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

was one-and-twenty and lured by such fancies. Beware the time spent with those driven by their own importance. I should think this an obvious caution for one so level-headed, but you are toasting success with those corrupted by pride. Hold fast to your moral compass; the gravity pulls hard around such men.    

As we are speaking of ruthless sorts, I met Mary’s father for lunch. It turned out the repellent atmosphere of Delmonico’s matched our conversation. That, however, was all that was well matched.

I arrived at noon as instructed. Mr. Harting was not yet seated in the men’s café, so I wandered to the bar and ordered iced tea. The first floor was crowded with prominent businessmen and fashionable parvenus admiring the view through enormous windows overlooking the flower beds in front of Madison Square Garden. Comments on the new chandeliers, obviously of German craftsmanship, were bested by postulating whether American imposters frescoed the ceiling and if the beef filet was tender. Other than an elderly woman near the stairway that led to the bachelor apartments above, the room reeked of men.

After waiting ten minutes I must have looked tense because a gent in a white Panama hat flopped on the next stool, ordered me a rum (which I declined but later regretted), and told me there were swans in the banquet hall. Before he could elaborate, Mr. Harting arrived and we were shown to a table set for two. I checked my pocket watch as I unfolded my napkin but Mr. Harting made no apology for his tardiness. Instead, he waved to a waiter and ordered both of our meals without consulting the menu or me.

Charlton Harting is a bulky man, with thick palms and a long forehead. It is quite fortunate Mary looks like her mother. Sitting face to face with a railroad lord made me feel like a jester before the king and still there was a sense of power at our table. Others were sneaking glances, wondering if I was, in fact, lunching with a volatile madman. As Mr. Harting launched into a monologue, he seemed quite sane.

I considered sharing his speech with you but could not bring myself to write in such graphic and offensive slang. The gist of Mr. Harting's story is that his father was a railway gandy dancer who weaned young Charlton upon the steam beasts. With skill, and the plain admission of good fortune, Mr. Harting consolidated a few struggling lines and turned his hard work into a successful enterprise. He spoke with a lilting fondness for the early years that were vibrant for a young entrepreneur. The rails made him wealthy, but he confessed bitterness for an industry now plagued with enormous debt and ongoing labor strikes. While his idioms would cause my mother to swoon, he seemed sincere and forthright. So much so, I was encouraged. As soon as the salad arrived, however, his demeanor changed and madman again crossed my mind.

Mr. Harting pushed his plate aside, narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward placing both elbows on the table. “I forbid you to ever see my daughter again.”

I grinned. You know the one, Henry, my uncontrollable grimace when I get nervous. My top lip was even stuck to my front teeth.

“I can see you’re as foolish as I thought, so let me make this simple. I’m her father, and I want you to leave Mary alone. Is that clear enough for a Harvard boy? Mary was sweet-talked by a smooth dickens looking for a little fun on vacation, but a wastrel in a silk cravat is easily forgotten. She’s young and doesn’t know what she needs. I know what she needs, and rest assured, Gadwell, it’s not you.”

“Sir—”

“Real men, men with grease under our nails, have a saying. ‘If you can’t make the grade then dump some of your load before you ruin the engine.’ Some pansy with a sharp tongue isn’t going to ruin my engine. You got that? Not when—”

“Sir, I’d like to—”

He slammed his fist on the table. “I’m not here for a discussion. I don’t give a fig about you or what you have to say. This is your one and only warning to stay away from Mary. I have eyes everywhere, Gadwell, and they’re watching you. If you need proof, I’ll gladly let you talk to a friend of mind. I think you’ve heard of Johann Most, though I’d hate to bother him with such an insignificant matter.”

He looked at me hard, just as I imagined Johann Most looked at that young father before pushing him from a bridge during the Haymarket Riot. Without blinking, Mr. Harting signaled for the waiter.

“We’re done here,” Mr. Harting said. Though he had spoken to the server, his words were meant for me. As the young man cleared our untouched salad plates, Mr. Harting commented on the pleasant weather before canceling the Veal Piccata and asking for the bill.

He checked the time on his own pocket watch and adjusted the brown Coachman he had forgotten to remove in his rush to erase me from the family scrapbook. Then he again looked at me as if he would shove me into the street if I got in his way.

“Gadwell, I’m not a patient man. For Mary’s sake, and only her sake, you have until tonight to leave the city.” Then he shrugged and added, “If I haven’t made everything plain for a dandy boy like you, then I guess you’ll just have to learn the hard way … very hard.”

At this point the hero would leap to his feet, proclaim his love, and refuse to leave. I have never proclaimed myself a hero but wanted to believe I would act as one if the circumstance arose. My disappointment still stings.

I mumbled something about leaving but omitted any mention of not seeing Mary again. This seemed sufficient, as Mr. Harting left without another word or paying the bill.

Henry, Mary’s father carries on as if I am a penniless libertine with a scandalous reputation and wooden leg while he befriends a violent anarchist suspected of murder. This of course brings up how in the world Mr. Harting knows such a man. The whole episode was so implausible. Plus, his blasted overreaction has turned us into frauds.

I told Mary her father was still irritable and suggested I leave New York. Neither of us wanted to say goodbye, so Mary and I have been sneaking around the city. Rendezvousing at dusk and slipping into the theatre after the curtain rises is not the courtship I envisioned, though it has some thrills. Still, my quest for Mary’s hand now rests on patience, faith, and watching around corners for Mr. Harting’s many keen eyes.

With admiration,

Thomas

 

P.S. — You do also believe Mr. Harting’s threat was just the bravado of an overprotective father?

August 27, 1888.

DEAR AVERY —

I lost Black Bart at a flea market. Who knew coach robbers liked porcelain cats. However, all is not lost. As I write this I am having breakfast in the same café as President Hayes. His term may be long over, as evidenced by his grey beard and cane, but think of the useful fodder I could learn from an ex-Commander-in-Chief.

I must go. Hayes is on the move. Believe it or not, I think he just slipped out without leaving a tip.

Thomas

September 7, 1888.

BEAU —

Your invitation to spend the winter in the Greek Islands is gracious but unnecessary. Stunning creatures are not just found abroad.

Refrain from telling the story about losing the hotel keys on the Lisbon beach, and if you need my assistance in writing a love poem to sweeten a foreign disposition, I am at your disposal. In return, perhaps you could share your knowledge about evasion techniques and disguises. And before you ask, no, the man lurking at my corner is not an irate lover. I believe you have that market cornered.

Safe travels,

Thomas

 

September 10, 1888.

DEAR HENRY —

While you have spent a month exploring the lush English countryside and promoting your work, Mary and I have enjoyed every possible moment together. Though cautious, we play the role of lovers as we stroll through the city’s tireless park and dine in secluded restaurants. Yet I am not hypnotized by her gaze nor do we quote sonnets in the setting sun. Our enjoyment of each other’s company has blossomed into a mature consideration I believe even you would admire. In fact just yesterday we spent the afternoon on the Lower East Side. As a rule I avoid such ramshackle neighborhoods, particularly in light of my being followed. But in this case, I had no idea what I was missing.

The coach refused to take us all the way into the dilapidated area so Mary led the way through streets shadowed by cheerless buildings listing from rotting beams. Curtains flapped through broken windows; dust swirled around our ankles; and discarded wrappers floated atop a stream of brown liquid as we wound among a tight labyrinth of peddlers selling live chickens and used trinkets from broken carts. Before I got my bearings, Mary turned at a corner showcasing a French bakery. Through a grimy storefront window I saw a baker in a stained shirt rolling dough into flabby balls.

Mary had so far played coy about the purpose of our outing and the jostling crowd and rancid smells darkened my mood. When I stumbled over a plank lying on the walk, I felt a flash of hostility.

“Now that we’re here can you at least tell me why?” I asked. If my tone was brusque Mary gave no indication. Instead she said hello to a woman scurrying past in a torn overcoat then stared ahead with a fixed intensity I found startling.

Mary explained she volunteered as an English tutor for struggling immigrants. She felt a calling to help those tossed aside as used bathwater.

“These brave people came here with hope and a desire to be part of something great, yet they are treated with disgust. We must do better, Thomas. A society is judged by their weakest, not their strongest,” she said with a brief glance in my direction. I agreed in principal but kept my lack of firsthand involvement to myself. Had she looked my way again she would have seen my eyes cast to the ground.

We crossed the street and entered the mouth of a long narrow cul-de-sac. Except for a few scurrying cats, the road was empty. After the overfilled walks I should have delighted in the reprieve, but the sudden solitude had a disheartening effect. The tall buildings seemed to hunch over us, like the bereaved as the coffin is lowered, and distorted shadows from fire escapes made me think of a prison cell.

“We’re helping a family who needs special attention,” Mary said. I thought she would continue but she kicked a rock down the center of the road and asked an odd question. She wanted to know if I had a fondness for children. I suffered a moment of panic and stammered. Mary shook her head.

“There’s the most beautiful little girl you’re going to meet and I just want to be sure you’re comfortable. She’ll need extra attention today.”

My sigh made Mary grin. “Worried I was interested in talking about something else?” she asked.

“Indeed. Men have code for that kind of talk. Time for a bigger carriage or a second study might be useful. We never actually speak the words.”

Mary’s chuckling echoed down the narrow corridor.

After assuring Mary I liked children, she pointed to the second floor of a large apartment house ahead. Our destination was