Blessing

by Lyn Cote

  As she walked off, the events of the day before unrolled through her mind as thread on a spindle. Some days it seemed as if the world washed its evil against her in waves—cold, disgusting waves. What kind of life must Rebecca have suffered to bring her to her present circumstances? Even if the girl lived, Blessing had no certainty that she’d be able to help her leave the degradation of the past behind. But their God was the God of second chances. He’d given her one.

  At the bank, she was greeted courteously and shown to the door of an office. Just as she turned to thank the man, she glimpsed Gerard Ramsay sauntering through the doors. Anger from last night rushed up inside her like steam in a kettle. She mastered herself and then told her escort that she needed to greet someone.

  Blessing swept over to him. “Gerard Ramsay, thee seems to turn up wherever I am.” She pulled a sweet and false smile.

  “Ma’am.” He doffed his hat and bowed to her. “Business at the bank?”

  “That is usually the reason one enters a bank,” she replied, rendering his question ludicrous. “Does thee know another reason of which I, a weak woman, am unaware?”

  “I was merely making social conversation,” he said in a tight voice.

  Blessing was glad she’d irked him. She wanted to drag him to the orphanage and force him to visit poor Rebecca and to look in the faces of all the unwanted children she’d brought home over the past years. Did this man have even a thought for what was really going on in this city? Or was life just a round of self-seeking pleasure to him?

  “Mrs. Brightman,” came the low voice of her banker from behind.

  “Thee must excuse me,” she said. “I must keep my appointment.”

  Gerard bowed again and let the animosity toward this woman flow unheeded through him. She was annoying as a too-tight collar. He couldn’t get last night’s scene from the alley out of his mind. And now he couldn’t even go to the bank without running into the pious woman. Her parting words from the night before still stung. Gerard had never struck a woman in his life.

  He addressed the young man who had escorted Mrs. Brightman through the bank, and soon he was standing in his own banker’s office. He executed his most charming smile and bow. “Good afternoon, sir. An excellent day for business, I hope.”

  He had tonight’s meeting with Mr. Smith to prepare for by lining up bank funding, and nothing, especially not a meddling reformer, would stop him. The main objective behind the racetrack was, obviously, supporting himself. Embarrassing his father was a significant collateral benefit. Saul Ramsay would pay for interfering in Gerard’s life, for cutting off his allowance. And if this venture also provoked the good widow, all the better.

  Late that evening a cool wind from the west chilled the back of Gerard’s neck. The wharf was busy with people doing a night’s business: prostitutes, beggars, and—no doubt—thieves, all preying on travelers. As he headed toward the tavern to meet Clancy, who was to introduce him to this Mr. Smith, the feeling that he was being followed or watched heightened Gerard’s tension. He gripped his cane more tightly, ready to strike back if necessary. The light from the windows of the tavern drew him. He quickened his steps and entered.

  Inside the door he halted. The place should have been crowded; it was empty. Not even the barkeep was present. Something’s not right. Gerard turned to leave.

  “Don’t be goin’ yet, Mister Ramsay.” The voice caught him midturn. It was a low voice, but with the familiar accent of a Boston Irishman.

  Gerard pivoted toward it.

  A man had entered from the rear and was waving for Gerard to join him at a table in the back. Gerard took stock of him before approaching. He was tall with a fair complexion and thick black hair—what they called Black Irish. Handsome, he was dressed well, even expensively, with a gold watch fob dangling from his vest pocket. If he hadn’t spoken, the man could have passed for a gentleman. And Gerard had seen him before—this was the stranger who’d accosted him at the horse race he’d attended with Stoddard. “Mr. Smith, I presume.”

  “One and the same.” He gestured again for Gerard to join him.

  Gerard moved forward and took the seat facing Smith. He didn’t like having his back to the door, but he wasn’t going to let this man intimidate him. “This place isn’t doing very good business tonight.”

  “I wanted to meet you without interruptions.” Smith reclined carelessly, his tone genial but his expression cynical.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Gerard wondered whether it was really necessary to close the tavern for this meeting. Odd.

  “Are we going to have a staring contest?” Gerard finally asked with a wry twist of his mouth.

  “No, I’m just wondering why Saul Ramsay’s only son is here in Cincinnati. I didn’t think Ramsays ever went farther west than Saratoga.”

  Jolted, Gerard listened in wary silence. How did this man know about his family? “Have we met before?”

  “Ha!” Smith responded. “I hardly think we moved in the same Boston circles.”

  Gerard couldn’t think of any polite reply, so he merely inclined his head and waited.

  “Your family is prominent enough to be recognized.” Smith’s lip curled.

  Gerard accepted this with a nod, not wanting to pursue the subject. “Now can we get down to business?”

  “What is your business, Mr. Ramsay?” Smith made himself more comfortable in the chair.

  “I told that bookmaker Clancy that I’m interested in setting up a permanent racetrack somewhere close to the city.”

  “Ah, you’re a man who loves the horses, hmm?”

  “I like horses fine, but I like money more. I’m planning on using my connections, my social connections, to find investors—”

  “So you don’t have the capital?”

  This question gripped Gerard because it revealed his one weakness. He had the social position of his family, which meant something even here, but negligible funds. “My father is not a man to invest in a racetrack.”

  “Ah. Did he cut you off, then?”

  Gerard fumed in silence.

  “These little family disputes crop up from time to time.” Smith waved a hand airily. “So you need investors? Is that why you’ve come to me?”

  “I’ve come to you so that I don’t step on anyone’s toes. Clancy seemed to think I should talk to you. Are you interested in my racetrack venture, or are you pursuing something similar of your own?”

  “A prudent man always thoroughly researches each venture.” Smith nodded with a show of mock approval.

  The man’s condescension galled Gerard. “Well?” he snapped.

  “I have considered a permanent racetrack but have not pursued it. This city has a strong reformin’ tendency. Gets in the way sometimes.”

  “Right.” Gerard leaned forward. “That’s something I think I can circumvent. Men who would never publicly countenance a racetrack might—in private, between gentlemen—be interested in a discreet moneymaking venture.”

  “In private, between gentlemen,” Smith echoed. “Ah. Yes, gambling always makes a profit . . . for the house. Or the track.”

  “A truth that many miss, to their own regret,” Gerard observed dryly.

  Smith gazed at him.

  Gerard sat still, waiting for Smith’s reply.

  “I think we might be able to do business—”

  “I don’t need any—”

  “But you do need me,” Smith interrupted. “This town belongs to me, at least this part of town. You try to find your investors, and I’ll line up the bookmakers and others you’ll need.”

  “This is my venture.” Gerard wanted this perfectly understood.

  “Of course, but it’s always best to have local cooperation, as you yourself must believe if you wanted to meet with me. I have my own connections.”

  Smith’s ability to clear out an entire bar for a meeting gave him a taste of the influence this man must wield among this strata of society. Gerard just might have to keep on his goo
d side. After all, I am a prudent man.

  Gerard rose. “Very well. We have an understanding.”

  Smith stood also. “Indeed we do.”

  Gerard turned to leave—without shaking hands. He didn’t want to let Smith think he viewed him as an equal, as a partner.

  “Good night, Mr. Ramsay,” Smith called after him, and again, to Gerard it sounded as if the man were mocking him.

  Gerard kept walking, merely lifting a hand in farewell. He did not like Smith’s tone. He did not like the fact that Smith knew about his family. He did not like Smith. But that didn’t mean Smith wasn’t necessary for Gerard to accomplish his goals.

  SEPTEMBER 11, 1848

  Almost a week since her last attempt to visit Tippy, Blessing stepped down from her carriage in front of the Foster home. Tippy and her mother had only recently returned from Louisville, and Blessing had been so busy with her work that she had not been able to come by. And then, yesterday, she’d received an invitation to attend a dinner party here tonight.

  The dreadful fear that this social event might have been planned to announce Tippy’s engagement clutched Blessing’s heart with cold fingers. The butler welcomed her warmly at the door, and she moved into the parlor, her gray silk skirt whispering around her. The door between the rear and front parlors had been slid open, and everyone gathered in this spacious area. As usual, the men congregated at one end of the room and the women at the other. She glimpsed Gerard Ramsay with the men and turned away. The women were also divided among themselves, the older women in the opposite corner from the younger.

  As a widow, Blessing often moved to mingle with the older women, but tonight she needed some way to get Tippy alone. If Stoddard were indulging in morally questionable behavior and Tippy did not discover it until after announcing their engagement, she would have no choice but to make an unpleasant public stir when she ended the betrothal. Blessing wanted to save her friend from that fate.

  Blessing greeted her hostess and then moved through the crush of women to Tippy’s side. The ladies there all greeted her by name and praised her new dress. The compliments stung since they reminded her that she had yet to completely return to her plain Quaker garb. She dressed in subdued colors, but for social occasions she could not forgo the urge to be in fashion. She admitted her vanity but couldn’t curb it.

  “Blessing, how good to see you,” Tippy exclaimed and pressed a kiss on Blessing’s cheek. Tippy glowed with happiness.

  Hiding her apprehension over this, Blessing smiled at her friend. She tried to think of some way to lure Tippy away to a quiet corner. And failed.

  “What do you think of the new bachelor from Boston?” one young lady asked Blessing. “He’s so handsome, and I love that accent. It’s so distinguished, don’t you think?”

  Blessing made a polite, noncommittal sound. She’d expected Ramsay’s entrance into society to spark a wave—or waves—of gossip and speculation. But she would not participate in it.

  “He’s from a prominent family, I believe,” another woman confided in a low voice. “Of course, Tippy claimed the good-looking redhead before the rest of us even saw him.”

  Tippy blushed. Blessing bridled inwardly over the tactless remark directed at her friend.

  “Well, we should probably thank Tippy,” a third young woman said, “for her handsome redheaded beau brought Mr. Ramsay here.”

  The young ladies all tittered at this.

  Blessing again did not reply. Heaven help any young lady who set her cap for Ramsay. If nothing else, she sensed his disdain for Cincinnati society.

  Several more minutes of engaging in meaningless social chatter—much of it continued speculation about the handsome Gerard Ramsay—heightened Blessing’s agitation over what this evening was all about.

  Then Tippy’s father called for everyone’s attention, just as if he were about to announce Tippy’s engagement.

  Blessing recalled her mother’s playful advice: when in a difficult social situation with no way out, faint.

  She didn’t need to fake it. With her corset pinching off her breath and her heart beating so fast, she felt faint. She stopped fighting the sensations, let them build. Spots flickered before her eyes . . .

  BLINKING, BLESSING WOKE to Tippy chafing her wrists and Mrs. Foster waving a disagreeable-smelling vinaigrette under her nose. She realized that she’d been carried into the small dressing room off the lone first-floor bedroom. “What happened?” she murmured, still dazed.

  “You fainted,” Mrs. Foster replied, giving Blessing an odd look. “At a very critical moment.”

  Everything rushed back. She’d stopped Mr. Foster’s announcement, but she still must find out Tippy’s—and Stoddard’s—intentions.

  “Have you been working too many late hours?” Tippy asked with evident sympathy.

  “I think I can leave you two alone now and return to my guests.” Mrs. Foster rose from her chair. Before shutting the door behind her, she sent Blessing a second suspicious look.

  “Tippy,” Blessing said, knowing she didn’t have time to tiptoe around this touchy subject, “is thee planning upon becoming engaged to Stoddard Henry?”

  “Yes.” Tippy gazed at her, obviously bemused.

  “Is thy father announcing it tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Relief enveloped Blessing. Her throat had thickened, so she cleared it. “Tippy, is thee sure thee knows Stoddard well enough to become engaged to him?”

  Tippy bubbled with laughter. “I know about your meeting Stoddard and his cousin at the wharf. Stoddard has told me all about his past. But it’s past, Blessing. Be happy for me. I have fallen in love with a very good man. But it is too soon for us to announce it to the world.”

  Blessing realized she could say no more. Of course Tippy believed Stoddard. She was in love with him. Just as Blessing had believed Richard. Love blinded a woman until finally, one day, she couldn’t lie to herself any longer. Blessing could only hope that Stoddard Henry had spoken the truth about his history, untainted by convenient lies such as the ones Richard had told her.

  “Your father isn’t announcing your engagement tonight, then?” Blessing asked, just to be certain.

  “No, and I won’t give away his news, but it’s something quite different.”

  Standing beside his cousin, Gerard had watched the dramatic fainting spell and had not been fooled. Blessing Brightman was doing whatever she could to stop the engagement announcement—at least, he assumed that’s what Tippy’s father had been about to announce. And for once he was in perfect agreement with her. In recent days, he’d been so busy speaking about his racetrack to potential investors—so far unsuccessfully—that he hadn’t spent the time he should with Stoddard. After all, one of Gerard’s main reasons for moving here was to lure his cousin away from the shackles of a respectable wife.

  “That was odd,” Stoddard whispered to him.

  Gerard lifted a hand slightly. Let his cousin figure it out for himself.

  “What have you been busy with this week?” Stoddard asked. “Except at meals, I’ve barely seen you.”

  “You know what I’ve been doing,” Gerard said. And once again, he mentally shrugged off the misgivings he’d had after his first meeting with Mr. Smith. The man had left a sour taste in his mouth that he was having trouble washing away. And so far the gentlemen Gerard had met in his own sphere weren’t inclined to invest in his track, and the bank had turned him down for a loan too. Though he needed to continue widening his circle of acquaintances, Ramsay promised himself that he’d spend more time with his cousin as well. “You’re right, Cousin. I’ve been neglecting you.”

  Stoddard merely shook his head, grinning.

  Mrs. Foster briskly reentered the parlor. “Friends, Mrs. Brightman is recovering from her dizziness. She begs that we go on with the evening, and she will rejoin us when she can.”

  Then the lady of the house, on the arm of her husband, led them into the dining room. The table, decked with f
lickering, fragrant bayberry candles, crisp with white linen, and glimmering with sterling silver, had been extended to seat twenty people. The chair beside Gerard remained empty. He wondered whether they had seated Blessing beside him again, perhaps so he would have someone he knew nearby. Irritation sparked within. He didn’t want the provoking woman next to him. Gerard glanced about, trying to recall the names of the men he’d already been introduced to. Each man here could prove to be an investor in his future racetrack. Or know someone who would be interested.

  The butler and footman had served and removed the first course before the two absent ladies reappeared. The scent of wisteria enveloped the widow, something Gerard had never noticed before. But what did perfume matter? He rose to formally seat Blessing just as Stoddard did for Tippy.

  As he seated her, the woman sent him a wry glance over her shoulder. He recalled the day they’d met—her outrageous conversation. With a start, Gerard realized she had secured his interest then, and that marked her as a dangerous woman, not one he could brush aside like most of the others. He would never be able to dismiss her as a mere society widow, boring and inconsequential.

  At the head of the table, Mr. Foster smiled at his daughter, who was smiling into Stoddard’s besotted face. Gerard cringed inwardly at this.

  “Come now, Foster,” a burly man seated near the host said. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Now that the ladies have returned, what were you about to announce?”

  Gerard gripped the stem of his wineglass hard enough to turn his knuckles white. It was nearly impossible for a gentleman to break an engagement once it was publicly declared. Not yet!

  “Friends, here in your company and the company of my dear family—” Mr. Foster stood and raised his glass toward his wife and then his daughter—“I have decided to run for state legislature as a reform candidate this fall. I ask for your support.”