A reluctant hint of a smile tugged the side of his mouth, then vanished. An awkward silence stretched in the apartment, and then Hiram’s stomach let out a mighty growl. He clamped his hand over his middle in dismay, but it served to break the spell on Patrick, who stood.
“Oh, let’s cut into that cake. It’s going to be a long night, and Ma would want you to have it.”
He lifted the glass dome, and the scent of vanilla filled the room. Patrick found a knife, and Hiram brought plates down from the shelf. Patrick stood before the cake, staring at it, his face tragic.
“Would you like me to cut it?” she asked gently.
He passed her the knife. “Thanks,” he said simply, but the moment she began cutting, he flinched and turned away.
“I need some air,” he said and headed toward the window to lift the sash. To her surprise, he squatted down, stuck a leg out, then crawled through the opening and onto a fire escape bolted to the brick exterior of the building.
Every instinct urged her to go and comfort him. They were supposed to be enemies, especially after the debacle in the courtroom, but he was in pain, and she couldn’t ignore it.
“I’ll go see to him,” she said, passing the knife to Jake.
In her entire life she had never crawled through a window, but she could do this. She hiked up her skirts and twisted low to fit beneath the window frame, then got a leg through. She expected the fire escape platform to be right there, but she dangled her foot in vain.
“Whoa there, ma’am,” Patrick said. “Can I help you out?”
She extended her hand, and he took it. Her spine scraped the bottom of the window frame, but she got through the window with the grace of an ungainly cow.
“You can call me Gwen,” she said once she finally had both feet beneath her. Steel grating clanged beneath her shoes, and she shook her skirts back into place.
“I’m not the sort to call a fine lady like you by her given name,” he said, and she was sorry for it.
“I wanted to be sure you are all right.”
He sagged as he braced his hands on the railing and looked out at the dark lane illuminated by only a few streetlamps. “No need to fear I’ll fling myself over. I’m sorry I’m such a lousy sport, but I’m not good company right now. I’m mostly just tired and scared straight down to my bones.”
“It’s all right to be afraid,” she said.
He merely shrugged. “I’ve never lost anyone before. My father died before I can remember. You’ve got a lot more experience with this than me.”
“I’m no expert on dying or grief,” she said. “I’m sure what you are feeling is perfectly normal.”
“You’re young for a widow. You’re probably not even thirty-five or forty years old.”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
He blanched and turned away. “Oh Lord, now I’ve really dug a hole and dived into it headfirst.”
He looked so mortified that she had to choke back a laugh. Men were atrocious at estimating women’s age, which was why so few of them dared try.
“It’s okay,” she said, still battling a laugh.
“It’s not okay.” He looked to the heavens for relief, and it was time to put him out of his misery.
“Knock it off, Patrick. We both have bigger things to worry about.”
He bowed his head, then sent her a grateful look. “You’re quite a woman, Mrs. K. I’ll confess, I didn’t expect you to be so nice.”
“Why not?” She stepped up beside him and curled her hands around the cold metal railing.
He shrugged. “I was rough on you folks in the courtroom today. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve never thought much about the real people living behind the imposing Blackstone name.” His face darkened, and he straightened, digging around in his pocket.
“Here,” he said a little gruffly. “I think this is yours.”
Lamplight glinted on her sapphire wedding ring, and she could scarcely believe her eyes. “Where did you get that?”
“Maybe you saw a tough bloke in the courtroom today. Dark hair, angry scowl, split eyebrow?”
“I know who you’re talking about.”
“He said you gave him the ring. True?”
“True.”
“Why did you do it?”
She took the ring back and slipped it onto her finger. “I don’t know,” she said truthfully.
The strange man had triggered ominous emotions, and she couldn’t let him walk away while unanswered questions clawed at her. Giving him the ring had been an impulsive move to learn more about him.
He had passed the test. That didn’t mean he might be her missing brother. In all likelihood, it was the stress of the past week causing her imagination to run wild.
Her gaze strayed over the lane. Laundry lines cluttered the space between the buildings, and discarded crates were stacked behind the pub across the street. There were probably worse neighborhoods, but this was the grittiest she’d ever been in, and she hugged her arms around herself. She didn’t like it here.
One of the research assistants stuck his head through the window opening. “The carriage driver wants to head back to the college. Are you going with him?”
“I’m coming,” she said, then glanced back at Patrick, sending him a brief nod of farewell before climbing back through the window.
She thought about him the entire carriage ride back to campus. The past few hours had torn down the barrier between them, and he didn’t feel like an enemy anymore. He felt like a powerfully attractive man, and that was even more dangerous.
14
Gwen worried about Patrick and his mother throughout the following day, even though one of the research assistants had telephoned to report that Mrs. O’Neill was doing well.
It wasn’t enough for her. Late in the afternoon, she returned to Patrick’s apartment, drawn as if by a lodestone and needing to know more about how both O’Neills fared. She brought Lorenzo because the Five Points was a frightening place and looked even worse in the daylight. Its streets were a chaotic tangle of shouting vendors, honking horns, and barking dogs. Her carriage lurched over potholes, and the cramped, tightly packed buildings felt oppressive. The building where Patrick lived was clean, but the walls were dingy from smoke stains and so thin that the noise from outside leaked in.
She knocked on Patrick’s door, and Hiram answered. “How is Mrs. O’Neill?” she asked.
“Holding her own,” the research assistant said, stepping aside to let her and Lorenzo enter. “She’s sleeping, and so is Patrick.”
The front room looked like a tornado had blown through, with bedding, dirty dishes, and remnants of lunch littering the space. Gwen instinctively began tidying up. It was hard, since there was no running water in the apartment, but she folded the bedding and stacked the dishes. Dr. Haas helped and provided her with a full report about Mrs. O’Neill’s progress.
There was almost nothing left in the apartment to eat. She’d seen dozens of vendor carts on the street below, hawking sausages, kippers, boiled ham, and catfish pie. None of it sounded appetizing, but she sent Lorenzo down to buy enough for everyone’s dinner. She eyed the dirty dishes but wasn’t sure how to wash them without a sink.