“That man is a welder,” Mildred said in a horrified whisper. “A welder!” She clutched the horseshoe before her chest as though it were armor to protect her from the distasteful word.
Gwen had heard enough and met Mildred’s gaze squarely. “Yes, Liam is a welder. He is probably the only person on this island with the know-how to forge that horseshoe you’re holding. He and Patrick are both fine, hardworking people who get out of bed every day to earn the clothes on their back. Get used to them.”
Her voice had started to shake. A scolding tone wasn’t the way to persuade these people, and she drew a breath to steady herself before speaking again.
“In three days, we will have our annual lobster bake. You can ignore those not born into wealth and leisure, or you can open your heart to people who work with their hands and minds to make this world a better place. People who make horseshoes so you can play a game on the beach. People who get up in the middle of the night to bail strangers out of jail. You get to pick who is good enough to socialize with and who you’d rather snub, but I suggest you think carefully and choose wisely.”
She whirled away to head back up the cliffside, wondering if she’d helped matters or only dug a deeper hole for Liam and Patrick.
30
The entire family was invited onto Oscar’s yacht for a sunset sail. The outing would feature light hors d’oeuvres, fine wines, and a fireworks display from the shore after the sun went down. The yacht was too large to dock in the boathouse, so a small tender boat carried people in groups of twelve to the yacht.
Patrick dreaded it. Gwen might be dismissive of who had commissioned the hit on Liam, but Patrick still believed one of these people might be out to destroy the prodigal Blackstone. What if Liam “fell over” the side of the yacht? Once the sun went down, he could be knocked unconscious and dumped overboard without anyone noticing. A convenient drowning would be the answer to an assassin’s prayers.
Two dozen people congregated at the boathouse, awaiting their ride to the Black Rose. Patrick stuck close to Liam’s side. “Can you swim?” he asked, and Liam nodded.
“Anyone who works in a shipyard knows how to swim.”
They boarded the tender and ten minutes later were aboard the Black Rose. Patrick gazed about in wonder. The Black Rose was two hundred and thirty feet long, with a shiny black hull and a slim gold line painted just above the waterline. It was powered by both sail and steam, and belowdecks had all the amusements to keep a rich man entertained: a player piano, a bowling alley, and a card room.
Liam seemed equally entranced as he admired the rigging, masts, and booms. The teak deck was coated with a sheen of marine spar, and every few yards a brass deck lamp provided a warm glow of illumination in the gathering twilight.
“This feels familiar,” Liam said, running his hands along the metal rivets on the gunwale. “The smell of the varnish. The sound my feet make on the wood. I remember being on a boat like this with the wind in my face and feeling very happy.”
Gwen’s face ached with poignancy. “Our father used to take you out on this very yacht,” she said. “He loved sailing and often took you. I wonder if that’s what you remember.”
The only experience Patrick had with sailing was the cramped third-class cabin he’d shared with nine other immigrants from Ireland. Sunset parties on a yacht were alien to him, and it was hard to know what to do. How was he supposed to make conversation with people who had never worked a day in their lives? A grown man named Wally played cards in the winter and “summered” in Newport. Who used summered as a verb?
Patrick snagged a flute of champagne from a passing waiter simply to have something to do with his hands, and Liam did the same. Gwen must have sensed their discomfort.
“Let’s go talk to my cousin Edwin,” she prompted. “He’s the one who travels all over the world to buy and sell antiques. You’ll like him.”
She performed the introductions, and Edwin proved to be congenial and polite. He even tried to make conversation with Liam, but it was hard, since Edwin didn’t even know what welding meant.
“It’s something like making steel, correct?”
“Not really,” Liam said. “I help assemble parts of a ship by welding the steel pieces together.”
“Like a carpenter?” Edwin asked.
“Close enough,” Liam replied.
The conversation stumbled to an awkward lull, but Edwin soon jumped in to fill the void.
“Say, do either of you like to shoot? There’s not much worth hunting on the island, but Frederick has a decent launcher for shooting clay pigeons. We could have a match.”
Patrick had never handled a gun in his life, and neither had Liam. Shooting clay pigeons was a pricey sport of rich people, and Patrick had to decline the offer.
Edwin turned his attention to Gwen. “Still at the college?”
“Of course,” she said. “I intend to live the rest of my life there, unless Oscar gets fussy with the budget and closes us down.”
Edwin looked skeptical. “He wouldn’t do that. Poppy loves swanning around campus. So does Oscar.”
“He likes earning money more,” Gwen replied. “The college costs a lot to operate, and it isn’t turning a profit yet.”
“That seems a crying shame,” Edwin said, although he didn’t appear to be at all broken up about it. He glanced around the deck, then waved at another cousin who had just filled his plate at the banquet table. He was one of the third-generation cousins, the art student from Yale. “Joshua, have you heard anything about Oscar yanking funding for the college?”
Joshua popped a caviar-laden cracker into his mouth, then nodded. “Yup,” he answered after swallowing. “The college has been a losing proposition for decades. My guess is that the college administrators are either lazy or incompetent. Good riddance, I say.” He ate another cracker and headed toward a waiter who had just emerged from the galley with more champagne.
Edwin had the grace to look embarrassed by his cousin, and Patrick took the opportunity to advance the cause of the college.
“What are the odds of anyone here voting to keep Blackstone College alive? Maybe if enough people think it is important, they can make it happen even if Oscar disagrees.”
Edwin shook his head. “That’s a hopeless cause. Even if you get Frederick and every other Blackstone to break ranks, you’ll never be able to peel off the outside investors.”
And those non-family shareholders controlled a quarter of the bank, too much to take for granted. “What can you tell me about the outside investors?” Patrick asked.
“There are a couple of banks in France who together own six percent. Oscar has been keeping the French army afloat with a massive infusion of cash and has their undying loyalty. They’d follow him over a cliff, if need be. Then there is a Russian count who owns four percent, and a Spanish monastery that owns three percent. I think Louise Carnegie owns around seven percent.”
Patrick was stunned to learn that a woman had voting shares. “Is she related to Andrew Carnegie?”
“She’s his wife,” Edwin said. “He gave her the shares as a wedding present, and I think she still owns them. Very odd arrangement, that one.”