Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(18)
“Of course it is,” Natalia said. “Where’s the baby? I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again.”
The answer was as she expected. “Alexander is with his nanny back home. I’m not going to risk my child’s health in this drafty house.”
Natalia itched to point out that Poppy rarely spent more than an hour a day with her baby, but a trio of her elderly great-aunts came drifting in to greet them. Her grandfather and his sisters were all in their seventies and eighties, and the tone of the gathering immediately turned respectful as the elder generation funneled into the great room.
During the evening meal, the conversation veered to Liam and his growing fascination with Darla Kingston, whose daring art was beginning to make waves in the city.
“She’s teaching me how to sculpt,” Liam said. “Darla does her stuff in clay, but I’m doing mine with a blowtorch.” He beamed in pride as he described how he welded thin strips of metal together, sometimes pounding them into shape with a hammer, other times twisting the strips with clamps.
“It doesn’t sound very pretty,” Poppy said.
Liam shrugged. “It’s not. Darla says it looks strong and tough. Manly. That’s good enough for me.”
“Are you blushing?” Aunt Martha said. “Good heavens! He is.”
The flush on Liam’s face deepened, and everyone in the room was amazed to see the strong, brawny Liam in the throes of infatuation.
But Natalia worried. Liam was a newcomer both to the city and to vast wealth. Women had been swarming around him, but he showed no particular interest in any of them until Darla, and now things were progressing at an alarming speed.
The older generation turned in for the night early, and Gwen made hot mulled cider for the people who wished to stay up late. Poppy and Gwen worked on a jigsaw puzzle in the corner while Patrick and Liam discussed politics. Natalia’s book about economic philosophy lay neglected on her lap while she listened in on the conversation. This evening had been more enjoyable than she anticipated.
When the conversation turned to Gwen and Patrick’s upcoming wedding, a little of her happiness faded. Was there anything more dispiriting for a woman on the precipice of spinsterhood than to help plan another woman’s wedding? Nevertheless, when Gwen began discussing musical selections, Natalia perked up. Music was one thing she probably enjoyed more than anyone else here.
Gwen wanted Maxim Tachenko, the world-famous Russian violinist, to play at the ceremony, and Poppy was over the moon at the prospect.
“Mrs. Astor tried to get him to play at her spring reception, and he refused,” Poppy gushed. “He called her ‘a useless plutocrat,’ whatever that means, but most people would give their eyeteeth to land him for a private event. How on earth did you persuade him to play for you?”
“He owes me a favor,” Gwen replied. “He lives on the other side of the lake, and I saved the ailing lilac bushes he had shipped over from Moscow. He is ridiculously fond of them and said he would gladly play for my wedding.”
“Marriage is a sacred rite, not a music concert,” Patrick said. “Any hymns or songs we want can be played on the church organ.”
Gwen sighed. “Organ music is so stodgy, and Maxim can make a violin sing in a way that is practically a sacred rite in itself.”
“Perhaps instead of the ceremony, he can play during the reception?” Natalia suggested, but Gwen dismissed the possibility.
“Maxim Tachenko isn’t the sort of man who would tolerate being asked to play background music at a reception. He’s notoriously vain and would consider it an insult.”
“He’s also a notorious revolutionary,” Natalia pointed out. “Rumor has it he won’t sign a contract to appear with an orchestra unless he is allowed to play ‘The Internationale.’” The socialist workers’ anthem had been banned in several European countries, and it would be a scandal if the famous violinist broke into a rousing rendition of “The Internationale” during Gwen’s wedding.
“Let him play it,” Liam said with a snicker. “The Russkies are nuts, but I love them. The next great workers’ revolution will come out of Russia, and it will make the French Revolution look like a tea party.”
“I won’t have my wedding become a political rally,” Patrick insisted. “I’m sorry, Gwen. I know Mr. Tachenko is a friend of yours, but I want a traditional ceremony. You can have Tachenko whip up a musical storm any other time, but not while you and I are taking holy vows.”
Patrick’s voice was gentle but firm, and Natalia loved that about him. He was a confident man who could assert himself without bullying or backing down. Too many of the men she’d known over the years were completely cowed by her father, but Patrick never had been. The admiration in Gwen’s eyes as she gazed at Patrick let the whole world know how much she adored him.
It made Natalia lonely.
Wasn’t that odd? She was never lonely when she was curled up at home with a good book, but witnessing the love between Gwen and Patrick was like shining a spotlight on a howling void in her life.
Soon the discussion turned to clothes and the fact that Gwen intended to wear Aunt Martha’s silk wedding gown, which had been in the family for generations.
“Are you allowed to wear white?” Poppy asked skeptically.
“I’m a widow, not a fallen woman,” Gwen replied.