The Christmas Eve Letter: A Time Travel Novel (4 page)

Finally, with a gentle flick of her hand, the flap released and Eve saw the yellow ribbon of glue that had kept it sealed for all those years. 

Her eyes widened and excitement bloomed in her, a kind of exhilaration she’d never felt before.  Eve replaced the letter opener on the side table and, with a certain reluctance, she touched the open flap with her index finger.  It was as if she were opening an Egyptian tomb or a sealed jar that contained
The Dead Sea Scrolls
. 

She lifted the flap and drew in a sharp breath.  Two fingers felt for the edge of the letter.  Now, all she had to do was lift the letter from the envelope and read. 

Eve paused, as hundreds of thoughts played in her head.  One hundred “what ifs” and one hundred possibilities.

With great care, Eve drew out the letter.  It was six pages, written on a rich, cream-colored stationery bond.  Amazingly, the paper wasn’t tarnished by age.  It appeared as if the letter had been written a week ago and not in 1885.  Eve laid the envelope aside and turned her full attention to the letter.  It had been folded once.  She ran her finger along the crease and opened it. 

She lowered her eyes on the page and shivered as she began to read.  The hand that wrote the letter had taken great care to make each word legible.  It was elegantly penned with swooping capital letters, dots directly over the i’s, the t’s perfectly crossed.  But it was the letter itself that drew Eve’s complete and focused attention.  It seemed to radiate with life, and energy, and an ineffable vitality that drew Eve into its old, mesmerizing world.

Harringshaw House

644 Fifth Avenue

New York

24 December 1885

My Dearest Evelyn,

Your recent letter has opened my eyes to the tragic wrong course of action I pursued, believing that propriety and good conscience demanded it.  I now regret it with all my heart.  All night and most of the day I have been pacing my floor, fully engaged in an agonizing struggle that has filled me with self-loathing, and left me stunned with grief and longing. 

I will not attempt to excuse myself, for I do not deserve your forgiveness or your gentle love.  I will only say that I was myself deceived by my own feelings, believing that I could never offer you marriage because of my station in life, as well as my duty to my family and my business.

But now I clearly see that my failure to propose marriage arose from my own weakness of character, from an immature notion of courage, and from pure and simple ignorance.  I had mistakenly believed that no matter how congenial we were together, I could not turn my back on society and my family’s wishes and, therefore, we could not marry and have the happiness we both so richly wished for.

Our closer intimacy should have proved my error, but my dearest girl, I am afraid I was blinded by fear, by society and by my ambition.  I was unable to imagine all the extravagant possibilities of the life we could have had together. Mine was an imperfect love.  May God forgive me, dear Evelyn.  You say you never coveted a life of luxury and you would be content to live in poverty, so long as you and I could remain together, always happy and in love.  Forgive me, dearest Evelyn, for I lacked your strength, courage and fortitude.  I lacked your good and true love, and your good and compassionate heart, and for that I shall never forgive myself.

If I could but turn back the clock to live again those most cherished hours, I would surely do so without a moment’s hesitation.  But, alas, time moves on at its relentless pace and what is done is done.

Now you lie on your deathbed and there is nothing I can do to change all the misery of my selfish mistakes.  Please, dear girl, know that I tried to come to you, and hired the best doctor in Manhattan to attend you at your bedside, but your mother rejected all my attempts with anger and frankness of word.  She threatened to call the police and expose my family to scandal.  When I told her I didn’t care what she did to me or to my family, and then further made strong demands to see you, she told me you did not want to see me.  She told me that you hated me and that you did not ever want to see my face again, either in this world or the next. 

That, of course, shattered my heart and broke my spirit.  She said you and I were finished and that you no longer loved me.  I beseeched her, repeatedly, to forgive me and to let me see you, or at least to let my doctor see you, but she declined all my pleadings. 

Your brother blocked my way with his two friends, cursing me and threatening bodily harm.  That did not frighten me in the least.  At that point, I did not care what happened to me.  But I saw that it was futile.  I could not break past them to get to you and so I took some well-deserved blows from them and then was knocked to the ground.  And so I have finally failed you once again, but for the last time.

How will I bear your leaving this Earth, dear Evelyn?  Damn this illness, this consumptive fever that has overcome you.  How will I bear your leaving this troubled world?  How will I bear facing all my transgressions once you have left this Earth?  What will I do with this full and loving heart that beats love and desire for you when you are gone? 

Again, I simply and humbly ask your forgiveness and I tell you, with a true and full heart, that I love you and will love you for all eternity, whether that love is returned or not; for you, Dear Evelyn, have shown me that love is not only possible and real, but that love is always the final and only choice in this life.

So as a last resort, I have sent you this letter, trusting in merciful God that you will receive it and read its contents.  I pray that you pass from this world into the next knowing in full measure that I love you and I always will.  I pray to that most merciful God that your mother will have the kind-heartedness to deliver this letter to you. 

You told me in your last letter that you still have the lantern.  How that touched me, Evelyn.  How that moved me to tears.  If health permits, please light the lantern once more, the lantern that first revealed your angelic face to me on that wretched snowy night, and then read this letter again, and think of me kindly.  Remember the good and pleasant times we had together; recall the sequestered timeless minutes when I held you in my arms, and recollect the tender kisses.  Evelyn, pray to God that he will allow us to be together again, either in this world or the next, and that our good and true love will then be blessed and come to full flower. 

The light from the lantern will forever symbolize our eternal and unceasing love.  Please, dear Evelyn, please light the lantern and remember me with forgiveness, and with compassion and love in your heart.

And know this, Dear Evelyn.  One day I will find you in that other, more just, perfect and loving world, and then we will live together in that most beautiful and gentle abode.  I know it.  I believe it, because love will somehow bring us back together again and make all wrongs right.

Until then, I am, ever your servant, your friend and your own true love,

John Allister Harringshaw II

Eve lifted her eyes from the page and stared ahead, at nothing.  The letter’s impact had moved her to tears. 

The sentiment and the prose were flowery and emotionally embellished, but the letter was, after all, written in the language and style of 1885.  But the impact was the same.  The man was emotionally distressed at losing the love of his life and Eve felt it in every agonized and flowery word. 

Eve looked down at the lantern—the lantern that probably hadn’t been lit since 1885. 

Evelyn had almost certainly never received John’s letter, so she had never lit the lantern.  Perhaps she was too sick by that point.  Perhaps she had even passed away and the letter and the lantern were lost until Eve found them in Granny Gilbert’s antique shop. 

Evelyn Sharland most surely died not knowing how sorry John Harringshaw was or how much he loved her.  How sad, Eve thought.  How very sad.

CHAPTER 4

Monday was a blur of activity.  Eve saw patients every 20 minutes, performed annual physicals, e-mailed prescriptions, studied blood work and EKG reports, listened to the familiar complaints of regular patients and, at the end of the day, she took a throat culture on a 6-year-old boy who screamed and fought her all the way. 

Eve struggled to stay on schedule and not keep patients waiting more than five or ten minutes.  In other words, it was a typical crazy, busy Monday.  Before meeting two college friends for a late birthday dinner, she called Joni to make sure she took Georgy Boy for his afternoon romp in the park. 

At their favorite bistro on the Upper West Side, Eve and her friends sipped red wine while eating French onion soup and burgers.  Eve recounted the highlights of her 3-day trip and her experience with Granny Gilbert at the antiques shop.  She proudly showed off the heart-shaped pendant watch and told her friends about the lantern, but she didn’t tell them about the letter.  She sensed that discussing it would diminish its impact on her, and she wanted to savor the experience by herself for a while, until she had learned more about Harringshaw and had made a decision as to what she was going to do with it.  Since neither of her friends was really interested in antiques, the conversation swiftly moved on to other topics.

Back home, Eve fed Georgy Boy, showered, slipped into a robe and slippers, and powered up her laptop.  She lit the candles in the fireplace and sat in her usual chair, laptop poised and ready.  Georgy Boy came over and dropped down by her feet, laying his chin on her right foot, something he’d done ever since she’d found him at the animal shelter two years before.

Eve’s first search was for Evelyn Sharland, Census 1885.  It was a long shot, but why not?  She found a Rose Sharland 1873 to 1946.  Relative?  Not that Eve was aware of.

Eve scrolled down.  The only census Eve found was for 1940.  No help.  Okay, Eve would call her father a little later and remind him to check his research.

Next Eve keyed in John Allister Harringshaw II and waited impatiently while her computer searched.  When the page refreshed with the results, she nosed forward.  One item caught her eye.  Albert Wilson Harringshaw.  Eve clicked on the link and waited until it opened.  She scanned the page.

Albert Wilson Harringshaw was the son of John Allister Harringshaw I, and older brother of John Allister Harringshaw II.

Eve sat up, her eyes widening, her pulse high.  The author of the letter was the younger brother of a more famous—or was it infamous—person.  She read on.

Albert Wilson Harringshaw (October 12, 1860– May 7, 1915) was an extremely wealthy American businessman and sportsman, and a member of the famous Harringshaw family.  He was known as a Gilded Age playboy, who was often seen with Helen Baxter Price, a well-known actress and reputed prostitute, even though he was engaged to Anne Fulton Hopkins, a prominent socialite, whose family had lost much of their money in land speculations and in the stock market panic of May 1884. 

Albert Harringshaw purchased a brownstone for Miss Price in the fashionable Madison Square neighborhood and he seems to have continued the relationship in secret, even after his marriage to Anne Hopkins.  There were many rumors and secrets as to the ultimate fate of Miss Price, many accounts having her meeting a younger man and moving to France with him.  From there she seems to have quietly fallen into obscurity.

Albert Wilson Harringshaw died on the RMS Lusitania in 1915
.

Eve studied the photo of him, caricatured by Spy for Vanity Fair, 1885.  He was dressed dapperly in a white shirt, white bow tie, dark tail coat and trousers, dark waistcoat vest, and top hat.  He had been quite handsome, with tawny red-gold hair, a waxed mustache and a devil-may-care look in his shining eyes. 

Eve scrolled down and read the biography of the Harringshaw family. 

The Harringshaw family is an American family of British origin that was prominent during the Gilded Age.  Their success began with the shipping, steel and railroad empires of John Allister Harringshaw I.  The family extended their vast fortune into various other areas of industry and philanthropy.  John Allister Harringshaw I built a grand mansion on Fifth Avenue in New York City, and luxurious “summer cottages” in Newport, Rhode Island.

Eve searched the link for John Allister Harringshaw II, and found it at the bottom of the page.  She took a sharp intake of breath and clicked on the link.  The page refreshed and a black and white photograph of John Allister Harringshaw II looked back at her.

Eve made a little sound of surprise.  He looked so alive—so real, staring back at her.  The room suddenly fell into a deepening silence, and the quality of light changed as the candles flickered.  Eve raised her eyes from the screen and glanced about, as if feeling the presence of someone else in the room.  A cool draft made her shiver and she wished the radiator heat would come rattling on.  It was cold outside and going down to 42 degrees, or so the weather people had said. 

She returned her attention to the laptop and the photograph of John Allister Harringshaw II, enlarging the photo, narrowing her eyes on it, and becoming completely absorbed by it.  John Allister Harringshaw II looked back at her with piercing dark eyes and the clean chiseled features and fine sharp nose of an aristocrat.  He wore a top hat and tails and appeared to be about 30 years old, maybe older.  He was tall, straight and handsome, remarkably handsome, with a natural authority and a stern dignity. 

Eve could not picture this man writing the letter that lay on the side table next to her.  This man seemed cool, aloof and worldly, perhaps fiercely practical and well-schooled in the art of wealth and privilege.  As handsome as John was, Eve was not overly impressed by him.  The more she stared into those eyes, the more she felt he was a dark, cold and brooding man.  He probably frightened his servants, his clients and any subordinates who worked for him.