The Friday evening soirees at Gwen Blackstone Kellerman’s home were famous. She originally started hosting them as a way for the professors at Blackstone College to relax and unwind after a week of classes, but over the years they had grown into much more. Artists and intellectuals from across the city vied for a chance to attend her soirees, which could last until dawn. The informal gatherings became a place where professors debated new ideas and artists mingled with academics. It was said that Mark Twain was inspired to write a short story based on a conversation he had with an aging English professor in the corner of Gwen’s garden.
These weekly gatherings were Gwen’s proudest accomplishment, since she would probably never become a botany professor like she’d once hoped. Dreams of a successful marriage and motherhood had also passed her by, but her soirees made Blackstone College a thriving intellectual community.
So far tonight she had consoled a professor whose latest experiment didn’t pan out, listened to a musician play his new composition on her piano, and toasted the birth of a baby boy to a physics professor. It was a brilliant, moonlit summer evening . . . which was why the gloomy expression on the college president’s face seemed so strange.
President Matthews had been appointed two years ago and was still struggling to find his footing among this tight-knit community. He lived next door to Gwen on a tree-shaded street where most senior faculty lived. Not everyone on campus appreciated the new president, but Gwen understood the challenges he faced better than most and did her best to support him.
“Gwen, if it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to go next door for a brief discussion,” he said.
She was in the middle of listening to a visiting professor from Japan discuss his research on undersea volcanic activity. “Can it wait a few minutes?” she asked, eager to hear more about how molten lava could occur underwater.
President Matthews shook his head. “It is a matter of some delicacy. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
Gwen nodded and headed across the crowded parlor toward the front door. There were sixty people here tonight. Most had spilled onto her terraced garden to enjoy the warm summer evening, but a group of the oldest professors had staked their claim to the upholstered furniture in her front room.
“Gwen, what is with this amazing tree?” a chemistry professor asked, holding up the dwarfed Himalayan cedar in its ceramic pot.
“It’s called a bonsai tree,” she said. “Professor Watanabe brought it to me as a hostess gift tonight. Isn’t it darling?”
Over the years, people had brought her flowering shrubs, herbs, and bulbs from across the world, making the two-acre garden behind her house a showpiece. It was a green-scented world where science and beauty converged. Her happiest hours were spent in the calm oasis of her garden, and she loved sharing it with the people of Blackstone College each Friday evening.
Two more people tried to intercept her before she made it outside. The gentle hum of crickets sounded in the distance as she and President Matthews walked across the lawn to his house next door. A light on the front porch glowed as he led her inside.
“You added new wallpaper,” Gwen said as she stepped into the foyer of the president’s house.
“It was my wife’s idea,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind the change.”
“Of course not. It’s your house now.”
President Matthews still seemed ill at ease whenever he invited her inside because this had once been her father’s home. Theodore Blackstone was the college’s founder and had served as its president for twenty-eight years. Gwen had been born in this house and lived here until she married Jasper and moved next door.
Or perhaps the new president’s deference to her was because of her maiden name. Everyone knew she was a Blackstone by birth, and the name tended to inspire awe, fear, and ghoulish curiosity.
“Tell me what I can do for you,” she prompted once they were seated in his study. The windows were open, making it easy to hear laughter and the faint sound of the piano from her house next door.
“I received bad news this afternoon,” President Matthews said. “Your uncle has made good on his threat to terminate funding for the college.”
Gwen bowed her head. Uncle Oscar had been threatening the college’s funding for years, but she hadn’t believed he would ever end it. Her mind reeled, unable to imagine a world without Blackstone College in it.
She glanced outside toward the people mingling in her garden. None of them knew how close the college teetered on the edge of bankruptcy.
President Matthews continued outlining their situation. “I hoped my negotiations with the senior members of the Blackstone family would be successful without appealing to you for help,” he said, his voice placating and cautious.
People on campus still treated her with kid gloves even though it had been two years since she lost both her father and her husband in the same week. She had fully recovered from both tragedies, but President Matthews still seemed worried about hurting her feelings.
“I’m afraid that without additional funding, I will be forced to close the physics department,” he said.
Her shoulders sagged. “That department was very dear to my father.”
“Other colleges in the city can take our students in physics should the worst occur. New York University has an excellent program in physics.”
“I don’t care about New York University,” she said with a sigh. “I only care about the colleges founded by Vanderbilt and Carnegie, and you know why.”
Cornelius Vanderbilt and Andrew Carnegie had both created colleges to enhance their reputations, and soon Blackstone College would be equally prestigious. If all went well, someday the name Blackstone would stand for scientific and medical progress rather than greed and exploitation.
“Yes, yes,” President Matthews said. “Unfortunately, the physics department hasn’t yet turned a profit. At least the biology and chemistry departments have patented some of their work, but overall, we have an atrocious record of—”
His sentence choked off, and Gwen smothered a laugh. “You can say it,” she teased. “I know my father was terrible at managing money.”
