decided he was going to go pay Marinus a private follow-up visit. He wanted to make sure the warlock was keeping detailed notes, for one thing. Oesterlische didn’t want to be left flat should Nussbaum’s worrying persnickitude induce him to take his scroll and go home. This strange new Boston connection was worth talking over, too.
Hearing people coming toward the door, Oesterlische swiftly tucked the ticket back down in her purse, along with the blue satin box. He closed it up, left to hang there for her to find. He was already composing the teasing little reply he’d send her when she sent him her thank-you note.
• • •
Winifred came down a half-hour later, wearing a dress of gray silk tissue, draped up in the back with a spray of pink satin roses. She hadn’t done much with her hair, Oesterlische noticed, but what she’d forgone in coiffure she’d made up for with jewelry—a high diamond choker, dangling earrings, and a massive hair clip. The effect was dazzling. Oesterlische watched her glitter all the way down the stairs.
It took her a while, but finally she made it through the crowd to where Oesterlische stood casually discussing Wordsworth with some superannuated pastor. After Winifred had given them both a polite greeting, Oesterlische turned his back on the little pastor, drawing Winifred to one side. He had better things to talk about than Wordsworth, now that he had a better partner.
“Thank you for helping me,” she said to him, in a low voice. “You’re right, nobody missed me.”
“Except me,” he reminded her. “How could I possibly enjoy myself without you? Like a faithful dog, sitting on the stoop, waiting for his mistress’s return . . .”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said. “You were out to have a smoke.”
“Well, perhaps I
was
going to have a smoke while I pined miserably for you,” Oesterlische said, in a somewhat hurt tone. “But it was only to soothe my longing and despair.”
“Longing and despair?” Winifred’s voice was soft, and she turned her eyes down in a very maidenly fashion. She even blushed. “For me?”
Oesterlische seized his opportunity. Making his voice very low and serious, he said: “Every moment I am parted from you is one I pass in agony.” He let these words hang, which was a risky move given that the party around them was bustling and swirling and the resonant effect of them was likely to be lost. But they did not seem to be lost on Winifred. She blushed deeper. He calculated his chances, decided that they’d never be better than at that exact moment.
“I love you, Winifred,” he said, clasping her hand. “Be my wife.”
Winifred pulled her hand away, pressed it to her hot cheek.
“Oh, Peter!” She looked up at him, her eyes moist and pleading. “If only you knew how happy those words make me . . .” she paused, looked away. “But . . . my father is so terribly angry at you. He says you’ve lost him a lot of money, and that he can’t forgive you for it. He’ll never consent, never!”
“He’ll consent,” Oesterlische smiled down at her. He touched a finger to the side of his nose. “I’ve got a new business opportunity for him. It will make him millions.”
Winifred’s lower lip trembled. Hope kindled in her eyes, but then, just as quickly, she stifled it.
“No,” she said. “I daren’t dream of the joy that could be ours. He won’t give you any more money. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Oh, so you want to
bet
, do you?” Oesterlische said. Silly girl, she knew he could never pass up a wager. Oesterlische lifted his chin. “Your father’ll give me not a penny less than $25,000. If I win, you marry me.”
“Make it $50,000,” Winifred returned, with the quickness of a Bowery card sharp. Oesterlische’s eyes widened. He must have looked a little unsure of such a large raise, because Winifred’s face became soft and pleading again.
“You
can
get $50,000 . . . can’t you?”
“Well . . .”
Hearing people coming toward the door, Oesterlische swiftly tucked the ticket back down in her purse, along with the blue satin box. He closed it up, left to hang there for her to find. He was already composing the teasing little reply he’d send her when she sent him her thank-you note.
• • •
Winifred came down a half-hour later, wearing a dress of gray silk tissue, draped up in the back with a spray of pink satin roses. She hadn’t done much with her hair, Oesterlische noticed, but what she’d forgone in coiffure she’d made up for with jewelry—a high diamond choker, dangling earrings, and a massive hair clip. The effect was dazzling. Oesterlische watched her glitter all the way down the stairs.
It took her a while, but finally she made it through the crowd to where Oesterlische stood casually discussing Wordsworth with some superannuated pastor. After Winifred had given them both a polite greeting, Oesterlische turned his back on the little pastor, drawing Winifred to one side. He had better things to talk about than Wordsworth, now that he had a better partner.
“Thank you for helping me,” she said to him, in a low voice. “You’re right, nobody missed me.”
“Except me,” he reminded her. “How could I possibly enjoy myself without you? Like a faithful dog, sitting on the stoop, waiting for his mistress’s return . . .”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said. “You were out to have a smoke.”
“Well, perhaps I
was
going to have a smoke while I pined miserably for you,” Oesterlische said, in a somewhat hurt tone. “But it was only to soothe my longing and despair.”
“Longing and despair?” Winifred’s voice was soft, and she turned her eyes down in a very maidenly fashion. She even blushed. “For me?”
Oesterlische seized his opportunity. Making his voice very low and serious, he said: “Every moment I am parted from you is one I pass in agony.” He let these words hang, which was a risky move given that the party around them was bustling and swirling and the resonant effect of them was likely to be lost. But they did not seem to be lost on Winifred. She blushed deeper. He calculated his chances, decided that they’d never be better than at that exact moment.
“I love you, Winifred,” he said, clasping her hand. “Be my wife.”
Winifred pulled her hand away, pressed it to her hot cheek.
“Oh, Peter!” She looked up at him, her eyes moist and pleading. “If only you knew how happy those words make me . . .” she paused, looked away. “But . . . my father is so terribly angry at you. He says you’ve lost him a lot of money, and that he can’t forgive you for it. He’ll never consent, never!”
“He’ll consent,” Oesterlische smiled down at her. He touched a finger to the side of his nose. “I’ve got a new business opportunity for him. It will make him millions.”
Winifred’s lower lip trembled. Hope kindled in her eyes, but then, just as quickly, she stifled it.
“No,” she said. “I daren’t dream of the joy that could be ours. He won’t give you any more money. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Oh, so you want to
bet
, do you?” Oesterlische said. Silly girl, she knew he could never pass up a wager. Oesterlische lifted his chin. “Your father’ll give me not a penny less than $25,000. If I win, you marry me.”
“Make it $50,000,” Winifred returned, with the quickness of a Bowery card sharp. Oesterlische’s eyes widened. He must have looked a little unsure of such a large raise, because Winifred’s face became soft and pleading again.
“You
can
get $50,000 . . . can’t you?”
“Well . . .”
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