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.