Poppy’s assertions seemed cruel to Gwen, but the aunts agreed. All the Blackstone women had married before the age of twenty, so for Natalia to be twenty-eight and still single was unusual. Gwen probably would have chosen a different sort of man had she waited until she was a little older instead of rushing to the altar with Jasper when she was only eighteen. Instead of a handsome face and academic prestige, she would have chosen strength and integrity and a sense of humor. Status didn’t matter. She wanted a strong, confident man who was a protector by nature. Her gaze trailed out the window as she contemplated Patrick’s raw-boned charisma. He would be a wonderful father, and if they married, it probably wouldn’t take long for her to conceive, would it?
“Gwendolyn! Are you blushing?”
She startled. Aunt Martha had been prodding her, and all the aunts stared.
“I think she’s been woolgathering over a man,” Helen said. “Tell us everything!”
Gwen hadn’t expected to broach the matter so early in the day, but Aunt Helen had just provided a perfect opening. Everyone in her family had been urging her to remarry, and the aunts would surely be delighted, even if Patrick was a little outside their class.
“Yes, I may have found someone,” she said, and all the women leaned forward. Even Poppy seemed curious enough to stop rubbing her belly. “His name is Patrick O’Neill. I met him—”
“That sounds Irish,” Poppy interrupted.
“He is. Patrick came to New York when he was fourteen.”
Poppy’s face froze, and the aunts traded quick looks but remained neutral. “Yes?” Aunt Martha prompted. “Tell us more.”
“He is a lawyer and very clever. I’m afraid he had a run-in with Oscar over that awful memoir, but I hope that can be water under the bridge. I know Patrick and I seem like opposites. . . .” So much depended on these next few minutes. If she could get the aunts on her side, they would smooth the way for Patrick. These women had stepped in to help raise her after her own mother died. They seemed hopeful on her behalf as they waited to hear more about Patrick. “I know we seem like opposites, but Patrick is everything that is strong and courageous in a man, and I can’t wait for you all to meet him.”
Poppy lifted her chin. “Oscar told me about him. He’s Irish. And Catholic. I’m reluctant to say it, but I hear he is quite uncouth.”
“Don’t be so snooty,” Aunt Martha said dismissively, but Poppy was quick to defend herself.
“I’m not snooty, I’m merely pointing out an obvious fact. It’s one thing for Gwen to flaunt her bohemian ways on campus because people expect that sort of thing among college people. But no one appreciates lowbrow Irish lawyers on Wall Street. It’s a very different world.”
Aunt Martha came to Gwen’s rescue. “Pay her no mind, Gwendolyn. My own Milton is a man with a profession.”
She beamed in gratitude at Aunt Martha, whose husband earned his money from running a shoelace factory. Poppy might hold her nose at such a workaday trade, but Milton was a fine, upstanding man who had been warmly accepted into the Blackstone fold. Patrick would find a kindred spirit in the self-made Uncle Milton.
“I don’t know if Patrick and I have a future yet,” she admitted. “It’s still very new, and our families are so different. He’s devoted his life to defending the poor, and his job might be taken amiss by some in the family.”
“But if you married him, he won’t need to keep working,” one of the aunts pointed out.
He wouldn’t, but Gwen suspected he would want to. “Patrick is very proud. I think he will want to keep working. If things continue to progress, I hope everyone in the family will accept him as warmly as they did Uncle Milton.”
Aunt Helen smiled, but her voice was still cautious. “Of course we will accept him, my dear . . . but will he accept us?”
The question took Gwen aback. It had never occurred to her that Patrick would reject the people in her family. After all, snobbery tended to be a one-way sentiment.
“Patrick is the most open-minded man I’ve ever met. Of course he will accept us.” She looked at Poppy. “Except for you, Poppy,” she teased. “You’re a tough nut for anyone to accept.”
The aunts laughed uproariously, and Poppy pretended to as well. Gwen hugged herself, a little spurt of glee blossoming inside, for she was well on her way to lowering the bars between her and Patrick’s worlds.
21
Patrick sought out the nearest Catholic church the morning after the attack on Liam, desperate to ease the crippling ache of having killed a man. He fell to his knees in the tiny box of the confessional booth but couldn’t even clasp his hands in prayer because of the splint on his right hand. His broken fingers were a constant reminder of the moment he threw that punch.
God, did I do the right thing last night? He desperately prayed for understanding and why God had sent him into the horror of last night or what sense could be found in it.
After a few moments, the panel covering the latticed screen slid open to reveal the silhouette of the priest on the opposite side of the confessional.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Patrick said. “My last confession was three months ago.” It felt like another lifetime. Three months ago, he didn’t know how it felt when a man’s nose fatally crunched beneath his fist. It was a sensation he could never forget.
“And what brings you here today?” the priest asked.
“I killed a man in self-defense.” Even from the other side of the screen, Patrick heard the priest’s startled breath. He rushed to explain how a defenseless man was assaulted by three strangers and how he intervened. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone, but good intentions counted for little when a man was dead.
“I will forever wonder if I could have handled it differently. I’m a strong man, and there might have been another way.”
“Were you driven by anger or hatred when you struck that blow?”
“No, it was fear.” Patrick’s heart pounded again at the memory of those few, fleeting seconds. “That man was a sinner, but all life is precious, even the sinners, and I hate what I did.”
“We have a duty to help those in distress,” the priest said. “That was what you did, and it clearly wasn’t your day to become a martyr.”
“I still feel guilty.”
The priest coaxed Patrick to delve deeper into his turbulent emotions, and over the next ten minutes, his heart rate slowed to a normal pace. Some people struggled in the confessional, but Patrick felt at ease here, and it was at times like these when he regretted leaving the seminary. He and the priest discussed how God didn’t demand perfection of them, and Patrick had done the best he could with the few seconds he had to defend himself. They recited their final prayers, and then the priest said the words Patrick had been waiting to hear.
“Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”
Patrick crossed himself and stood. “Thanks be to God.”
When he stepped outside into the sunlight, he looked up at the cloudless blue sky, marveling at the immensity of creation. God, thank you for the blessing of being alive today, and for leading me out of the darkness of last night. Please guide my steps to do your will. The path ahead is not clear for me, but I will listen for the signs and use the blessings you’ve given me to make this world a better place. Please be with the family of the man who died last night. They are suffering, and I pray that you and Jesus and Mary hear their anguish and comfort them. I pray for them all.