New York City

Charlie sat in his study staring at a blank page, his pen poised just above his stationery. His initials, CJA, were inscribed at the top in fancy, golden calligraphy. A gift from his mother, the stationery made him feel important. Perhaps that was part of the reason he wasn’t exactly sure what to write. What if his words came across as foolish? It would be difficult to be both important and ridiculous at the same time.

Of course, the other idea that made this particular writing task difficult is that it was the first time he was to write to Mary Margaret. He had known for years that she would be his wife one day, but having never met her, he simply had no idea what she was like. He wasn’t sure what he should discuss. What if she found his remarks drab and boring? Though he’d written a bit of correspondence before—mostly to his grandparents who lived upstate—this letter seemed important, and he didn’t wish to mess it up.

“Charlie, darling, are you quite all right?” his mother asked as she placed her hand on his shoulder.

He had been so absorbed by the task, he hadn’t even heard her come in. Pamela Ashton was a diminutive woman. Not even five feet tall, with the type of bone structure that might make one look frail if she wasn’t so incredibly healthy, it was a wonder she had birthed such a tall, strong young man as Charlie. His sister Grace was also quite a bit taller than their mother already at seventeen. They did look similar, however. Both women had long brown hair and dark eyes with fair complexions. His mother liked to fashion her hair differently from day to day and this afternoon she had it pulled up on top of her head with tiny curls framing her oval face. Charlie always thought he had the prettiest mother. He hoped one day his own children would look upon Mary Margaret and feel proud that their mother was lovely and kind, the way that he admired his own mother.

“Yes, Mother,” he replied, turning to face her and forcing a smile. “I was just considering what it is I might say to Mary Margaret.”

“I see,” Pamela nodded, sitting in a chair next to her son. “What have you written thus far?”

Charlie shrugged and dropped his head. “Honestly? Nothing.”

He thought he saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her soft pink lips. “Well, considering you’ve been at it for nearly an hour, I would say, you’ve quite a lot on your mind, my boy.”

Charlie looked out at the fountain, which is what he’d been doing for much of that hour. “Yes, Mother. What if….”

“What if—what?” she asked, squeezing his shoulder. “What if you say something silly? Something that makes her laugh?”

“What if I say something that makes me sound—idiotic?”

Pamela laughed then, no longer able to hide her amusement at her son’s enthusiasm for perfection. “Charlie, I doubt there is anything you could say to make you sound anything less than the intelligent, kind-hearted young man that you are. However, if you should like, once you’ve finished, I will read it over and let you know if I think you need to make any corrections. How would that be?”

His countenance brightened. “You wouldn’t mind?” he asked, finally feeling as if perhaps he could manage this task after all.

“Of course not,” she assured him. “After all, Mary Margaret will be like a daughter to me one day. I wouldn’t want her to think I’ve raised an idiotic son.”

He could tell she was teasing, and he couldn’t help but laugh. His mother was always so lighthearted. He couldn’t imagine having one of those stern mothers who never paid her children any mind except for to scorn them. “Thank you, Mother,” he said, patting her hand on his shoulder.

“Anything for you, my love,” she smiled. “I shall be in the parlor. When you’re finished, bring it down, and I’ll have a look.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Before she turned to go, she bent down and kissed him lovingly on his crown of dark brown hair. Watching her walk out the door, Charlie hoped that Mary Margaret’s mother loved her the same way that his mother loved him. It must be awful to lose one’s father. Without a proper mother, things would be even worse.

With a deep breath, he readied his pen and began with the only thing that made sense. He quickly wrote the date and the salutation and then began with a bit of an introduction.

April 15, 1902

Dear Miss Westmoreland,

I hope this letter finds you well. It is spring time here in New York City, and the birds are chirping. The buds are blooming on the trees. The air smells lovely. It is as if the world has awoken from a deep slumber. I hope that Southampton is just as lovely this time of year.

I wanted to write to you to let you know that I have been thinking of you. I was so very sorry to hear about the passing of your father these several years ago. I am sure that has been very difficult for you. I hope that your mother is a kind and loving woman like mine. I am certain she must be as my parents speak so highly of your father.

My father will be traveling to Southampton on business in a few months. I hope that I am able to go with him so that perhaps we could meet. I should like to get to know you and form a friendship. I am interested to know what you like to do in your spare time, what you think of your studies, who your friends are, that sort of thing. I believe my father will be contacting your mother shortly so that we might be able to find a time and place to get acquainted properly.

Personally, I enjoy studying math and business, as well as reading. In my free time, I enjoy being outside. I ride but not as well as I might. I enjoy sailing but I have never been particularly fond of the water. My best friend is a young man by the name of Walter Franklin. His father is an associate of my father’s. We spend a lot of our free time together.

I also quite enjoy walking around the factory floor with my father learning his trade. I am excited to earn my place in his business someday. I hope that I will grow up to be a good provider like our fathers one day.

I suppose that is enough of an introduction for now. I hope this letter finds you well. If you are so inclined, I should very much enjoy a letter from you.

Respectfully yours.

Charles J. Ashton

Once he had finished and read it over a few times, Charlie made sure his correspondence was dry and then carefully carried it down to his mother. He found her in the parlor, as she’d promised, working on a needlepoint. When he entered the room, she smiled and laid her piece on the table next to her saying, “Well, let’s have a look shall we?”

Charlie waited with his hands folded behind his back, watching his mother’s dark eyes scan the document to the bottom. She finished, nodded, and then began reading again. He had suspected she would want to be completely thorough.

“It’s lovely, Charlie,” she finally determined. “It’s quite good. I had no idea you were such a strong writer, my boy.”

He couldn’t help but smile at his mother’s praise. He had never felt like much of a writer, but he truly enjoyed reading, and he thought perhaps some of the words he had absorbed from the classics over the years might have somehow wriggled their way into his unconscious mind.

“May I make one small suggestion?” she asked, her lips pursed just a bit.

“Yes, of course,” Charlie replied, stepping forward, nervous to hear what the criticism might be.

“Well, while I believe what you’ve written is certainly accurate, perhaps we should change this word to ‘parents’ instead of ‘father.’”

She pointed to the sentence he had written that concluded, “my parents have spoken so highly of your father.”

“I’m afraid that if we don’t say ‘parents’ her mother might read it and assume we have not spoken highly of her. Now, of course, your father doesn’t know Mrs. Westmoreland in the same way that he knew Mr. Westmoreland. Naturally, he doesn’t speak of her as highly or as often. But really, there’s no need to potentially offend her, now is there?”

Charlie hadn’t thought of that. What his mother was saying made perfect sense. He hadn’t considered mentioning his parents praising Mrs. Westmoreland because, as far as he could remember, they never had. That didn’t mean that she wasn’t worthy, however. “Yes, of course,” Charlie said, nodding. “That’s a lovely idea, Mother.”

“All right, then, Charlie. You go make your change and bring it back down. I’ll be certain it makes it to the post first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Charlie said, taking the paper. Careful not to wrinkle it, though it was only a draft at this point, he leaned in and hugged his mother, thankful for her thoughtfulness and consideration. He knew he was lucky to have such attentive parents as he knew several other children who did not. The older he got, the more he realized how truly blessed he was.

Charlie made his way back upstairs and corrected his letter. He found an envelope and placed it inside, sealing it, and carefully scribed Mary Margaret Westmoreland on the outside. He knew his father would have the address. He hoped that she would be as excited to get a letter from him as he was to send it.