy most of my time. I know you are eager to change your father’s opinion of me, and your courage is admirable. But, Mary, you were so enthusiastic before I left. Please proceed with caution. Convincing your father to alter his judgment means he must first admit he is wrong. As this seems out of character, I fear the outcome of pressuring him.

Your loving,

Thomas

 

September 18, 1888.

MY FRIEND MALCOLM —

It must be at least a year since our last letters, and yet I recently told a special friend about our grand fort. Coincidence is indeed striking.

How wonderful to hear your discovery of medicinal uses for the Chilean blackberry was worth sleeping with a machete under your pillow. Although your interest in all things green is understandable given our experiences, when you fancied growing an assortment of complicated plants as a teen I thought you just wanted to invite girls to your garden. Of course you did, but who knew then where your plotting would lead.

Your parents look well. We met at a garden party where your father promptly offered me another job. My response was quite clear. “No offense, sir, but I would rather go down with a burning ship than work in your factory again.” He said my melodramatic decline was similar to yours.

By another strange twist of fate I also saw our old neighbor, Samantha Mooring, now Jenkins. Do you recall taunting Samantha with a garter snake? I have no memory of such vicious behavior, but she described the event with traumatic detail. In fact, she was quite animated as she spoke about our friendship and sneaking through the bushes to spy on our fort. She even thought to inquire of your health but quickly added that your fine looks precluded her from ever giving you more than help with your philosophy assignments. Women are strange creatures, are they not? She intimated that gentlemen who turn a lady’s head are not to be trusted. Having met her husband, he must be dependable indeed. Samantha also told me she ran into one of our old friends.

A little over a year ago she accompanied her husband to a dental conference in Worcester and saw William Crawley dining with a “bad egg.” Samantha attempted to jog his memory, but William claimed he had no recollection of her and accused her of being a fussbudget. Could it be our jolly William is now a suspicious ruffian? I find it probable. The last time I saw William he was in a desperate situation.

Just before I started law classes, William stayed as our houseguest. You had already gone to the university and I was preparing to move into the dormitory when William showed up searching for a job in Boston. He never spoke of his need for an occupation, though based on a few off-hand remarks, I believe the financial panic in ’73 devastated his family. Our few brief conversations revolved around his disgust of Worcester and his desire for a lucrative position regardless of the type of work.

He would not speak of his parents, and I did not mention Gregory. He asked about you and if you were still a giant. For the record, you can no longer rest your elbow on his head. This pleased William, though overall he was distracted and agitated.

After just a few days, William left at dusk without even a note of thanks. My mother sent a letter to confirm his safety, and Father once mentioned he thought William went into banking. But it was quite plain our lives were heading down different paths, and I prefer to remember William as the boy who ate a grasshopper. Time indeed marches forward even though we are ill-prepared for the journey.

Malcolm, timing has met with distraction. It appears I was unaware of an engagement and the coach is waiting. I must apologize for this miserable excuse of a letter and bid you farewell. Once you finish your doctoral fellowship, you must come home for a visit. We will steal the yacht and take a long weekend.

Your first mate,

Thomas

September 19, 1888.

AVERY —

After months of your sending me pestering notes, hostile telegrams, and threat of a singing messenger, you have not yet replied to my earnest requests we meet. Are you using my notes to mop up spilled gin on your bedside table? Joking aside, missing previous deadlines hurt my income but never my career. Your silence is cause for apprehension. Is Harpers upset by my delay enough to pull the deal? I am well aware that Harper’s contract is not binding until the ink dries.

T. G.

September 19, 1888.

DEAREST MARY —

Learning you are well occupied with a book fair at the Jackson Square Library gives me pleasure, and your suggestion the ladies settle the centerpiece dispute by thumb wrestling made me chuckle aloud. Also warm congratulations. New life is a true wonder, or at least my mother tells me she believed that before I was born. The first grandchild in your family is indeed a fortunate distraction for our letters. They shall notice your actions less the larger your sister shows.

After all day in a dusty parlor sharing anecdotes with Mother’s friends and agreeing for sake of civility that bicycles are a sin to Crockett, my father surprised me by suggesting an outing. We went to The Meadows, a battered harness racetrack Father claims once ran thoroughbred champions and sold the best butter taffy. They no longer sell candy and most of the center rails are broken, but the temperature was pleasant and a refreshing breeze carried the stench of manure and echo of our fiery argument toward Salem.

My habit of gambling (rather my enjoyment as I would hate to give you the wrong impression) involves a pair of kings and a stack of chips. Father, however, has always fancied the trotters; his system of betting is more complex than his stock market speculation. After the thrill of winning in the fifth, we celebrated in the Turf Club with cold ale and the popular tradition of debating methods of capital punishment.

I believe the new technique of death by electrocution less humane than stoning a man. My opponent, a man suffering from a nagging cough and sore limbs for months, called me a ninny and retorted that all crimes should be punished as in the Good Book. This struck me as impractical, and for no particular reason other than it entered my head, I cited a sensational counterfeit scandal from ten years ago.

It was a fantastic bank scandal, and my father followed the news like a timekeeper at the factory gate. The counterfeiters were never caught, but if they were, I demanded to know how his rudimentary system of an “eye for an eye” would punish such a crime. Father was much more excitable than usual. He ranted for a full ten minutes about my inept debating skills before wasting his winnings on a nag named Papa’s Dream.

Since our fun-filled outing, Father is irritable and depleted. His is unable to shake his cold and has begun taking afternoon naps. Mother and I, however, are joyous and at ease with each other; so much so, Father started growling at our incessant humming. As you have heard my singing voice, you understand his irritation.

Mary, by now you may have noticed my efforts to avoid the question in your last letter. If Mother’s garden was showing a late bloom perhaps we could avoid this uncomfortable topic all together.

Rest assured, I attended the garden party with my parents. It was a laborious affair that required formal dress in spite of the unfortunate heat. Two ladies fainted. We left by six o’clock—before my aunt could present her list of available maidens and demand I make time for luncheons and, fingers crossed, romantic dinners. This was a definite relief, and yet you have broached a delicate subject.

Two years ago, perhaps a little longer, I met a young lady and we courted for a few months. You and I have not yet spoken of our romantic pasts; for me it is far easier to pen. I know you agree such matters are best aired and put away.

I pause, wondering if you would want to know her name. As a man, I prefer to think of your past callers as insignificant dolts with callous nicknames. Women, however, may favor knowing details so there is less to invent. It has been my experience women are far more creative in such matters. For this retelling I shall call her Gertrude, as this name is more fitting than the one given her at birth. Though I met Gertrude through my friend, Beauregard, his involvement in our attachment was quite accidental.

Gertrude was Beau’s second cousin on his mother’s side; in fact she still is. While not striking like you, it would hurt my own ego to claim she is monstrous. Most men say she is agreeable to the eye, with a fair mind and solid breeding that matches her complexion and figure. This may sound unflattering, but men are rather blunt when circling among their own.

We met at an informal dinner party at Beauregard’s Cambridge home. Gertrude was pleasant but I found her stories as dull as her sense of humor, and we spent most of the dinner chewing. You should now wonder why I pursued our association, since at first I had no interest in her whatsoever.

After dinner, the guests were gossiping about Leonard Jerome’s naked carriage ride down Fifth Avenue over a glass of Tawny Port when Beau insisted Gertrude entertain us on the violin. My thoughts were on an early retreat, but the intimate party trudged into the music room with few expectations of finding entertainment except in the room itself.

A cascade of white silk hung on either side of two picture windows and white satin parlor chairs were grouped around a square Chickering piano. Deep walnut panels warmed the room and the ceiling was covered with a magnificent fresco depicting the Garden of Eden. It was striking, and the atmosphere would have been mythical if not for the intrusion of Gertrude’s tangerine-colored dress.

Gertrude adjusted the strings and readied her bow with competence but without the gentility one expects from a musician. She stood beside the piano and proclaimed herself ready to begin. I chose a chair by the window so I could keep an eye on the weather, then Beauregard introduced her as if we were in Royal Albert Hall.

You know I am romantic at heart, my darling, so please remember my affections as I tell you more.

Until the moment she played I had never heard such magnificence with a bow. I was caressed by golden highlights that transformed the world into pure serenity and joy. The music was breathtaking and powerful, yet as vulnerable and precious as a new love. Dinner guests humoring their friend became grateful patrons. She ended the first section of Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3, the Allegro, and we cheered, proclaiming she should have the first chair with the Boston symphony. She nodded with a slack expression, for her dull nature had returned, but I had witnessed something precious. Infatuated with her gift, I asked her to join me for lunch. Gertrude’s mother was very formal and required a chaperone at