by Lyn Cote
The girl’s parents must be in transports over a catch like Stoddard Henry—a handsome, socially prominent, and well-educated man. Gerard sneered at the thought. But how could he counter their stratagems to gain such a son-in-law?
“I know you’ve come to save me from Tippy,” Stoddard said baldly, blandly. “But I don’t need saving.”
Before Gerard could think of a reply to this sudden frankness, Stoddard called out, “This is the house.” It was a three-story home on a corner lot with a large garden. And Gerard didn’t like how his cousin’s step quickened as if he couldn’t wait to get inside. Gerard was depressed. Kennan in the bottle and Stoddard “in love.” It was disgusting.
Stoddard all but ran up the steps, grinning like a fool.
A somber butler opened the door—a black man with a head of hair that resembled silver wool.
Gerard had rarely seen black servants. He studied the man.
“Mr. Stoddard, good to see you, sir,” the butler said with a Southern accent.
Stoddard greeted the man and added, “George, this is my cousin Gerard Ramsay of Boston.”
The butler bowed slightly. “Please step in, Mr. Ramsay. Welcome to Cincinnati, the Queen City of the West.”
The grand greeting, spoken with evident pride, threw Gerard off stride. He nodded and gave the man his hat and gloves as he entered the home. Inside the house smelled of lemon oil and good food. Gerard’s mouth watered at the fragrance of roasted fowl. Well, at least he might get a good meal here. If his stomach would let him enjoy it.
The butler showed them to the parlor, decorated in deep rose and white with heavy draperies at the windows and flocked wallpaper patterned with roses and vines. Clutter covered every exposed surface. On lacy crocheted table coverings sat porcelain figurines and daguerreotypes in intricate gilt frames, and oil family portraits hung on the walls. In the midst of all this feminine frippery, Gerard couldn’t shake the feeling of being swallowed up by the sumptuous decor. On the other side of the parlor, three older couples and the daughter of the house waited for them.
Stoddard headed straight for a woman in lavender silk who sat on a chair by the cold hearth. “Mrs. Foster, I’d like to present my cousin.”
The ritual of introductions proceeded according to form. Gerard sized up the Fosters, a middle-aged couple who appeared to be in comfortable circumstances. The husband was tall with side-whiskers, and his wife an older version of her daughter. The other two couples were of similar age and appearance.
“Mr. Ramsay,” Tippy Foster, sitting near her mother, greeted him brightly. “I’m so happy you’ve ventured to the barbarous frontier.”
“Xantippe,” Mrs. Foster said reprovingly.
“Miss Foster, I see that you have not lost any of your sprightly charm,” Gerard said, wishing he could say what he really meant.
As if she read his mind, the girl chuckled. “You are very adroit, sir.”
An intimate glance passed between Stoddard and Tippy, and Gerard fought to hold his courteous smile in place.
“Miss Blessing,” the butler intoned from the doorway.
Gerard turned and found the Quakeress standing there. The woman appeared to be ushering in daylight. The oil lamps seemed to dim and the overdecorated room to pale. He mentally stepped back.
The Quakeress moved purposefully into the parlor. She did not try to float across the room in that affected, aggravating way most young women did. Her measured, forthright gait irked him all the more.
And every head turned to watch her. Two of the ladies moved toward her with smiles and pleasant phrases on their lips, startling Gerard. A radical female would not have been welcome in any Beacon Hill drawing room.
Or was that true?
He had heard of people who had presence, but he had never known what that meant. Now he recognized it firsthand, though it still defied definition. He tried to analyze what about her seemed to reach out toward others. She was admittedly good-looking, and she dressed very simply but expensively in gray-and-white silk with a white widow’s cap over her chestnut hair. Nothing outstanding that in itself should have called attention to her. If he could understand what her attraction was, perhaps he could counter it.
Because he would bet she was the one who’d lured Tippy Foster into radical ideas, and a beautiful girl with radical ideas was evidently the type that snared Stoddard. A bitter taste leaked over his tongue.
“Gerard Ramsay, we meet again.” The widow offered him her hand like a man, behaving as if she were unaware that she was the center of attention in the room.
It irritated him, so he responded with an older and even more formal courtesy, taking her hand, bending over, and kissing it. “Madam Suffragist.”
She chuckled.
The lilting sound grated on his nerves, and he tried to come up with another way to catch her off guard. “How is the crusade for women’s rights proceeding?”
“Slowly, much too slowly.” Then she took back her hand and moved toward her hostess, effectively cutting him out.
He watched her, his annoyance deepening. Any other woman would have been chagrined at his provocative greeting and would have tried to downplay her radicalism. Why didn’t she?
“I’m sorry not to arrive on time, but I was detained,” the Quakeress said.
“Your work is very important,” Mrs. Foster replied. “Don’t apologize.”
The other ladies murmured similar sentiments, sounding sanctimonious.
Her work? What else didn’t he know about this woman? A particularly painful spot in his stomach began to flare, burn. He thought longingly of the small tavern he’d glimpsed near his lodging. He could be there now. Perhaps finding someone for a game of cards or chess.
Then he overheard Mrs. Brightman murmur to Tippy, “I received a letter today with important news from a woman we met in Seneca Falls. I’ll call on you tomorrow to discuss it.”
Gerard was intrigued. A letter from one of those radical suffragists? Perhaps Miss Foster would accomplish his mission for him. Certainly more outlandish behavior from this young lady could not fail to wipe the mist of blind love from Stoddard’s eyes. As he thought this, he sent a particularly generous smile to Tippy.
The mystery was how this Quakeress and this young lady of society became friends and why the Fosters hadn’t protected their daughter from such a woman.
“Dinner is ready,” the butler said from the doorway.
Soon, in a large dining room decorated with wallpaper depicting the Parthenon in Greece and alight with a crystal chandelier, they settled at the white-clothed dining table, lit by candles and gleaming with polished silver. Miss Foster and Stoddard sat across from him. Mrs. Brightman had been seated to his right. The master of the house sat at the head and the lady of the house at the foot, with the other guests ranged along the sides. Just a happy family and their guests.
Gerard opened his crisp white napkin and placed it in his lap, dreading the long, many-course dinner ahead. Social chatter always needled him while at the same time boring him. But I must learn all I can about this family, all that is useful to me.
“I used to go to Saratoga,” Mr. Foster said toward the end of his wife’s drawn-out story about how Tippy had met Stoddard there. “Great horse races.”
Gerard beamed at the man. “Nothing like a good horse race. Stoddard took me to one yesterday. I take it Cincinnati doesn’t have a formal racetrack?”
“No, but those races are held in outlying towns from time to time,” one of the other men said. “If a Cincinnati man wants a regular racetrack, he must go across the river.”
“Really?” Gerard said.
“And that’s close enough, if you ask me,” Tippy snapped. “Men betting on horses and losing money that should feed their children.”
Prudish busybody. Gerard held his tongue.
The other ladies busied themselves with their napkins, trying to ignore this lapse of good manners. Young debutantes were not supposed to censure gentlemen, and especia
lly not at dinner.
Gerard regarded the girl, smiling with his teeth and hiding his animosity. “One can’t outlaw every enjoyment just because some abuse it. I’ve always enjoyed horse racing.”
“The lower classes lack self-control. That’s all, and it’s not going to change no matter what people say.” Mr. Foster took another spoonful of the just-served beef consommé.
Gerard was aware that the woman beside him had gone very still. No doubt she agreed with the daughter, not the father. Blessing Brightman was a meddler if he ever saw one.
Tempted to say more, he decided to wait to pursue the topic till the gentlemen were left alone with the port after dinner. The idea of a permanent racetrack suddenly presented itself to him in another light. This might be an opportunity to address his most pressing need: a new source of income. And if he were forced to stay longer in Cincinnati than he’d anticipated, he might as well turn it to his monetary advantage. From what he’d seen yesterday, a new track would have no shortage of patrons. Here was a need he could meet.
Yes, a permanent racetrack just might prove to be an ideal investment. And it certainly would exasperate Miss Tippy Foster and perhaps Mrs. Blessing Brightman too.
Gerard smiled and, in spite of his touchy stomach, continued eating the excellent dinner, planning his course toward profit and vexation of the bluestockings. Abruptly, the memory of yesterday’s horse race brought up recollections of the stranger who’d eyed him with such hostility. The unsettled feeling rose within, but he dismissed it.
Later that evening Blessing climbed down from her town carriage. Night was one of her busiest times. Gerard Ramsay crossed her thoughts, engendering so many varied feelings. But she couldn’t deal with them right now.
Judson, her driver, stood nearby. His dark, wrinkled face was barely visible in the night. “Miss Blessin’, I gon’ stay right here and wait for you. You call out if you need me.” He said this every night at the docks, always wanting to protect her.
Her mind drifted back to the previous hours at the Fosters’ and, before she could forestall herself, to Gerard Ramsay. A very handsome and disturbing man. He doesn’t like me, and I shouldn’t care.
A passerby jostled her, and she immediately checked her pocket for her small purse. Nothing gone. Pickpockets and purse cutters abounded on the wharf. She brushed Gerard Ramsay out of her mind and turned, only to nearly bump into Mr. Smith.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she hoped it didn’t show. Mr. Smith liked to catch her by surprise, upset her if he could. She knew she stuck in his craw. “Good evening,” she said, making her voice cool and unruffled in complete contrast to the latent anger he always managed to inflame within her.
“If it isn’t the widow Brightman, out doing good among the poor sinners,” he replied, his voice shaded with a sneer but so subtle that to rise to it would put her in the wrong.
She attempted to smile, but a scene from the past glimmered within—Richard, sobbing with regret the morning after a night’s binge in this man’s company. The pain of that memory clutched at her. “May I help thee?”
“Help me to where or what? Perdition?” he mocked her.
She gazed at him wordlessly. Smith regularly sought her out and taunted her. This man had done her great harm through her husband, and she still struggled to forgive him. It was hard to forgive a man who was always busy enticing others down the path to destruction.
“As much as I’d like to stay and chat, ma’am, this is my time to do business.” He bowed his head and walked off, whistling. Smith’s so-called bodyguard—the man who beat others at his orders—followed behind like a faithful dog.
In Smith’s wake, Blessing tried to loosen her tension by drawing breaths of increasing depth.
Then one of the night watches who patrolled the wharf to keep order approached her. He’d been standing in the shadows, no doubt waiting for Smith to leave. No one wanted Smith’s attention. Blessing and Richard had found that out the hard way.
“Mrs. Brightman,” he greeted her respectfully.
In definite contrast to Smith. Irritated with herself for letting the man get under her skin yet again, she smiled at the tall young man in uniform. “Good evening.”
“One of the women asked me about you and your work with orphans. She has a child that needs a home.”
Another illegitimate child nobody wanted, another life she might save. As usual, Blessing simultaneously experienced a lift of thanks and a pang of regret. “Thank thee. Where is the child?”
“I’ll take you there, ma’am.”
She nodded her gratitude and walked beside him to one of the many brothels on the quay. A line of men waited at the door. At the sight of her, they melted into the darker shadows.
“I’ll be near if you need me,” the night watch said. “Her name’s Ducky Hughes. You’ll find her on the landing, third door.”
Blessing touched his arm and then walked through the open door and scaled with caution the slanting staircase by the light of a few candles in glass wall sconces. At the stench of filth, she resisted the urge to cover her nose with her scented handkerchief. She tapped on the third door.
It opened with caution. “Yeah?”
“I’m looking for Ducky Hughes.”
“Who’s asking for . . . Ducky?”
“I’m Blessing Brightman.”
The door opened, revealing a thin, worn woman in a scanty, soiled dress. “You the Quaker lady?”
“Yes, I am.”
The woman waved her inside. “I hear you take in kids.”
“I have a home for foundlings and orphans and others.”
“I been taking care of a friend’s newborn. She died a month ago. I can’t do it anymore. But I want him safe and fed.”
“I understand. Is there no other family for the child?”
The woman let out a sarcastic grunt. “None who wants him. Will you take him?”
Blessing drew in a breath. “Of course I will.” Her mind went back to Seneca Falls. That meeting had not just been about winning the right to vote for women but also about securing women equal status. Society’s double standard had forced many a young woman into a life of prostitution. Why could a man sow his wild oats and still be accepted in parlors and churches while a woman who made one mistake became condemned to a life like this? And if women could work at honest jobs and earn enough to support themselves, would any seek this life?
In short order the woman wrapped the baby in a ragged blanket and placed him in Blessing’s arms. “I’m glad I heard of you. I was worried about what would happen to him.”
“No need to worry. Thee may come and visit him if thee wishes.”
“I can?” The woman sounded first startled, then suspicious. “Really?”
“Certainly. The house is on Seventh Street and Washington. The one with the fenced-in garden.” Blessing sized up the woman. “Now, does thee need anything? There’s room for women there too.”
The woman shook her head. “I do all right.”
Blessing wished she could counter this, but if the woman wanted to remain in “the life,” she could do nothing to help her. “Thank thee. We’ll take good care of him.” Blessing turned and headed out.
A man leaned in the open doorway. “Glad to see you’re doing something with that brat. But, Ducky, this Quaker scared away all your customers.”
Every word from this excuse for a man ground like sandpaper inside Blessing, but she didn’t let her disapproval show. Brat was a kinder term than bastard, which, unfortunately, this infant probably was.
The woman grunted again in disgust. “They’ll be back.”
The despair concealed within the woman’s sarcastic tone touched a raw spot in Blessing’s own wounded heart. Why wouldn’t Ducky leave this man who rented her out at night? Was it just despair or fear that kept her here?
Passing by the man, who sneered at her, Blessing realized once again that while she moved among the people who inhabited the wharf, she did not understa
nd what caused them to live as they did. This life was not simply the result of poverty. She knew poor men who loved their wives and cared for their children in spite of need—and poor women who did the same. Perhaps those who lived at the wharf were the “poor in spirit.”
Blessing carried the infant down the stairs and out of the house. The child needed a bath, clean clothes, and food. She could provide all of those things, but what of the things she couldn’t provide—a family, a sense of self-respect, a respect for God and man? Who could supply those? A thought she’d entertained for a while nudged her. Perhaps there was a way she could provide this child with some of those things. She glanced at him in the scant light. In spite of his thinness, he was a handsome child with blond down on his head like a duckling. He opened his eyes wide as if studying her also. She grinned at him and he gave a little kick, almost smiling back.
The night watch stepped out into the gaslight’s illumination and pulled the brim of his cap in politeness.
“Thank thee! I have the child.” At that moment, Blessing caught sight of a familiar figure on the other side of the pool of light.
She gasped, flooded with dismay. So this man not only disliked independent females but also abused helpless women himself.
Gerard Ramsay was unable to hide his shock. “What are you doing in this part of town at this hour?”
Blessing stared at him. In her arms, the baby in the bundle whimpered as if also unhappy with Ramsay.
“Everybody knows,” the night watch said in a stiff tone, “that this lady is a very respectable widow. She works among the poor on the docks. We look out for her. Now go about your business, sir.”
“Thank thee,” she said to the young man. “This gentleman is new to Cincinnati.”
“I didn’t realize that suffragists also worked for the poor,” Gerard said in a disparaging tone.
His tone fired up her indignation. “My work includes helping those women who are most mistreated by the unjust laws and prejudice we women must endure. How else would I work for women’s betterment here and now? Lobbying for new laws while ignoring present abuses would be negligence.”
