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

skills are capable enough that we shall not run aground or drown at sea. And before you ask, yes, I have a motive. Sailing is a vigorous sport and every man must prove himself successful in something other than a conversation.

Thomas

July 11, 1888.

DEAR HENRY —

Persuasion to sit at your poker table is quite unnecessary. My fortune is your rotten luck. Having worthy news without knowing whom to tell is an odd dilemma. Consequence waits for a fragile moment, so I fear being too hasty in my revelation. As a regimented writer I know you understand my resolve, although perhaps you should examine if such rigid habits ruin your card game.

I will get to my point without unnecessary delay even though I so enjoy knowing vague, long-winded tales turn you red. Her name is Mary, and I am the worst kind of fool. I am the man we have criticized for weakness of character and an indiscriminant nature. Yet I have never been so excited.

Mary is enchanting. Every infatuated male believes his ladylove is captivating, so I hope to let your own eyes be the judge and will forgo the clichés of flower petals and reflective pools. I know you are disappointed. As the characters in your well-written prose, she is best described by her actions and abilities, so I shall do my best to be sincere even though my perspective is most biased.

She plays the pianoforte with a light musical touch and pursues politics with the intuition of a statesman. She has a sharp wit; is courageous devoid of bravado; sips champagne without getting hiccups; and I have witnessed a quiet disagreement with a most cantankerous man who lost his point then thanked her for a charming evening.

Although she has a delicate pen, she proclaims elaborate letters a frustration. I believe this to be her hand’s inability to keep up with her quick mind. Mary also loves to read and is one of your many fans, Mr. James. Moreover, she claims to enjoy the bits of scrawl I have shown her and believes writing is a noble profession.

At yesterday’s afternoon tea, Mary’s elbow relation joined our intimate party. She had the eyes of an owl, and her sporadic reach for the sugar agitated my nerves. Never fond of an overly inquisitive nature, I was in a pucker after enduring a litany of personal questions. I feared she might soon ask my preference in undergarments. After several polite attempts to thwart the inquisition, Mary did something I have never witnessed in polite conversation. At that moment my interest and admiration were transformed into something worthy of this letter.

In one delicate motion Mary placed her hand over her cousin’s mouth and said, “Your interest in Mr. Gadwell borders that of a drooling meddler. I wouldn’t want your reputation ruined by your overzealous enthusiasm.”

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