From Across the Room, Gina L. Mulligan [year 7 reading list txt] 📗

a bit stunned and more than a bit intrigued, I removed my Derby. “Thomas Gadwell. It’s very nice to meet you.”

She curtsied as if we were back at the grand ballroom. “I’m Mary Harting,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to match a name with the shoe print on my gown.” When I began to apologize again, she waved her hands and tilted her head back so I could see her light-blue eyes under the slant of her hat. She accented the playfulness in her voice with a wide grin. “I believe now we’re even, though you were right in the middle of the walkway when I nudged you.”

“And you had a bandit to catch. I completely understand.”

We chuckled until shouting from the street drew our attention and we decided it safer to relocate. Before escorting Miss Harting from the scene, I unloaded the pistol, slid the gun into my overcoat pocket, and threw the bullets down the alley. As we emerged, I realized no one had responded to her scream. The gambling and frolic continued as if nothing had happened. I also noticed my companion was still grinning.

She accepted my arm as we made our way among blustering drunks and “steerers” paid to lure patrons. Miss Harting tried to stroll with an air of ease but soon she was like a sightseer at the zoo. She stopped in front of an overfilled chophouse and gaped at men using shards of broken glass as darts. When a fiddler passed by, plucking two strings and belting a song heard only in public baths, her eyes followed him until she turned in a full circle.

“It’s like something in a dime novel. I thought everyone was exaggerating,” she said.

“Unfortunately …” I let the sentiment speak for itself and asked the question pressing at my lips.

She explained a simple curiosity about the area and saw no impropriety in a short visit, especially since her parents were occupied for the evening. And, she said, if gentlemen, such as me, were allowed to travel unaccompanied she felt it fair to be granted the same privilege. “Do you agree, Mr. Gadwell?” She peered at me with raised eyebrows. “Or are you among those who believe women faint from reading newspaper headlines and medical journals.”

I laughed. “I thought dashing young men caused woman to faint.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Gadwell. Fainting is a great way to escape dashing young men.” She had a relaxed, genuine manner I found refreshing.

“So, Miss Harting,” I began, when I made the connection. “Harting? As in the railroad?”

Her shoulders tensed but she spoke with refined gentleness as she admitted her father was Charlton Harting of Harting Railways. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about his temper. Lies and gross exaggerations. My father’s been a bit irritable this trip, but normally he’s wonderful and caring.”

A chill ran down my spine. As you know, not all of the rumors about Charlton Harting are about his temper.

I wanted to change the subject when a thought left me numb. “What would your father say if he knew you were here?”

“My father,” she mumbled.

“Yes, your father. I can only imagine —”

“No, my father ...” Miss Harting pointed to a round man in a velvet-trimmed frock coat and top hat. He was charging toward us on the other side of the street, the tails of his coat flapping in his own wake.

Miss Harting froze so I seized her hand and pulled her through an open doorway. The sound of clanging bottles and a tuneless piano filled my ears and I knew where we were even before she whispered, “Unbelievable.”

The hot saloon smelled of sour ale and unshaven men. Our entrance met with a few raised heads, but the men seemed more interested in their drinks. We dashed across the tavern to the table farthest from the door and sunk into chairs tucked in the shadowed corner.

“What in the world is my father doing here? He doesn’t frequent places like this.” She paused then asked, “Does he?”

I was about to offer my ignorance when Mr. Harting stepped into the saloon. Miss Harting gasped.

Mr. Harting marched to a table near the bar and sat across from a man in a straw boater and a russet knee-length cloak. They exchanged a brief greeting before Mr. Harting pulled an envelope from his jacket and set it in the center of the table. A waiter approached but Mr. Harting waved him away without a glance. The men sat staring at each other. Even from our distance the intensity made me uncomfortable.

At last the man in the cloak reached for the envelope, looked inside, and then nodded before sliding the envelope into a satchel beside him on the floor. Both men rose and the stranger held out his hand. Instead of a handshake, Mr. Harting lunged forward, grabbed the man’s collar and yanked him across the table until his face was but inches from his own. Sweat beaded at each man's temple, but only Mr. Harting’s brow twitched with anger.

We were too far away to hear anything, but it was obvious whatever was said was most vital. The man’s straw hat wobbled like a stereoscope viewer until Mr. Harting released him with a shove and the man fell backward. To his credit, the stranger adjusted his lapel before retaking his seat. Mr. Harting straightened his own jacket and appeared ready to leave when he paused and turned in our direction.

My companion pressed against the wall and clenched her fingers as if to pray. This is not to say I stayed relaxed. A whiskey might have helped. Whatever caught his attention was fleeting, and Mr. Harting left without looking back.

Wanting to sound gallant, I assured her we were not seen. As she slumped forward on the table, the other man stood up, swung the satchel on his arm, and left. Miss Harting agreed to my suggestion we get back to the hotel; however, she wanted to know if I recognized the man. I did not, but suggested he looked like a business acquaintance.

“I don’t think so. Father’s workmen are thick from years of swinging spike drivers, and the desk men are usually scrawny. My father likes to be the biggest one in the office. He says small men are easier to control.”

There was no time for a response even if I had one. Three dancing girls emerged from behind a crimson velvet curtain. I scrambled to my feet to block Miss Harting’s view then offered her my arm. As we moved to leave, however, a tall chap in a dark overcoat stepped in front of us. For a moment I thought Mr. Harting had indeed spotted us. I straightened. Then I saw the rifle.

“Seems like you two have lost your way.”

I reached for the gun in my pocket, but Miss Harting put her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Sheriff, we were just leaving.”

I sighed when I saw his badge. The sheriff tipped his hat to the lady. As I passed he growled, “You’re a lucky ninny.”

“You have no idea,” I replied. I pulled out the pistol by the muzzle and dropped it on the table.

After checking the street for fathers, we found our way out of the quarter and hailed a coach. We were silent, though qualms over what a powerful man would hand-deliver in a tawdry saloon bobbled around us in the rocking carriage. To change the mood, I praised her bravery and compassion. She again surprised me.

“I’ve seen desperate conditions, Mr. Gadwell, I assure you. And I’ve witnessed my share of injustice and cruelty. But tonight, the lust and greed, it was somehow more tragic. Why do we bother with the appearances of morality? Why all the bowing and draping shawls over our shoulders in the horrible heat when men behave like that? I understand poverty. I know why people like George are forced into bad situations, but most of those men tonight were wealthy gentlemen. Did you notice all the gold studs? My father was even carrying his diamond pocket watch.”

Under difference circumstances the ride might have been a bit romantic; her petite shoulder just touching mine. Instead my thoughts were on the enormity of sitting beside the daughter of Charlton Harting.

When we reached the hotel, I escorted my damsel in distress through the quiet lobby to the main staircase. She thanked me for an unforgettable evening and repaid my bravery by allowing me to call her Mary. Then she leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “By the by, I saw the dancing girls.” She winked and disappeared up the staircase leaving me with my mouth flopped open.

So you see, Avery, I was called to arms. What else could be done? Harper & Brothers will understand chivalry must be proven, and it may be argued such acts are the linchpin to a good story. Needless to say, once this letter is sealed I shall fill my inkwell and get back to work. Unlike the time I had a hankering for pickled turnips and wound up trapped in the root cellar, nothing will keep me from finishing this book. Of course, you must concede that after such an ordeal, Miss Harting shall need some measure of soothing. But how long can that take.

Your humble servant,

Thomas

June 7, 1888.

DEAR MOTHER —

I received your telegram. No, I was not shanghaied through a trap door at The Beantown Tavern. My escape from summer in Boston was perhaps impulsive, but you can assure Aunt Ruth the hotel is not overcrowded with men in jockey hats brandishing Spencer rifles and fishing lures. She may cancel her trip.

Having received the recommendation for this California jaunt from Henry (you know him as Mr. James), I imagined a maudlin inn promoting fireside confessions and pithy dining selections like Hawthorne Hasty Pudding. Surprises began the moment I arrived.

Ten miles of lurching turns had soured my exhilaration, not to mention my stomach, when at last the train gave its final sigh. We arrived at dusk, and through my window I saw golden strands of light shimmering on the Pacific. Though the smell of the crisp air was stirring and I was eager to part from the jarring iron horse, my fellow riders were quite preoccupied.

Gentlemen threatened a frenzied list of litigation if monogrammed trunks were damaged. The ladies, fretful about sand in their boots, tightened their mantles against the breeze and sent husbands to fetch fleeing bonnets. There was also consternation over costumes for a masquerade ball and how the damp climate flattens ruffles. In truth, I was discouraged by their nonchalant reaction to the splendid welcome.

Colorful streamers waved like banderoles at the Boston Harbor Festival and a brass band played “Liberty Bell Quickstep” from somewhere in the depths of the hotel. Stewards in emerald waistcoats and black bowties weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne, and a man in a white tailcoat announced dinner was served in the dining room at eight o’clock. Toasting my arrival to the West with champagne felt as awkward as the first time my father handed me the reins. I expected a glass of watered ale in a dirty tin cup. In fact, my thoughts were on such a barley pop when a porter in a red Kepi cap tapped my shoulder and took my satchel.

“Welcome, my good sir, to San Diego’s new Hotel Del Coronado. On behalf of the staff I’d like to extend our deepest appreciation for your patronage. A complimentary bottle of Chateau Margaux is in your suite, and we’d like to offer you a hansom cab tour of the city. Your attendant can arrange your visit whenever