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

“I mention available, sir, because here at The Del there are many ways to occupy yourself. Each morning you’ll receive a list of the day’s activities and the appropriate attire for the evening’s entertainment. In addition to your personal attendant, there’s a concierge to arrange equipment rental for archery, croquet, golf, and boating. Our kitchen is equipped to handle any dietary restrictions, and the smoking lounge is well stocked. Our only goal is to provide you with a memorable summer, sir. We’re proud to serve you in any way possible.”

His lavish greeting paled in comparison to the lady behind him.

Before me was a generous Queen Anne painted stark white. Long shadows caressed her red dome roof, and I saw the fetching silhouette of grand turrets, carved spindles, and a large walking deck leading to the sea. Rows of spacious windows faced the ocean like soldiers ready to march, and an ethereal mist swirled across the veranda.

“Lovely,” I muttered.

“Why, thank you, young man. It’s new. Bought it especially for the trip.”

Mother, I turned to see a round woman adjusting a hat with black feathers and gold ladybugs swinging from brass wire. It reminded me of a child’s mobile. As she walked away I heard her call out, “You see, Stella, I told you bugs were fashionable this year.”

A second announcement for dinner inspired the newcomers, so I followed my comrades across the threshold. It was almost as if I had never left Boston.

The intimate lobby was a flurry of excitement. Patent leather heels and boisterous chatter echoed on the marble floor as receptionists matched visitors with their attendants. Settled guests, their pressed jackets and tanned skin worn as a coveted prize, weaved through the fresh faces. Their inspection was thorough.

A lady’s nod or a gent’s familiar handshake meant an invitation to dinner and a front row seat for the chamber orchestra. You, of course, know I sought neither. Instead I found a restful spot near the concierge desk, propped myself against the mahogany paneling, and took up my usual role. I admit with pleasure what first drew my attention.

Two pleasing young ladies were well positioned on an embroidered loveseat. Their silk fans fluttered with excited agitation as they surveyed the crowd and whispered in each other’s ears. The ladies looked refreshed in long, white linen dresses with large straw hats. As I wiped bits of coal from my Chesterfield, I was amused by the skill with which they tilted their broad brims to camouflage their stares. You need not worry, I turned away before I caught their eyes and continued my observation.

Caramel light from the gas lamps softened the society. French doors were opened to the rush of the waves and the evening’s meal promised a healthy portion of garlic. However, not until my eyes drifted to the far side of the lobby was I quite in awe.

Do you remember the gold birdcage in that Parisian boutique? Beside a group of men pulling calling cards from their vest pockets was a hydraulic elevator that looked just like that elaborate coop. Through the open slats guests waved as they rode to the upper floors. It was a marvel to see their feet lift right off the ground. Alas, my enjoyment at watching the elevator was interrupted.

The girls on the loveseat rose and linked arms. They ambled toward me with their fans resting at their sides and stopped at the concierge desk.

“We’ve forgotten our table assignment. Please look up Adams, Elizabeth and Emily.”

The girls smiled at me then turned away to speak in low voices. Just then a lithe man with a sharp chin and deep wrinkles approached and asked, “Mr. Thomas M. Gadwell?” My attendant, Walter, led me to the elevator but not before I tipped my bowler and left the young ladies giggling.

My ferry to the second floor was thrilling, and I, too, felt compelled to wave to strangers in the lobby. Then Walter showed me down a spacious hallway to the last suite. Though I suffer in many ways for my craft, I freely admit accommodation is not one of them.

The room is spacious with a sitting area and comfortable feather bed. There is a private privy and a thoughtful balcony providing marvelous views. The curved coastline stretches for miles in both directions with jagged cliffs hovering in the distance, and beyond the hotel’s landscaped gardens are secluded pockets of stiff sea grass you might feel compelled to weed.

Still, if you reconsider a trip, the hotel’s craftsmanship and intriguing company are worth the arduous journey from Boston. Provided, of course, you forbid father to bring his newspapers aboard the train. Not even you could withstand seven days trapped with father and his convictions.

I must take my leave, as I have an engagement for afternoon tea and a quartet is playing this evening. Please tell Father I hope he recovers from his lingering cold, and enjoy your tulip garden before you leave for your vacation in Newport. Lest you fear I shall be stirred by the wild frontier to grow a thick mustache and long side whiskers, I assure you that the society is conventional, management forbids saloon gunfights, and I have yet to meet a rowdy gold prospector—of course I hope to soon.

Your loving son,

Thomas

June 10, 1888.

DEAR MISS MARY HARTING —

Thank you again for a charming afternoon. I feared nothing could surpass the excitement of our escapade, but then I never suspected your interest in sharp arrows.

Even with such delicate, feminine hands you had a steady aim and did a fine job of breaking in the new target. You also had the appropriate archer’s look of concentration. Based on your snickering, I imagine my grimace resembled eating sour candy. But I again remind you it was my shot that provided our fresh quail for lunch. That the instructor had to dive for safety was part of my skill.

If your bravery has not waned, I hope you will join me tomorrow so I may again flaunt my talent with a teacup. As the manager has banned me from picking up another bow while on hotel grounds, perhaps we can explore other interests. I hear the bicycle trails are comfortably wide, as are the bicycle seats.

Respectfully,

Thomas Marcus Gadwell

June 13, 1888.

DEAR MARY —

As we sat together on the hotel’s impressive veranda I longed to stand upon the chaise and proclaim my true feelings. Is such frankness too presumptuous for our new acquaintance? Conformity be dashed, I must tell you.

I despise lemonade. It tastes like spoiled wine mixed with bits of twine. I confess because I fear you may have misinterpreted my distasteful expression as you spoke of women’s suffrage. On the contrary, you have given me a new perspective.

Your argument for equality was well organized and quite passionate. Few women in polite society share their frustration for a lifetime of quiet reflection, and I understand why you are sometimes bored with needlepoint and summer parties. Your candor is stimulating—as is your astute discretion.

We live in a culture where women in need of employment are forced into factory labor while those desiring employment are ostracized. Women are by design intuitive and clever, and your courage is already proven. These are fine traits for a whole host of careers, including a physician. Have you told even your mother of your desire to attend medical school?

Miss Harting, of all your endearing qualities I have discovered over this past week, I am honored you shared your intellect without pretense of a passing fancy or overheard comment from a man in your company. Our conversation was a bit of a surprise, but I wanted to assure you it was a most pleasant one. Can I expect more of your impassioned viewpoint tonight?

As I pledge my allegiance to root beer and attempt to sort through the many volumes I must research, my thoughts are on meeting your parents at dinner this evening. Does your father know he raised a woman careful in her appearance yet unruffled by the sand in her shoes after our stroll upon the beach?

Yours sincerely,

Thomas

June 18, 1888.

DEAR BEAUREGARD —

My old friend, how long has it been since we opened a bottle of malt whisky and spent an entire evening searching for the melody in a Russian opera? In many ways not long enough.

Are you again trolling Saratoga for girls eager to annoy overbearing mothers? Or have you contented yourself with the companionship of the Baccarat table? My pleasure involves more than parading through town in a white cycling costume; yet, of anyone I know, you most appreciate a vacation filled with warm sunshine, gay chatter, and a radiant woman. Other than a small obstacle the size of a boulder, your apprentice is faring quite well in California. For the sole purpose of bragging, allow me to share the good parts before humbly asking for your help. And for the record, she agreed to our private outing without any begging.

My new friend, Miss Mary Harting, greeted me in the lobby at sunrise. She had an infectious grin that showed nothing of the early wake-up call. After we shook hands, I motioned for her to sit on a settee and then sat beside her.

She tilted her head. “Why are we sitting down, Thomas? I thought you said the surprise was outside. Aren’t you ready to go?”

“Actually, you’re not ready yet,” I said.

She flattened the pleats around her narrow waist, lifted the hem of her paisley skirt to examine her black boots, and gave a quick tug to each glove. “This is about as ready as I get.”

My heart began to pound. I reached across Mary to the end table beside her. She pulled away, but not too far. I felt her warm breath on my neck as I grasped the black scarf I had tucked underneath a crystal ashtray. When I sat back up, Mary plucked the scarf from my hand and held it in her open palm. “Yes, this was definitely too heavy for your pocket. You certainly are smooth.”

I should have known better than to try one of your stupid maneuvers.

She wanted to know what I had in mind for the scarf so I explained seeing where we were going would ruin the surprise. I waited for her refusal but instead of a protest, Mary placed the cloth to her eyes and turned. As I slid closer to tie the ends, my hands brushed against her soft hair and I smelled lilac perfume.

Mary took my hand, and I led her out past the gardens and beyond the far side of the hotel. When we stepped into the soft sand, she gripped my forearm.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall,” I said.

“Who said I’m worried I might fall? Have you forgotten about the Crown Room where you bumped into me, or the rock you didn’t see? Oh, and then there was that branch on the —”

“Okay, you have a point.”

She giggled. “I just don’t want to go down with the sinking ship.”

“Traitor.”

I led her across the beach to a narrow path lined with sea grass. As we moved farther from the water’s edge, the breeze quieted and I listened to her shallow breath. Neither of us spoke. We were silenced by anticipation.

Though her hand was firm on my arm and I brushed against her shoulders to move branches from her path, when I grasped her waist to keep her from tripping she jumped.

“There was a log,” I said.

“My mother warned me about those