by Lyn Cote
“I have been living my own life for many years now. I expect to continue to do so. I will, of course, let you know when I arrive safely and where I can be reached.” Gerard wiped his mouth with his impeccably white napkin and rose.
“I don’t understand you, Gerard. Why must you be so . . . independent?” The way his father said the final word made it a slur. “We are a family.”
Gerard gazed at his father. A family? When had they ever felt like a family? There were so many words he wanted to say, but he had no hope of their ever being heard. “I am the way I am, Father.” And you are the way you are. He turned away.
“You will change your plans,” his father snapped.
Gerard kept walking.
“If you leave Boston now, I will cut off your allowance.” His father paused, obviously to let this sink in. “I said it’s time you settle down and become active in the family business. If you don’t, you can’t expect to benefit from it.”
Gerard slowly turned back to his father. “I have never had any intention of going into the family business. And I plan to never marry.”
His father gawked at him. Gerard bowed and left the morning room.
“You better reconsider this,” his father bellowed. “I’ll cut off your allowance. I will!”
The threat was serious, but Gerard would wait and see if it was legitimate or not. Upstairs, he knocked on his mother’s door and was admitted.
His mother, Regina, reclined on her chaise longue as his father had predicted. Blonde with silver threads in her lush hair, the fragile-looking woman wore an elegant blue lawn dressing gown and matching silk slippers. “Gerard,” she said in her breathy voice.
Gerard leaned over and kissed her soft cheek. His mother had been a beauty in her youth and still retained most of it even though she had been frail and ill since his birth. Affection for her stirred in him.
“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” she said.
“You know me too well.” He sat on the upholstered hassock near her.
“Where?”
“Stoddard is in Cincinnati pursuing a very pretty young lady, and I think I need to see what’s going on.”
She nodded, glancing away momentarily. Then she dismissed her maid.
This was unusual. He waited for the reason.
When they were alone, she took his hands in hers. “Dear, I am aware your father is planning a society match for you.”
“I’m not going to marry to suit Father.”
“I know that,” she said, sounding amused. “But I do wish you could find a young woman whom you could love and respect. That’s all I wanted to say. Sometimes I feel there is a hardness inside you.” She pressed her hand to his shirtfront, over his heart. “I simply want you to find someone who pleases you, loves you.”
Just under her touch, pain like a lancet cut deep into his chest. He drew her hand to his lips. “I hope the same thing,” he said falsely, knowing those were the words she wanted to hear.
“Gerard, I need a favor. I want to go to my family’s place in Connecticut for the remainder of the summer. Your father will not take me this year. And I . . . I need to go.”
Gerard wanted to say no, but something about the way his mother said the words caught his attention. Mother never asked him to wait on her. He paused, considering. Now he looked more closely. She appeared elegant as always but more feeble than the last time he saw her. And thinner. And her hair lacked its usual shine. “Of course, Mother.” He didn’t ask more. He didn’t want to know more.
After informing her of what he’d heard and seen at Saratoga Springs, Gerard kissed her good-bye, and soon he was in a carriage on his way to the train station to make arrangements for a private car to Connecticut for himself and his mother on the following day.
His stomach twisted as he considered the delay in joining his cousin in Cincinnati. Unexpectedly at risk, Stoddard needed to be reminded that marriages were insoluble and unwise. The three of them—Gerard, Stoddard, and Kennan—had always vowed to shun society’s prescribed bondage: wedlock. His father’s choice for Gerard, the banker’s young daughter, came to mind. The institution only brought misery. Let weaker, foolish men stumble into it.
Gerard would not allow his cousin to fall for a woman just because she had a pretty face and a clever mind.
Blessing Brightman’s lively expression and pert questions flitted through his memory. He inhaled deeply and brushed her out of his thoughts. Women.
CINCINNATI
AUGUST 31, 1848
Restless and aggravated, Gerard stepped off the riverboat in bustling Cincinnati weeks later than he’d originally intended. Both parents had disrupted his plan. His mother had delayed him and his father had retaliated, as promised, against his defiance.
After staying several weeks in Connecticut with his mother and conveying her back to Boston, Gerard had checked at the bank and found that his father had indeed cut off his allowance. His mother had discreetly given him a sum of money for his trip here, but now he would have to come up with a way to earn his own income. That was the price for refusing to consider the pretty Miss Mason as bride, for refusing a position in the family business.
And for going to help a friend.
Had he come too late? Had Stoddard already become publicly engaged to that suffragist? Or perhaps Stoddard had already come to his senses and would be more than ready to leave this dismal-looking river city that smelled like a packing plant.
Swallowing these questions, Gerard scanned the teeming, shabby wharf for his cousin. Had Stoddard received his letter?
Just then a familiar, tall, red-haired figure moved out of the crowd on the dock. “Gerard!” Stoddard waved as if they were still schoolboys, meeting at the train station after a summer apart.
His spirits lifted and Gerard couldn’t suppress a smile. He strode along the gangplank and clapped Stoddard on the shoulder. “Cousin!” A sudden urge to tell Stoddard of how weak his mother had become bubbled up in his throat. He forced it down. No need to discuss that now. Or perhaps ever. Maybe he’d just imagined it.
“So you spent the rest of the summer at your mother’s family’s country place?”
“Yes. Too bad you didn’t come. I was able to do some really good trout fishing.” Gerard studied his cousin, looking for any sign that he regretted moving so far west and was ready to go home. “How did you stand the dog days of August here, so far from the coast?”
Stoddard shrugged. “I might as well get used to the summers here.”
Gerard didn’t like the sound of that.
Interrupting them, one of the porters set down Gerard’s trunk and valises.
Stoddard’s eyes widened. “You’ve come for more than a brief stay.”
Gerard awaited his cousin’s reaction.
“Excellent!”
Relief buzzed through Gerard. Even though it sounded like Stoddard still intended to settle here, he hadn’t altered in any discernible way. This prompted Gerard to ask, “How’s your friend, the pretty blonde suffragist?” He watched for evidence that Stoddard was still smitten.
Stoddard ignored his question and reached down to grip the handle of one of the valises. “Drayman!” He hailed one of the many small wagons along the pier. “Here!”
Stoddard’s avoidance ratcheted up Gerard’s tension. Then he glimpsed another figure he thought he recognized. In the distance he saw a woman dressed in gray Quaker garb.
For a moment the memory of the disturbing widow he’d met in Seneca Falls came to mind—once again. He took a step forward but then checked himself. Even if this person were the same woman, he had nothing to say to her. Whether or not she had been the most original, most outrageous woman he’d ever met.
Then another familiar figure slipped around the rear of the crowd and disappeared. “Kennan?” Gerard called out uncertainly.
Stoddard halted and glanced around to where Gerard was staring. “Kennan?”
Gerard blinked rapidly. “Thought I saw him but .
. .” He regarded Stoddard, who sent him an odd look.
Gerard chuckled to cover his lapse. No doubt Kennan lingered in his mind, worrying him; that was all.
Soon the two sat beside the driver as he drove them to Stoddard’s lodgings. “You’re in luck,” Stoddard said. “My landlady, Mrs. Mather, had a vacancy come up last week and I secured the room for you.”
“I thought I’d stay in a hotel.” Then the fact that his father had carried out his financial threat settled over Gerard again, souring his stomach. But before he’d blindly follow the steps his father laid out for him, he would go to hell and whatever might come after that. He swallowed the acid that came up his throat. Maybe a boardinghouse would conserve his dwindling funds.
Stoddard shook his head. “My landlady takes care of everything, and her cook is an artist. It’s better than a hotel—not as many people coming and going. And she only rents to gentlemen.” Stoddard paused to smirk. “Says spinsters are too particular and talk too much.”
Gerard snickered at this yet was reassured by the sentiment. This sounded like the Stoddard he knew. “Appears like a good place for us.” He wanted to ask about Tippy again, but Stoddard had let the first question go unanswered. He must be cautious or hazard pushing Stoddard even closer to the chit.
Before long the drayman was helping unload the baggage. Gerard paid the man, and soon he and Stoddard were in the boardinghouse’s small foyer with the baggage around them.
A slim, middle-aged woman in a neat gray dress with white collar and cuffs bustled from the rear to meet them. “This is thy friend, Stoddard Henry?”
Gerard hadn’t expected to meet another Quakeress here. Surely she’d have no connection to the first. A bit belatedly he managed a creditable bow. “Ma’am.”
“Though I am Quaker and don’t use titles, thee may call me that and ‘Mrs. Mather.’ This is business, after all.” The woman eyed him up and down. “Stoddard has given thee a very good reference. The rules of the house are few but firm. I give every gentleman a key. Regardless of the hour, come in quietly and sober. No female guests are allowed over my threshold. Can thee abide by that?” She stared hard at him.
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned in spite of himself.
She sized him up another moment. “I’ll show thee the room.”
Gerard didn’t know how, but he’d evidently passed inspection.
Stoddard carried the valises while Gerard dragged his trunk up the stairs.
“Here it is,” the Quakeress announced.
Gerard peered over Stoddard’s shoulder into a large, bright room in shades of gray and white with a bow window. It was simply furnished, evidently with a male tenant in mind: a fine shaving stand with a mirror rested near the window. “A good room.”
“It is.” The landlady turned to him, stated the rent, and informed him that he would have to pay the maid separately and that he could leave his laundry downstairs once a week for the laundress, also at extra cost. “I provide three meals a day—at eight in the morning, noon, and finally supper at seven each evening. If thee isn’t coming for a meal, I expect to know as early as possible so I can tell the cook.”
The lady definitely knew what she required, and he liked that. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See that thee does.” Mrs. Mather bustled out.
“Glad you’ve come.” Stoddard squeezed Gerard’s shoulder.
Moved, Gerard couldn’t find his voice, so he merely nodded.
“Even if it’s just to rescue me from myself.” Stoddard grinned.
His jaw clenched, Gerard didn’t respond. He needed time and more information in order to figure out how to pry his cousin from this trap.
Stoddard’s face suddenly lost its cheer. “Is Kennan coming?” All their combined worries about the direction their old school friend had taken came out in his low tone.
Gerard felt the same pall overcome him. “I haven’t seen him since Seneca Falls.” Except for my lapse into imagination earlier. “No word either.” A moment of silence stretched between them. Gerard listened to the city sounds outside the window—peddlers calling out their wares, the creak of wagons and the hoofbeats of horses, the voices of children. Stoddard was as concerned about their old friend as he was. No wonder Gerard had imagined seeing him here. But what could they do to halt Kennan’s descent? Nothing.
Gerard silently promised himself not to lose Stoddard, too. If he had to reside for months in this “provincial backwater” bringing Stoddard to his senses, it would be time well spent. But, he reminded himself, for all he knew, Stoddard’s fascination with the pretty suffragist had already faded.
The thought of her Quakeress companion entered his mind till he booted it out.
SEPTEMBER 1, 1848
The next day, another that was sunny and warm, Stoddard suggested seeing some of the sights of Cincinnati. Gerard was pleasantly surprised when one of these sights proved to be an afternoon horse race just outside the city. His cousin had always loved horse racing. After all, Stoddard had met that pretty blonde in Saratoga Springs, which was noted for its races. As they stepped down from the borrowed gig, Gerard couldn’t hold back a smile.
The open field carved out of the forest showed signs that this was not the first race held here. A track had been dragged and covered in sawdust. Jockeys walked their horses nearby. The familiar raucous excitement of men gathered around bookmakers livened the atmosphere. It was impossible not to feel it, catch it.
“Kentucky breeds really fine thoroughbred horses,” Stoddard was saying. “The races can be exciting.”
Gerard started toward the most reputable-looking bookmaker, then paused. He needed to get his bearings. “Which bookmaker do you usually choose?”
Stoddard looked surprised. “I don’t waste money on betting.”
Since when? Gerard stifled his response. If he was right about who had caused this change, he needed to use subtlety. “Cousin,” Gerard coaxed, “how much fun is a horse race if one hasn’t placed a bet? Come on.” He gestured for Stoddard to follow him and continued toward the bookmaker.
Stoddard came along but with such obvious reluctance that Gerard silently cursed Miss Foster for her bluestocking influence. A gentleman was entitled to his entertainments. And leave it to a woman to take all the fun out of life.
“What’s the favored horse?” Gerard called to the bookmaker over the heads of other betting customers.
“Fate’s Fancy in the third race,” the man replied, handing out scribbled betting slips to the crowd. “Odds two to one.”
“What’s the long shot?”
“Kentucky Pride in the first race. Odds fourteen to one.” The man turned to dicker with another customer.
Gerard pulled out his purse and shook out two gold dollars.
“Have you any idea what you’re doing?” Stoddard murmured close to Gerard’s ear.
Stoddard’s words and concerned tone goaded Gerard. “Two dollars on Kentucky Pride!” he called out to the bookmaker.
Stoddard’s exclamation was loud and frustrated. “If you want to throw money away . . .”
A man’s face at the edge of the milling bettors caught Gerard’s attention. For a moment he felt the man’s animosity like a punch in the gut. Holding up his two dollars to the bookmaker, he stared at the well-dressed stranger. Did he know him?
The crowd shifted, coming between them. Gerard accepted the betting slip without even looking at it, craning his neck. When the throng parted, the man had disappeared from sight. Who was he? Did they know each other from somewhere?
Gerard stepped back, still musing. Then he thought he saw Kennan again, just a moving figure at the edge of the crowd near where the stranger had been standing. Unsettled, Gerard closed and then opened his eyes, blinking. “Did you see him?”
At his elbow Stoddard replied, “Who?”
“I thought I saw Kennan.”
“Really? Where?” Stoddard was glancing around.
“Over there. I just glimpsed him. Or
thought I did.”
The two of them scanned the crowd.
“Must have been someone who looked like Kennan,” Stoddard said at last with a shake of his head.
Gerard agreed with a curt nod, but his gut didn’t believe it. And if Kennan was here, why would he avoid them? It didn’t make sense.
Stoddard hailed a friend and hurried a bit forward. Gerard turned to follow him and found the man who’d stared at him with malice standing right in front of him. Blocking his way. “May I help you?”
“No.” The man did not move.
“Have we met?” Gerard asked, nettled.
“Not formally. No.” The man spoke with a familiar accent, but not the one Stoddard and Gerard shared. This voice held the flavors of both Boston and Ireland, Gerard thought. But he didn’t recognize this man.
Not wanting to start a fight, Gerard could think of no reply except “If you’ll excuse me, I must join my friend.”
“Of course.” The stranger grinned unpleasantly, turned, and walked away.
Gerard noticed that the crowd parted like the Red Sea, giving the stranger a wide berth, and then swallowed him up.
Stoddard touched Gerard’s elbow. “Come, I want you to meet someone.”
“Did you know who that man was?” Gerard motioned toward where the retreating figure had gone.
“I wasn’t paying attention. Come on,” Stoddard urged. “The first race is about to begin.”
Gerard let himself be led away, but meeting this stranger left him feeling unsettled, vaguely troubled. He shook it off and shouldered his way to the front to watch the first race. A worry niggled at the back of his mind. Stoddard was right: When Gerard still had no concept of how to make a living here, why was he betting money he couldn’t afford to lose? He could only hope Kentucky Pride would win.
SEPTEMBER 2, 1848
In the autumn twilight a day later, Gerard walked sedately beside Stoddard. Miss Foster—Tippy—and her parents had invited them to dine. Apparently Stoddard was as firmly in her clutches as ever. Gerard wanted to grab his cousin and pull him away, head down the bluff to the wharf, where they could lift a glass and laugh and perhaps sing, forget the fact that neither of his horses had won their races the day before. Instead they were headed for a dinner party, a social obligation, a collar-tightening bore.
