“Indeed.” She traced a finger along the tiles. She couldn’t lose this house. She couldn’t.
“A person can’t give away something he doesn’t own,” Patrick said. “If he could, I’d like to give the Brooklyn Bridge to my ma, but the courts won’t honor it.”
Relief crashed down on her, releasing a flood of tension. It was exactly what she wanted to hear. She bent her head as tears threatened. It shouldn’t matter so much, but this house was the only paradise she ever wanted. A ragged breath escaped despite her best efforts.
“Mrs. K? Are you all right?”
She sniffled. “I’m all right.”
“Are we still speaking hypothetically?”
“Yes,” she managed to get out.
“And are you hypothetically crying?”
“Right again,” she said, this time with a little laughter mingled in. “There is a bit of stickiness around the ownership of my house, and it’s been weighing on me.” Her voice started shaking. “Quite badly, in fact.”
“Stay right there,” Patrick said. “I’m coming over. I can pick up the tea while I’m at it.”
She hung up the earpiece, feeling outlandishly happy at the thought of Patrick O’Neill’s impending arrival.
Mrs. O’Shea was with his mother, giving Patrick the freedom to see what was bothering Gwen. He couldn’t ignore the anguish in her voice. He would slay every dragon in her world if it would make her feel better.
It was dark by the time he arrived at her house. It was a nice one, but no fancier than the other houses on this tree-lined street bordering the campus of Blackstone College. The house was lit up both inside and out. It seemed foolish to waste electricity on a porch light, but rich people were odd.
He knocked on the front door, and Gwen answered. “You didn’t have to rush across town on my behalf,” she said.
“Yes, I did. You sounded upset, and I can’t have that.”
A lamp with a stained-glass shade of green and amber glowed on the foyer table. She led him down the hallway and into the parlor, where the windows were framed by tapestry panels that looked like they came out of a medieval cloister. The interior of the house was a feast for the eyes, with dark wood and leaded-glass windows. He could see why she didn’t want to lose this place.
“You really do like the medieval world.” He stepped closer to the window to admire the tapestry panels woven with a riot of vines, berries, and tiny little creatures.
“None of it is authentically medieval,” Gwen said. “The tapestries are a William Morris design, and the tiles are from a local designer.”
The entire house felt like a glorious work of art. “I feel like I’ve just stepped into the Book of Kells.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “Have you seen the Book of Kells?”
“I saw it when I was a kid.”
Sometimes even the poor got to see great art. His mother had taken him to see the famous Bible on display at Trinity College, where the illuminated pages with intricate scrollwork in gilt paint dazzled him. His mother had been just as impressed.
“After we saw that Bible, my mother started cutting scrollwork into her shortbread cookies. I think it was what inspired her to become an artist in her baking.” He shook the memories away and got down to business. “Now, then, Mrs. K. How about you tell me who hypothetically wants to steal your house?”
She maintained that perfect poise, but a flush of color stained her cheeks. “My husband scrawled a will on his deathbed. He left this house to a child he had out of wedlock. His mistress is coming after me for it.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. He’d heard that rich men sometimes felt entitled to women on the side, but that wasn’t the sort of world Patrick ever wanted to live in.
“Was the house titled in his name?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It was in my father’s name because he paid for it. When he died, my father left everything to me. He died five days before my husband.”
“So on the day your husband died, you had already inherited this house?”
She nodded. “The assets hadn’t been distributed, but my father’s will was very specific. He had recently learned about Jasper’s . . . indiscretions. It infuriated him, and he drafted an amendment to his will leaving everything to me alone and specifically disinheriting Jasper. Have a seat, and I’ll tell you everything.”
They sat at the dining table, which was lit by the glow of a stained-glass lamp overhead, and she began speaking. The story didn’t take long. Her husband had scribbled a handwritten will that was properly witnessed, but Gwen ignored it. Instead of giving her the house, Gwen wrote a substantial check to the mistress to encourage her to go away.
