“I have no idea,” Poppy said, slowly waving a fan before her face. Her blond curls were artfully arranged beneath a jaunty hat perched on her head. “It can’t be too important, since Natalia isn’t here.”
That was a surprise. Natalia was Oscar’s daughter from his first marriage, and he always wanted her nearby when discussing bank business.
“Where is she?” Gwen asked.
“At the bank.” Poppy rolled her eyes. “Some excuse about building a railroad through Siberia. Apparently, the funding for supplies simply can’t wait until Monday.” Poppy leaned in a little closer. “Russians,” she muttered, not bothering to hide her disdain. Oscar’s first wife had been Russian, and Poppy instinctively competed with the dead woman’s memory.
Oscar strolled over, his cane tapping on the decking. “Natalia is transmitting payments for supplies to the Trans-Siberian Railway because construction will grind to a halt without food and fuel. We are both very proud of Natalia, aren’t we, Poppy.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Poppy wisely sat up a little straighter and brightened her tone. “Heavens, yes. You should see her at the bank, Gwen. Natalia sits right beside the telegraph operator to arrange the negotiations because he doesn’t understand Russian, but she speaks it like a native. It’s very impressive.”
Oscar would probably have made Natalia his successor at the bank if the operating trust permitted it, but the rules were clear. Only men could inherit power at the bank. Gwen had never minded that, but Natalia did.
Oscar tapped the leg of Gwen’s chair with his cane. “Natalia told me that one of your college professors cured a woman with tetanus. Is it true?”
“It appears so.”
Uncle Oscar nodded in approval. “Good. When can the serum be monetized?”
“That’s a question for Dr. Haas, not me.”
Oscar raised his hand and snapped his fingers, summoning his personal secretary. “Contact Dr. Haas at the college. Get him to lock down a patent on that serum, and be sure it’s owned by the college, not the man.”
Even on a yacht party, Uncle Oscar was all about business, but Gwen was busy strategizing ways to introduce Patrick to her family. Some of them would hold his connection to Mick Malone against him, but she would set them straight about what a wonderful man he was. Despite Patrick’s worries, her family weren’t snobs.
Well, Poppy was a snob, but the rest of them were mostly decent people. After long years of anguish over her disastrous marriage to Jasper, it felt like her world was unfolding as it should.
By one o’clock, all twenty-four family members who lived in Manhattan had arrived, and the Black Rose was ready to sail. The chief officer stationed at the bow of the ship gave the signal, and the winches rumbled as the chains rolled in. The long blast of a whistle signaled their departure from the pier. A string quartet played Mozart, and stewards circulated with trays of elegant tea sandwiches.
As usual, most of her family socialized by generation. Her grandfather had five sisters, all of whom had married men of leisure and produced numerous children. The explosion of women in Frederick’s generation accounted for the lopsided distribution of power in her family. The operating agreement that governed Blackstone Bank prohibited women from inheriting shares. Only the male descendants of Frederick and those five elderly aunts inherited voting shares, and few showed much interest in the bank. They usually trusted Uncle Oscar to vote their shares according to his judgment.
Frederick and his sisters sat clustered beneath a canopy that shaded them from the sun, while their children, all of whom were well into middle age, inspected the delicacies laid out on a banquet table.
Gwen migrated toward members of the third generation, who were nearer her own age and terrifically fun. Her cousin Chester, who owned some of the finest racehorses in New York, was talking to her cousin Edwin, and she decided to join them. Edwin always provided excellent conversation.
“What happened to you?” she asked Edwin. The last time she’d seen him was three weeks ago in the courtroom, when he was hale and hearty. Today he lounged on a chair with his leg in a plaster cast.
“I broke my leg last week hiking in the Adirondacks. Miserable business. But, Gwen, I saw a farm with two hundred peacocks strutting about the property like they were the emperors of India. You can’t imagine the cacophony. I’m not sure which hurt more, my leg or my ears. Say, do you know why we’ve been summoned here? I’ve heard Oscar is still trying to buy Carnegie Steel.”
The last thing Gwen wanted to think about was the impending steel merger, which was why protestors had flooded the courtroom that awful morning.
“Oscar’s plan is bigger than just Carnegie Steel,” Chester said. “He wants to swallow up a bunch of other steel companies so he can corner the market. The new corporation will be called U.S. Steel, and it’s destined to make us all richer than Midas.”
He continued talking, but Gwen’s attention always wandered during tedious bank discussions. She was about to stroll over to join her grandfather’s elderly sisters beneath the canopy when Oscar interrupted.
“Gwendolyn, a moment, please,” her uncle said, gesturing her toward the port side of the yacht.
She drew alongside him, and Oscar glanced around to be certain they were alone before speaking.
“I heard back from the detectives I sent after that man you saw in the courtroom.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”
“He’s nothing more than a malcontent steelworker. He’s originally from Pittsburgh, but now he’s in Philadelphia, where he leads the welders’ union in the shipyards. He loves stirring up trouble in the press. Here’s an example.”
He handed her a newspaper folded open to an article about the merger that would create U.S. Steel. An underlined passage quoted Mr. Liam Malone of the local union.
It’s bad enough having a bloodsucker like Andrew Carnegie controlling the nation’s biggest steel company, but if the Blackstones buy him out to create U.S. Steel, we won’t just have Andrew Carnegie bleeding people dry in Pittsburgh. There will be a hydra-headed monster strangling the workingman all over the country. I intend to fight this unholy alliance with every breath in my body.
Gwen turned her attention back to Oscar. “We already knew he was a union man. What else have you got?”
“His father was Crocket Malone,” Oscar said. “Crocket was a felon who brought his son up to follow in his disreputable footsteps. When Liam was twelve, the police caught him and his father setting fire to a steel mill in Pittsburgh. Two months later, they were arrested for throwing rocks through the mill foreman’s window, and a baby was hurt. Like father, like son. He’s not one of us.”
“But is that proof that he couldn’t be my brother?” she pressed.
“No, but there’s plenty of other evidence. The steel union in Pittsburgh awarded Crocket Malone a stipend in 1866 for the birth of a child. That’s about when Liam Malone would have been born, and he doesn’t have any brothers and sisters. He is Crocket Malone’s first and only child.”
Gwen’s heart sank. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Liam Malone to miraculously be her long-lost brother or not. It would be horrible if Willy had been raised to become someone who set fires and attacked people in their own homes. She wished Patrick was still in town so she could tell him not to waste his time in Pittsburgh, but he’d left an hour ago.