“Martha warned me about them, but I didn’t take it seriously,” Milton said. “I figured I would be accepted because I’m a self-made man like Frederick. A shoelace factory isn’t as glamorous as banking, but I made a good living and didn’t need Blackstone money to support my wife. Plenty of them look down their noses at me anyway.”
Milton went on to say that he once had grand plans for expanding his business beyond shoelaces. The cording machines in his factory could easily produce corsets and undergarments, but the Blackstones discouraged it. Shoelaces were bad enough, but they certainly didn’t want to be associated with underwear, so he set his plans aside.
After his son was born, Martha persuaded Milton to accept her family’s money to buy a nicer house and send Bertie to private schools. Milton never felt good about accepting Blackstone money, but Bertie took to it like a duck to water.
“Bertie likes the finer things in life, and we don’t see any harm in it. He sings in a barbershop quartet and is very talented. Dedicating his life to that quartet isn’t what I’d have wanted for a child of mine, but Bertie enjoys it. I suppose that’s the main thing.”
Patrick refrained from comment. Bertie was fun at a party and he seemed like an intelligent man, but unlimited access to money was a corrupting force. It could blot out the drive and ambition necessary to realize a man’s God-given potential.
The hours dragged by, interrupted only by the arrival of the ferry and mail from the mainland. An envelope was addressed to Gwen, and Uncle Milton promised to deliver it to her. By the time the sun went down, they had switched from drinking soda to bottles of cold beer. Milton seemed delighted to have found a comrade to join him in playing hooky from the Blackstone festivities. They’d been sitting at this counter for six hours, and it was a typical day for Milton. He put in a few hours fishing, then hid at the soda fountain for the rest of the day to avoid Martha’s relatives.
Milton clapped Patrick on the back and tried to persuade him not to leave on the ferry when it would return to the mainland tomorrow. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “I could use a partner in crime. Tomorrow I’ll take you fishing in the morning, then we can come back here and do it again.”
The prospect of following in Milton’s footsteps was unthinkable. Patrick didn’t want to spend his days at a soda fountain to hide from Gwen’s family. She had been so convinced he would adore them, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Like Uncle Milton, he didn’t belong here.
The bell dinged over the door, and Natalia came racing into the store, her normally pristine hair a scraggly mess.
“Smitty, I need to send a telegram,” she panted.
Patrick stood, alarmed by the panic in her voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Somebody shot Poppy. She’s gone into labor, and we need a doctor right away.”
Mr. Smitty pulled the cover off the telegraph machine, but Patrick could barely absorb what she’d just said. “Poppy?” he asked in disbelief. “What about Gwen. Is she all right?”
Natalia gave an impatient nod, then turned her back on him to dictate a message to the mainland. Her father’s yacht had already left for New York, and she wanted a doctor to be waiting at the port for a return trip to Cormorant Island tonight.
After the telegram had been sent, Natalia relayed the entire story of an unknown assailant who unloaded a six-shooter at Liam but hit Poppy instead while Gwen cowered in the underbrush.
Patrick’s mind reeled. While he’d been drinking with Milton, Gwen had been dodging bullets. “I’ve got to get back right away,” he said.
He only hoped Gwen would be able to forgive him for sulking during her hour of need.
It was dark when Patrick arrived at the house, where the Blackstone clan remained crammed into the main gathering room. Everyone looked exhausted, but Frederick wouldn’t let anyone leave until police officers from the mainland arrived, which probably wouldn’t be for a few more hours.
Edwin played cards on the dining table and looked bored out of his mind. “Now that Liam is gone, we’re all safe,” he muttered.
“No one is leaving,” Frederick insisted. “If any evidence remains about who was firing that gun, I won’t provide an opportunity to hide it.”
The windows were open, but it was still sweltering with all these people crammed inside. Patrick felt smothered. Gwen sat on the floor, singing to the five-year-old twins, who gaped at her like she was a goddess. He grabbed a stool to sit beside her.
“You survived intact?” he asked, his churning stomach a sick reminder that while he’d been grousing about the Blackstones at the soda counter, she could have been killed.
Gwen didn’t go out of her way to make it easy on him. She glanced at her cousin Joshua, the useless one from Yale, who was playing cards with Edwin. The younger man’s face was riddled with ugly scratches.
“Joshua’s face took a hit when a bullet exploded a tree next to him. He was very brave as he carried Poppy to safety. We’re all quite proud of him.”
Gwen wouldn’t even look at him as she continued playing with the twins. It could have been Gwen’s face that was injured by flying shrapnel. While Patrick sulked, Gwen had been alone and vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been here to protect you.”
“Don’t worry, I survived without you.” There was no thaw in Gwen’s frosty demeanor, but perhaps it would only take some time.
Uncle Milton came over to deliver the letter that had arrived at Smitty’s store. The envelope was on college stationery, and she flipped it open without much interest, but her shoulders sagged as she read the contents.
“Bad news?”
“The Spanish monks turned down our request to send us the old date seeds.”
