by Lyn Cote
SEPTEMBER 3, 1848
As church bells rang the next morning, Blessing walked toward the meetinghouse for First Day worship, troubled and feeling her lack of sleep. Did some slave catcher guess that a runaway might be hiding in her house? She had the sensation she was being watched, followed—an impression she had experienced often even as a child, since her parents’ home had frequently harbored runaways.
With effort she concealed her unease, especially resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder. But whenever she heard a sound that would have naturally prompted her to turn around, she obeyed the urge. More than once she thought she glimpsed a man slipping out of sight. Hiding her anxiety, she met other Friends also on their way to meeting and exchanged quiet greetings. Still, uppermost in her mind was how to smuggle away the runaway in her attic.
Blessing caught sight of her father helping her mother down from their wagon, and she hurried forward, her spirits lifting. Her parents did not drive into town for meeting every First Day. Maybe they could take the runaway home with them. Better to get the woman away quickly while the catchers kept vigil in the city.
She waited till her mother was standing beside her father before she greeted them, using both her voice and her fingers in sign language since her father was deaf. Grateful for the subtlety of the signs, she explained her need without speaking.
Both parents kissed her cheek in greeting but responded that their hidden room was already occupied and that their house was being watched by two slave catchers at the moment. Joanna’s parents, Judah and Royale, had stayed home on watch.
Mulling over this disappointing news, Blessing also greeted her younger sisters and brother, along with her honorary cousin, Caleb. They entered the meetinghouse as a family. When she looked around the quiet place, unadorned and plain, Blessing was comforted. All the long years of exile during her marriage—nearly six—she had missed this place of solace, missed being close to God and his people.
As Blessing followed her mother to the women’s side, she prayed silently. Where to take the runaway and how to smuggle her out unseen wouldn’t let go. She kept trying to give the problem to God—and then snatching it back.
Gerard Ramsay woke to the pealing of the Sunday church bells. He groaned and rolled over, pulling his soft pillows over his ears. He’d been careful not to drink enough to slur his speech or cause him to sway as he walked, but he’d imbibed more than he’d intended.
Guilt niggled at him and he pushed it away. He was not going to sink into the bottle like Kennan. And his evening had been productive: he’d gleaned many facts about racing in the Cincinnati area and had gotten the names of a few local bookmakers, men who could give him even more information about racing and the players and powers around here.
The Quakeress came to mind again, uninvited. The way she’d examined him at the docks and the way she’d looked at Stoddard. Perhaps he’d accomplished his goal already. If Blessing Brightman informed Miss Tippy Foster that her true love frequented the riverfront at night, that might be enough to break their romance in two.
Gerard closed his dry, gritty eyes and tried to go back to sleep in spite of the infernal bells calling the hypocrites, dressed in their Sunday best, to sit in the pews and judge each other.
Sitting on the same bench as her mother and her four sisters—Jamaica and Constance, both in their early twenties, and nine-year-old twins Patience and Faith—Blessing began centering herself, the traditional way Friends prepared themselves for worship.
Several years earlier, many Quakers had decided to adopt the ways of worship of other Christian churches, with a set program including music and a sermon. However, she and her parents were Hicksites and had kept to the old ways, still following the tradition of worship tuned to the Light of Christ.
She began to seek God’s peace. One by one, worries rushed over her like waves—Gerard Ramsay, Stoddard Henry and Tippy Foster, the poor woman who’d given her Luke last night, the baby’s thin body, and the frightened escaped slave hiding in her attic. She prayed over each one and tried to dismiss it from her mind, sending all of them to God. The tension she’d come in with began to ease.
All around her, the other Friends were doing the same. Or she supposed they were. What person could really know another’s thoughts? But that deep quiet of meeting began to settle over the large room. Even the children rested against their mothers or fathers. Although a few babies whimpered or fussed, their noise didn’t disturb the process of letting go of the world and entering God’s peace. Her worries continued to bob up and she continued handing them to Christ.
Across the room on the men’s side, her father, Samuel Cathwell, rose from his position beside her brother, John. This was a rare occurrence. Her father, who had been deaf since a childhood illness, did not speak often because his voice sounded odd and it embarrassed him. Blessing waited, filled with a special love for this quiet man.
Instead of speaking aloud, though, he began signing, and her mother interpreted the motions of his hands aloud for the congregation. “Sometimes I tremble for our nation,” she said. “The scourge of slavery has cost many lives and will cost many more. A deep blindness, born of greed, has covered the Southern states. I long for God to find a way to end it without bloodshed. That is my prayer.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the meeting. Even those who didn’t approve of helping escaped slaves could agree, as no Friend wanted violence. Her father sat down. The stillness resumed except for the cries of one baby. His mother rose and left the meeting, murmuring to the child.
Blessing considered her father’s words and prayed in agreement for slavery to end soon and without violence. But how that could be done only God knew.
As much as Blessing longed to be centered within God’s peace, her mind began to disobey her again, bringing up scenes from the past months. Meeting Gerard Ramsay in Seneca Falls, dining with him at the Fosters’, bumping into him at the riverfront. Stop, she ordered herself. Then a plan began to form in her mind of how she might help two birds at risk with one stone. A sweet, devious smile curved her lips.
Gerard rose from bed long after breakfast had ended. Sitting on the side of his bed, he scrubbed his face with his hands, but that did nothing to alleviate the ache behind his eyes or the frustrations circling through his mind.
When Blessing Brightman had recognized him last night, the look she’d given him . . . Another meddling reformer who would tell him how to live his life and enumerate his sins. How could he disarm her? Spike her guns while he peeled Stoddard out of Miss Foster’s gloved mitts—assuming Blessing’s own words didn’t do the job? A plan began to form in his mind. He chuckled. Military history class had taught him one thing, at least: always attack on the least-expected front.
SEPTEMBER 4, 1848
The next morning Gerard drove up to Blessing Brightman’s impressive home and tied his rented horse and gig to the ornate iron hitching post shaped like a horse’s head. Sure of success, he ran lightly up the steps and knocked. Women were so easy to manipulate.
Before long he was waiting in her parlor.
The widow entered, not making much effort to conceal her unease or lack of pleasure at seeing him there. “Gerard Ramsay, what may I do for thee?” she challenged him.
“I think we started off on the wrong foot, Mrs. Brightman.” He crafted his most charming smile, the one he used on the wives of pompous men—wives he was trying to seduce. “I’ve hired a gig and would like you to show me Cincinnati and a little of the surrounding area. It will give us an opportunity to become better acquainted. Will you join me?” He said the last as a light dare. Would the woman come or demur?
She stared at him for a long moment and then did something he hadn’t expected: she chuckled. “What a kind invitation. I have a friend visiting me whom I was going to carry to her next destination, about six miles from here. I dreaded driving back alone.”
“A friend?” he stammered. He wanted to have Blessing to himself in order to ply he
r with flattery and pique her interest in him.
“So kind of you,” the widow went on, ignoring his question, moving toward the door. “We’ll be down in a trice. Thy gig is at the front?”
“Yes.” He watched her leave and regretted coming.
Within minutes he was helping both ladies onto the seat of the one-horse gig. The other woman, her face concealed by a close-brimmed, veiled hat, crowded them a bit on the seat, but he didn’t point this out. He’d offered and he was stuck.
Following the widow’s directions, he drove out of town in silence.
When the silence became heavy, Blessing asked, “So Stoddard Henry is thy cousin?”
“Yes. He’s the son of my father’s sister. We were at boarding school together.”
“How interesting. I received my education at home, and then, at fourteen, I was sent to a Friends’ school for girls in Pennsylvania for a few years. After graduation I taught school in Cincinnati—before my marriage.”
“Really?” He’d spoken to very few educated women—even fewer who had actually worked at a profession. Of course, teaching was one of only a handful of professions open to women, and typically to those who were unmarried and without funds. From her and from what Stoddard had told him, he extrapolated that the pretty teacher had charmed a wealthy man. “You married well, then?”
She laughed as if he’d told a joke. “Yes, I suppose thee would think so. Richard Brightman owned two breweries.”
He hadn’t expected her to admit this, so he stared momentarily. Again he wondered how a straitlaced Quakeress had agreed to marry to a brewer. “I see.”
She laughed again. “I doubt it. I sold the breweries upon my husband’s death and invested in other concerns.”
“It was unusual for you to inherit, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Steaming at her slightly mocking attitude toward him, Gerard drove on, trying to come up with a way to turn the conversation in the direction he’d planned for it to go. He’d come to charm the widow in order to bend her to his own purposes, and now a prim stranger—a silent chaperone—sat stiffly beside her, and Blessing was laughing at him in a way he didn’t understand. And didn’t like. How fast could he drive six miles?
But wait—surely he would have better odds with the woman once they were alone. And they would necessarily be alone on the way home. Perhaps he could delay their return so that she might be mildly compromised from being in his company alone after dark.
He brought up a fresh smile and began to quote poetry, a ploy he usually found successful in charming ladies.
Later that afternoon, after they reentered Cincinnati, Blessing relaxed. Except for the presence of Gerard Ramsay, so unexpected but so providential, everything had gone exactly to her plan. And the effectiveness of the runaway’s impromptu disguise: the veiled bonnet, along with a wig, gloves, and white rice face powder, was an extra precaution. His company had added zest to the whole experience. No one would suspect someone like Gerard Ramsay of helping a runaway. She suppressed glee at successfully using him as the means to her own end.
“You’re in a lighthearted mood,” Gerard said.
Since she was listening for it, she heard the tinge of irritation concealed in his words. “Yes, I am. It’s been such a lovely ride, doesn’t thee think? I’m so glad we had a nice breeze. I almost hate to return home.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed my company,” the man had the nerve to say. “Perhaps we can take another ride soon. You still haven’t shown me around the city.”
Her house came into sight. “Thee strikes me as a man who can find his own way around, but I do thank thee for driving my friend to her next stopping point.”
He didn’t reply to this, merely pulled up the horse outside her home.
Before he could offer to help her down, Blessing slid off her seat and down the step. “Thank thee again.” She waved and was up the steps without waiting. She turned back for one more look and saw Ramsay staring at her. She couldn’t help herself—she grinned.
Letting herself in, she ran up the stairs to the attic. She caught Tippy sitting on a chair and reading a book by the small attic window. “Didn’t I caution thee to listen for someone entering the house and to take cover?”
“I heard the gig stop outside, and I know your step,” Tippy said, looking up from her book. “Did the disguise work? Did you get the runaway to the next station?”
“Yes.”
Tippy leaped to her feet. “And Mr. Gerard Ramsay of Boston never guessed that he was aiding and abetting a fugitive slave?”
“Yes!” And that seemed to be the signal for both of them to dissolve into laughter, an outburst of relief and triumph.
The arrival of the runaway had tabled Blessing’s plan to warn Tippy about Stoddard Henry—for now, at least. Instead, that morning she’d summoned Tippy with a note, asking her to come wearing a hat with a thick veil. After Tippy had arrived, Blessing had clothed the runaway in Tippy’s dress, hat, and gloves and had been preparing to drive off to a nearby small town where she knew of another station on the Underground Railroad, used only for high-risk escapes. And later Tippy would slip away home, dressed inconspicuously. But there was still the worry of being stopped—and if they were, Blessing would be hard put to conceal her companion’s identity, disguise or no.
Then Gerard Ramsay had arrived, and Blessing had sensed immediately that the man from Boston had come to charm her. She was a young, wealthy widow, and this had been tried before. In the moment, though, he met her needs exactly. What could be more natural than a couple and their friend driving along the road together? Even if they were stopped, Gerard would naturally be the one to answer any questions. She smiled to herself. Gerard was indeed a very handsome man of considerable means, and no doubt accustomed to easily ensnaring gullible women. Well, Gerard Ramsay of Boston, I’m not gullible. In fact, I gulled thee today.
SOON TIPPY, IN DISGUISE AS BLESSING, was headed for home in Blessing’s carriage. Weary, Blessing had just sat down to tea in the back parlor when her housekeeper announced that Mr. Stoddard Henry was in the front hall asking to see her. The accepted hours for social calling had passed, and her housekeeper, Salina, looked peeved.
Salina handed her his card. “He been here twice already today,” the woman said in her laconic way. Salina’s father had been a runaway slave; he’d been taken in by the Wyandot, who had still roamed Ohio thirty years ago. He’d married into the tribe, and Salina’s features showed the blending of the two races. In her early thirties, Salina was tall and trim with high cheekbones. Most of all, she was imposing and a good gatekeeper.
Blessing sighed with fatigue. Presumably Stoddard was worried she would tell Tippy about seeing him the other night. She gazed at the calling card in her hand, remembering the unpleasant incident. She rubbed her tired eyes and blinked to bring up moisture. After the long ride and the all-day tension, Blessing was in no mind to admit him.
Then with a shrug she relented for her sake as much as his. She would have no peace till she heard him out and could assess the truth about him for herself. Would he make the mistake of trying to charm her like Ramsay? “Show him in. But tell him I am about to leave for the orphanage and cannot give him long.”
At the back of her mind, little Luke Green hovered. Since the night she’d recovered him, she’d prayed for his health in between prayers for the runaway’s safety. Was little Luke better today or still failing? The thought of losing another child hitched her breath.
Stoddard entered and bowed.
“Please be seated, Stoddard Henry,” Blessing said but did not offer him tea. “What may I do for thee?”
Stoddard sat, then leaned forward. “I will not take up your time with idle chatter but will come directly to the point. Saturday night I went to the docks with my cousin, hoping to deter him and bring him away.”
The audacity of Gerard Ramsay’s demanding to know why she was at the riverfront still managed to rise up and aggravate her. She
knew a handsome face could hide much—perhaps a wounded soul? Was that why he’d caught her attention? No, surely not.
Scrutinizing Stoddard, she sipped her tea. “Why does thee tell me this?”
Stoddard half smiled. “Because I know that my . . . that Miss Foster is very close to you. I don’t want you to report me to her before I’ve had a chance to speak with her myself.”
Blessing stiffened, though admittedly this had been her plan. “I am not usually a talebearer.”
He held up a restraining hand. “Pardon; I’m not expressing myself very well. And in this case you need not be. I plan to confess it to her, as I said. I have already been frank with Miss Foster about my previously careless lifestyle.”
Previously careless lifestyle? Blessing considered him. “When will thee tell her?”
“I’ve already tried. I was told she was here visiting you. That is one reason I came.”
“She was helping me with my work,” Blessing explained, letting him assume she meant the orphanage.
Now he pinned Blessing with an intense gaze. “I have been shown a different way of thinking, of living, and I am no longer the man I was a few months ago. In fact, I had become disenchanted with the society life before I met Tip . . . Miss Foster.”
Blessing listened to this speech in silence. It could be true, but it could be a confession meant to disarm her. Dramatically admitting to faults was another ploy that had been used on her by her own husband. Only time would tell if his words were authentic. Richard’s hadn’t been.
She chose to reply obliquely. “Xantippe Foster is one of the most intelligent, refreshing, and honest young women I have ever met. Her friendship means a great deal to me.”
“I know.” He did not remove his gaze from her.
She couldn’t let her friend be fooled by a handsome face that might easily hide a dark heart. “I would do anything in my power to persuade her not to notice a man I thought was unworthy of her.” After a day of dissembling, speaking the truth was liberating.
