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

warm. Soon you shall not only have the final edits for the second book but a once in a lifetime perspective sure to make front-page headlines. Just think of the publicity.

Thomas

August 14, 1888.

DEAR MOTHER —

Did you know your dear cousin Penelope is enamored with Eastman’s new camera? She snapped photos of me posed on her fainting couch until my vision, and dignity, were quite blurred. All the same, her antics are loveable and I appreciate her graciousness at accepting an unannounced guest. New York City is even livelier than you remember.

Harried shoppers swarm bright, glass-front stores, and the sidewalks are covered with plaster dust from new marble-faced buildings. Policemen in wide straw hats direct a confusion of buggies and pedestrians, and during peak hours the streetcar bells and whistles are deafening. The excitement has no equal, yet the frenzy reminds me of you and Aunt Ruth after a second pot of tea. Fashionable elite do still stroll through the parks swinging jade parasols; however, arduous dinner parties with insufferable guests are most stylish. Last night I returned from such a dismal evening and interrupted Penelope with a suitor.

By the red faces and stammering, I surmise your cousin is quite smitten. Mr. Lancaster is a reputable banker and, like Penelope, lost his spouse before there were any children. He is forthright, polite, and very much in love with your cousin. You need not ask. I will do my best to find out more and, ever the dutiful son, write in generous detail. Until then, I am indebted to an understanding mother who is content to know I am well without badgering to know why I changed my plans.

Your loving son,

Thomas

August 18, 1888.

DEAR HENRY —

Your book tour sounds as flawless as your enthusiasm for London, though your thrashing of Americans’ plebeian use of sugar nippers is objectionable. I hope you do not forgo Boston for the glamour of dining with royalty. As I am in New York, mother forwarded your letter. You are a man of great intelligence and can fit the puzzle together for yourself. Unlike your tour, however, my excursion is so far anything but congenial. In fact, in just twenty-four hours I was thrown to the curb twice.

On the train from California to New York, mother’s indoctrination on the virtues of honor and thank-you notes rattled through my head until any impulse for scheming was supplanted. So with coal still in my hair, I went straight to Mary’s door to inquire on her family’s health and wellbeing. Mary was seated in the parlor. Upon my entrance she jumped to her feet, startled to see me, then gave a polite bow. She looked exquisite in a lavender velvet jacket yet remained distracted and fidgeted with the lace trimming on her sleeves. As usual, my timing was deplorable.

Mrs. Harting was also in the parlor. She was upset about a broken platter and made her disgust of my sudden, unannounced company well-known. After inquiring several times as to the reason and length of my stay, Mrs. Harting rang for a servant to dispatch a messenger to Mr. Harting and escort me to the door. You can understand my surprise and elation to receive an invitation for dinner at the Harting home that evening. I still lament my optimism lasted but a few hours.

My waistcoat pressed and boots shined, I was ready to at last have a fruitful conversation and greeted Mary’s father with a strong handshake and straight back. In return, Mr. Harting introduced me to Mary’s escort for the evening, Mr. Lowell Kennard.

Lowell Kennard is a slight man with black hair and a deep red scar on his cheek that emphasizes his pale skin. His face looks menacing with fresh creases and converging grey circles around dark eyes. I guessed his age nearing forty. Though a Harting Railway employee, Mr. Kennard acted like the biggest toad in the puddle, with a ruffled dinner shirt and pert white carnation tucked in his lapel. His growing wealth and status were impressive; however, my sort (as was referenced with vigor) has little patience for a man with arms long enough to pat himself on the back. After introductions, Kennard ignored the other guests and insisted Mary give him a private tour of the solarium. I had a new objective for the evening.

Seated across from Mary and Kennard during dinner, I watched him brush her hand while reaching for the salt and feign the need to lean close to hear her speak. Fragments of the dinner conversation swarmed around me as I sat like a bronze bust. It took all of my willpower to keep from leaping across the pot roast and seizing Kennard’s scrawny neck. My silence might have gone unnoticed if not for Mr. Harting’s request that I pass the gravy. When I responded with a vacant stare, Mr. Harting reached around the guest beside me, slapped me across the face, and said, “Good God, Gadwell, are you suffering hysterical paralysis from the train?” More fun was still to come.

Dinner ended without my spilling anything on the carpet; then I followed the others into the living room. Mr. Kennard positioned himself beside Mary while the rest of the intimate party found chairs around the room. Seizing an opportunity when Mr. Harting was forced into the empty seat beside me, I at last spoke. I wished I had kept my mouth shut.

“Mr. Harting, sir, dinner was delicious, sir, and it’s so nice to see you relaxed now that you’re home. You seemed a little vexed at the hotel.” Without even a glance in my direction he got up and stood by the window.

There was one moment when I caught Mary’s eye, but Mr. Kennard forced her attention when he tapped her arm. “Are you enjoying the unseasonable weather, Mary? Do you think the warm temperatures will ruin our colorful fall foliage?”

“I haven’t really given it any thought, Mr. Kennard, but that’s an interesting question. What do you think?”

Mr. Kennard leaned toward her. “I certainly hope not. It’s the leaves that make this time of year so enchanting. You mentioned your fondness for gardens. I would think this is your favorite time of year. It is mine. Do we have that in common, Mary? And, please, I won’t ask again, you must call me Lowell.”

The deliberateness in his presentation left me unsettled. I got to my feet and approached Kennard with a wide grin.

After the smallest of talk, Mr. Kennard asked about my occupation then waited until the coffee was served to find out what I had published and patronize why he had never heard of my work. As a rule, this conversation takes place between the artichoke salad and glazed ham.

To keep his attention, I asked what he did for Mr. Harting. He took a sip of his coffee while keeping his eyes on Mary then said, “I’m not here to discuss business.”

“So why are you here, Mr. Kennard? I find it curious an employee was invited to such a private gathering.” It was not my best attempt at subtlety but I was under extreme duress.

He looked at me, or rather up at me, given the great difference in our height. “I assure you I was invited, Mr. …”

“Gadwell.”

He shrugged. “I’m here because Mr. Harting is a true patriot. You obviously didn’t fight in the war, but I enlisted at the tender age of fourteen and braved scenes someone of your sort can’t even imagine. This scar,” he brushed his cheek, “was from an enemy bullet. I never wept, not once. I was incredibly brave.”

I mumbled a polite reply but he was again staring at Mary so I asked him to share his war stories. My plan to keep him talking to me lasted just a few minutes. This was when Mr. Harting strode to the center of the room.

“Guests, you must hear my darling daughter play. Mary, come. And, Mr. Kennard, why don’t you turn pages.”

Kennard bowed and rushed to the piano.

For twenty minutes Mary slid away from Kennard’s increasing interest in the sheet music while Mary’s father, the conspirator, was not even in the room. After the recital, Mary escaped with the ladies to the sewing room while I remained with the men in the study. Cigars were passed around, and I watched Mr. Harting hold a match for Mr. Kennard. This seemed out of character for the man I met in California. Then the most unusual incident went unnoticed by everyone but me.

When Mr. Harting again excused himself, I retreated to the corner to brood and keep an eye on Mr. Kennard. Kennard stood alone by the window checking the weather while the other men smoked cigars in small groups. Unaware of my position, Kennard glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then he slipped an empty glass ashtray into his jacket pocket. A smirk skated across his face before he returned to the group predicting a pleasant ride home.

Why in the world would Kennard steal a worthless ashtray? Why would he steal anything? My dislike for the man is understandable, but rivalry aside, there is something odd about Lowell Kennard.

The ladies returned before I could question Kennard. Then, just when I spotted Mary, the butler grabbed my arm and escorted me to the front door. I was tossed out at just nine o’clock, leaving Mary and Kennard to conclude the evening alone. That was one of the longest nights of my life.

Henry, a messenger just delivered a note. Mr. Harting demands I join him for lunch tomorrow. After his disinterest at dinner, what could he want? The idea his attitude has changed so quickly is beyond even my optimism. I find myself wondering if he also summoned Mr. Kennard, like a bloody clash orchestrated by the King. And I forgot to pack my armor.

With respect,

Thomas

August 26, 1888.

HENRY —

Our letters crossed and I just received your note asking for my assistance. I am humbled. It is a fine compliment for the teacher to need the student, even if the subject of your telegram was startling. The illicit plot you recounted reads like one of your works of fiction. To be honest, I imagined your voice husky from countless engagements in front of large lecture halls not from shouting in over-filled parlors. With all the colorful bloomers and high-pitched giggling, are you certain of what you overheard?

From your description, it sounds like your colleague was deceived by a clever crooked cross. As you suggested, a scheme to forge and sell U.S. bonds requires remarkable ingenuity; however, your puzzlement in how such a con could succeed comes from an erroneous assumption. Bonds are not traceable. Like currency, ownership of a bond is based on possession and is not in any way recorded or monitored. To now think about it, counterfeit bonds are in fact an ideal swindle.

Treasury bonds are purchased at a discount to their face value and mature with time. They are meant to be held, sometimes as long as thirty years, and are preferred by wealthy investors looking to diversify. A mark would not even know he was fooled until it was too late, and who better to defraud into purchasing a fake bond than a foreigner who has never seen a real one?

Seems I have learned a bit from my father over the years. Though I have no suggestion for your friend other than the legal measures you mentioned, I hope this is the clarification you needed. Be careful, Henry. Idle pleasures are indeed tempting, and you will find greedy men are miserly in all aspects of life. I shall never forget the summer when I