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

And what do you believe of my work? You carried on as if I spend my time cavorting and sipping champagne because I sometimes dine with my elderly neighbor. Most days I am sequestered with only the sounds of my scratching pen. My nights are long and often sleepless; I dine on burnt roast and stale bread; and my only company is the lushington in a stupor on my study floor. When I venture to the market, I am cornered by saps eager to know if I am done with my next masterpiece. It has been four months, so of course I must have finished by now. How easy it is to write. How entertaining and simple; they should also take it up as a hobby so they can afford an extra girl in the summer.

The warmth in this friendless winter is your letters, and now that is tainted. Must I wonder what irrational feminine hysterics await me because I was seen in the company of another woman? What does it matter? I am a cad, “an insincere letch using my fancy words to woo every woman in town.” Think what you will and do what you must. For now I am too busy wooing every woman in town!

March 6, 1889.

DEAR HENRY —

As soon as I arrived back in Newport I felt as if someone were watching me. I have not seen anyone yet but am unable to shake the feeling I am back in harm’s way. Then again, after the last row with my father I would rather face a scalawag. I took your good advice to make amends with my father now he is recovered. My father has healed well; back to his old self I would say. My mistake was assuming a mere brush with death would change him.

After the wedding, I knocked on my parents’ suite and Mother showed me into the sitting room. Her needlepoint canvas was on the floor.

“I need to speak with Father. Is he awake?”

“Yes, but he’s not accepting visitors.”

I threw my gloves on the coffee table. “I’m not a visitor.”

“Keep your voice down. Of course you’re not a visitor,” she said. “That’s not what I meant. He’s in a fine pucker, Thomas. You know how he gets. Why don’t you leave him a note before —?”

“A note? This isn’t something to write in a note. Mother, I have to speak to him.”

She looked out the window to the bustling street below. “You know how I feel about the grief between you and your father, but you need to give him more time. Go and work on your wonderful book. He’ll send his letter when he’s ready.”

“Yes … well … I’m ready now.” I plucked the top hat from my head, dropped it beside my gloves, and strode into the bedroom.

My father rested in bed, his torso propped up on a thick pile of pillows against the carved oak headboard. His face was far from the sunken frame when I had last seen him lying in a bed. He had on a fresh nightshirt, his hair was combed, and his thick mustache was trimmed. In fact he looked a little tanned and was smiling at something amusing in the newspaper on his lap.

I strode into his room a man, not the boy I become when we are alone in his study. He looked up but did not put down his newspaper. I motioned toward the chair by the window.

“You can sit as long as we don’t discuss my health. I’m sick of talking about my heart. I’m fine.”

I agreed to his stipulation. I had no intention of discussing his health.

“Thomas, did you hear there’s property for sale in Turtle Bay? It might be an opportunity for residential re-development,” he said.

“I’m not here to discuss the New York housing market. Father, we need to talk about what you confessed. I must know which friend was mixed up in the banking scandal and why you destroyed counterfeiting evidence to help the guilty party escape justice. You’re culpable. We can’t just leave things like this.”

He folded his newspaper and put his hand to his temple. “My head hurts, Thomas. Go get your mother.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I need some of my medication.”

I stood up, the boy returned for that brief moment, but then I sat back down. “Which is it, Father? Are you too ill to admit the truth or do you feel fine? You can’t have it both ways. I won’t allow —”

“You won’t allow?” He crumpled his newspaper. “Who do you think you’re speaking to, young man?”

For the first time I felt indifference to his blazing offense. He could shout if he wanted, but I no longer cared; I needed to understand. I insisted we could not go on as if nothing happened.

He turned until his black eyes settled upon my unwavering stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t remember much of anything while I was sick. Doctor Stanton says laudanum clouds the mind. I don’t remember telling you anything about a scandal.”

I pleaded for him to stop but he continued the charade, “Thomas, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Yes, there is. You must tell me who—”

“I said there’s nothing to discuss. Now leave me alone. Go to Newport and pretend to work while I actually —”

“Father, we —”

Through clenched teeth he spat, “I said leave me alone.”

I left the following morning.

Seems reconciliation is improbable. At least while on the lookout for a dodgy henchman, I also have an angry lover. You of course know the latter is the most dangerous.

With reverence,

Thomas

March 9, 1889.

DARLING —

Your apology came before I could finish my own without revealing my foolishness. My pen was driven by irrational, frustrated wrath, and the ugliness of my letter hovers like the California fog that dampened the deck chairs. Can you forgive me? I have read and reread your letter with a heavy heart for all that you are feeling. My talent for candor pales in comparison to yours, but I must at least try.

I still believe my leaving New York was a good decision, but now knowing you felt abandoned makes me ashamed. You feel I left without trying to fight your father for you, and I must agree. Though we based our decision on sound reasoning, there is another important reason why I agreed to our parting with such ease. You should know the truth.

My dear, I left in large part because I needed to begin my book. In truth, I wanted to begin my book. I know I vowed our courtship would continue unfettered, but I was wearing blinders and had forgotten that writing is an endless struggle without a victor. My schedule is odd and self-serving, and until now the consequence has hurt only me and Avery. It was never my intention to neglect you, and still I must acknowledge my preoccupation. The man you met at the hotel wants to stroke your hair and whisper he will change his ways; the writer at this desk will not deny his passion nor regret the time it demands. Perhaps Madam Rousseau was in fact correct about my two loves. Change, however, first requires desire.

My feet are not bound to this island. Yet just as pride prevented you from asking me to stay, ego prevents me from returning. My affection for you has not faltered as you fear. It grows without measure even though a selfish will controls me. Darling, if we are ever to succeed in our attachment you must understand writing is all I have to give this world. There are too many that expect failure and belittle my efforts in hope of breaking my spirit. I will not satisfy them. Can you forgive me my temperament? Men are so different from women. Seems you have learned even a loving father is just a man.

I understand your disappointment and wish there was something I could say to cheer you. Yes, it appears your father took you to Abilene because he never trusted us and wanted you under his watchful eye far away from me. At least his protectiveness has kept you from the Muskrat. This brings me more reassurance than I can explain. However, now that you concede there may be nothing that will change your father’s mind, we must stop and consider this reality.

In the pages of a manuscript the protagonist must reach a point of vulnerable exposure. His destiny rests in that moment of conflict, yet he is brave and resolute. Never in my life have I felt less heroic than right now. This is the most distasteful of anything I have ever had to do; however, the question must be asked and answered. I think we both know the time has come.

My sweetest Mary, are you willing to build a life with me if our union means separation from your family?

With all my heart,

Thomas

March 21, 1889.

HENRY —

The winter frost in Newport is cutting yet I shiver from more than the driving sleet that pelts my chin. I wish my fear was from the finished chapters stacked too close to the fire. But I fear more than my pages are in danger.

After returning from dinner with my neighbor, Mrs. Winchester, I went around to the back porch. My habit is to use the rear entrance closer to the study. This infuriates my mother who writes to remind me that, as a gentleman, I should use my two capable limbs to go to the front. I had just put my key in the lock when I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could turn, a man grabbed me and shoved me against the door.

“Gadwell, I’ve been waiting too long for this,” he said as he pressed his full weight against me. I squirmed, but he was twice my size and he had my right arm pinned to my side while my left was twisted up against my back. He spat the cigarette from his teeth and ashes flicked on my cheek.

“He said you’d struggle. Waste of time.”

“Who said? Mr. Harting?” I asked.

“I don’t know names. What I do know is the boss wants you to stop what you’re doing. He don’t like it.” He pressed harder. It felt as if my arm might snap in two.

“What don’t the boss like, your breath?”

“A wiseacre,” he said. Then he jammed his knee in my back. Sharp pain shot through my side and down my legs. “You’re lucky this is just a warning, you boot-licker. It’s your last one. You got that, Gadwell? Next time I won’t be so nice.”

He grabbed a fist of my hair and slammed my forehead against the door frame. As I sunk to the ground, I heard him leap from the porch and trot into the night.

I crawled inside and slept on the downstairs sofa clutching my father’s old rifle. The next morning I reported the incident. Other than a blinding headache and aching arm, proof of my tale is just a small cut over my left eyebrow. Seems my head is thick from years of bad reviews. A few greenbacks persuaded the police sergeant to patrol my street, but I jump at every creak and wasted a whole afternoon sighting targets. The henchman has nothing to fear.

Can I accuse Mr. Harting without evidence? Should I terminate my contract with Mr. Everett even when we have unfinished business? Above it all, I was likely attacked for a reason that no longer exists.

Twelve days