“Mr. Smitty is correct,” he said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “This is rambling silliness and should be thrown away.”
Natalia disagreed and snatched the message to read it aloud.
Natalia. Please tell your cousin that I disapprove of her nickname. Gwendolyn is a beautiful name that is feminine, poetic, and charming. Gwen is a savagely blunt syllable that is devoid of the lyricism of her true name. Why do American women do this? Life is too short to opt for crude practicality over beauty and elegance. Please advise your cousin to reconsider how she presents herself to the world.
Liam snickered. “If the count is worried about how Gwen presents herself, I wonder what he’d think of those shapeless gowns she wears.”
“They’re not shapeless,” Gwen defended. “These gowns are very fashionable in Europe.”
“They make you look like you should be eating for two,” Liam said.
Gwen looked heavenward. “Imagine . . . all these years I missed having an older brother to torment me.” She turned her attention back to Natalia. “Is that man ever going to let us discuss the vote?”
“Eventually,” Natalia said. “I warned you that he always does this before he lets me get down to business. I think he’s just terribly lonely.”
Minutes stretched into hours as the message exchange continued. It was almost midnight before they got the message they had been waiting for.
You know I trust your judgment, Natalia. Of course you may vote my bank shares however you wish.
“Glory hallelujah,” Patrick said in exhaustion, but Natalia threw a bucket of cold water on their jubilation.
“We can’t proceed until I pry the password out of him in order to vote by proxy,” she warned. “The count supplies the bank’s auditor with a unique password for each shareholder vote, and I can’t register his vote without that password.”
It took four more exchanges in which the count wanted Natalia’s opinion on French cooking and to complain about the food served at his outpost. Only then did the count send his password for the September vote, which was Stradivarius.
“That’s all we need,” Natalia said. “Please forgive him for his quirks. I knew we would get there in the end, but these exchanges must be managed delicately. His feelings can be hurt so easily.”
They thanked Mr. Smitty for his patience, and Gwen provided a generous tip on top of the staggering fees Count Sokolov’s verbose messages cost to transmit and receive. Just before they left, the telegraph sprang to life one more time. It was a short message.
Tell your cousin that when I have perfected my juniper perfume, I shall name it Gwendolyn in her honor.
32
Patrick tried to sleep late the morning after the epic telegraph session, but it was impossible. Thirty-eight people were crammed into the house, and even before dawn there were footsteps thudding on the staircase, doors slamming, and the shrieks of children romping outdoors.
On the neighboring bed, Liam groaned and pulled the blanket over his eyes. “Could someone please go shoot those kids?”
“Let’s hold off on that while I make nice with Gwen’s family,” Patrick said while clipping his suspenders into place. He liked Natalia and Aunt Martha. He hadn’t seen much to admire in the rest of them, but perhaps there was still hope. It wasn’t fair to hold Gwen’s family against her, and it might be possible to establish a modicum of mutual respect with some of them.
Because he wanted Gwen. Quite badly. She was perfect for him, as if God had designed the ideal woman to light up his life. Where she was weak, he was strong. She brought a softness to his world he didn’t even know was missing until she came into it with her warm, gentle humor.
The only stumbling block was centuries of class differences between them. Would he be able to crack the door into her world? Would her family permit it?
He headed outside to make an attempt.
Dozens of people were already gathered on the upper terrace overlooking the shore, but Gwen was not among them. He scanned the adults, looking for someone with whom he might strike up a cordial conversation. Most of the men sat on lawn chairs facing the sea. A couple of them nodded a greeting when Patrick approached, but most ignored him. Only the stout man with the walrus mustache stood to welcome him.
“Bertie Abernathy,” he said as he reached out to shake Patrick’s hand. “It’s probably a challenge to keep us all straight. Remind me again who you are?”
“Patrick O’Neill. I’m handling some legal work for Liam.”
The jovial look in Bertie’s eyes cooled a bit. “Oh yes, the lawyer. Say, if you’re going to be staying for a while, would you like to borrow a dinner jacket? Old Frederick would never breathe a word, but he likes everyone decked out appropriately at meals.”
“No, thank you,” Patrick said, feeling every eye on him.
The men turned back to a discussion about breeding horses, and Patrick struggled to find common ground as he scanned the estate.
Then he spotted Gwen down on the beach with some children. She wore a white cotton dress with a crown of flowers in her hair. Children clustered around as she showed them how to make crowns of their own from sea oats and hawthorn berries. The sound of her laughter carried up to him, making his heart ache. She seemed so natural here, like she belonged.
