by Lyn Cote
A knock sounded at the back door.
He steeled himself for more noise, but he didn’t leave, not wanting to move unless he had to.
The cook let someone into the room.
“Mr. Ramsay, sir? I’m Mrs. Theodosia March.”
Gerard looked up to see the woman who’d jumped from the fire into his arms. He rose cautiously. “Yes?”
“I come to thank you for saving me and my kids.”
He raised a hand. “No need to thank me. Glad you’re safe.”
A familiar-looking little boy clung to her hand. But he couldn’t be her son; he was white. Gerard tried to place the child.
Then the boy charged Gerard, grabbing him around the knees. “You’re Mr. Ramsay. You ’tected us from the bad men.” The little boy stared up at him.
Gerard recalled waking with this child on his lap in the orphanage parlor. “Scotty?” he said, trying to avoid thoughts of his conversation with Blessing that morning.
“Yeah, I’m Scotty.” The child grinned at him.
“Mrs. Brightman thought I’d be safer bringing Scotty along with me,” Theodosia said. “No one would dare accost a nursemaid with her charge.”
“I see,” he said, patting Scotty on the head. So Theodosia still felt unsafe. He didn’t blame her.
“Mister, can you come to my house and play ball?” Scotty asked.
Gerard patted the boy’s head once more, unable to come up with a response to this.
“Scotty, you come on now. We’re goin’ home. Mr. Ramsay’s a busy man.”
Scotty looked crestfallen, but he waved and hurried to take Theodosia’s hand. The two left.
The cook gazed at him as if trying to understand why the woman had come.
He sank back into the chair and managed to consume the coffee and dry toast. Rising, he thanked the cook, who merely frowned at him and waved him out of her domain with a wooden spoon.
He was walking through the dining room when Mrs. Mather approached him.
“Gerard Ramsay, a word in the parlor.” The silver-haired landlady crooked her finger at him as if he were a child and marched ahead, expecting him to follow.
He had no intention of going against her wishes. Shame at his condition warmed his face, and he could not think of an excuse. He was no longer a callow lad sowing his wild oats.
Mrs. Mather shut the parlor door with a snap that was painful to his head. “Gerard Ramsay, thee was warned about how I expect my gentlemen boarders to behave themselves. Give me one reason that I should not send thee packing today.”
In that moment he realized the import of what he was facing. Not only did he not want to leave this comfortable home with its good food and friendly boarders, but also he didn’t want to lose this lady’s respect.
“Mrs. Mather, I met with an old friend and brought him to the local tavern. I don’t know what happened after that. But I have not overindulged like this for a very long time. Please give me a second chance, and it won’t happen again. In fact, if it does, you won’t have to ask me to leave. I will just go.”
With lips pressed together, she stared at him like a disapproving teacher. “Very well. We will leave it at that.” She quit the room.
He moved to the stairs. Images of provocatively dressed women from the night before dogged his every step. Ever since the evening he’d helped Blessing save the girl Rebecca from a beating, he’d been unable to look at women of the night the way he always had, the way society viewed them. The question now was what he had done with these women during the time he couldn’t remember.
As he mounted the third step, the front door opened.
Stoddard walked in and barked, “I see you finally got up. I’m home early for luncheon.”
Gerard stared at him.
“I’ve never seen you in such bad shape. Let’s go upstairs. I want an explanation.” Stoddard gestured for him to continue up the stairs.
Gerard couldn’t reply; he had just enough energy to make it to his room.
Stoddard followed him closely and shut the door behind them before starting his attack. “Last night I stumbled across you lying in the gutter outside this house. What possessed you to get stinking drunk?”
“I didn’t plan on it,” Gerard mumbled. “Kennan—”
“Kennan?” Stoddard’s voice rose.
“I saw him.” Gerard rubbed his throbbing forehead. “At the docks.”
“Kennan?” Stoddard repeated, then sat on the bed beside Gerard. “Here?”
Gerard nodded and regretted it. “I don’t know what happened,” he muttered. “I saw him and brought him up to Jenkins’s place for a drink. After that, everything is fuzzy.” He could feel Stoddard staring at him.
“Do you think you got some rotgut in one of those seedy bars?”
“I’m not sure.” Gerard longed to lie down. “I just know that I didn’t intend to go back to the docks with Kennan.” With a look, he implored his cousin to sympathize.
Stoddard gazed at him, his expression shifting from disapproving to concerned. “You don’t think Kennan might have taken you somewhere and someone put something in your drink—say, opium?”
Or put it in himself? Gerard thought the question he sensed Stoddard was skirting. How far had Kennan fallen? Would he do something like that to a friend? Then Gerard recalled that Kennan had been in Cincinnati for weeks without informing either of them—and that he knew Mr. Smith. Could Kennan be tangled up with Smith?
How and why had Gerard been left lying in the gutter in front of his boardinghouse? Nothing made sense. If I could only concentrate.
His cousin’s words repeated in his mind. Gerard gripped Stoddard’s arm. “Thanks for bringing me in last night.” Mrs. Mather wouldn’t have given me a second chance if I’d been found in the gutter. “I won’t let this happen again.” I won’t be in Kennan’s company again.
“I think you had better lie down.” Stoddard touched his shoulder. “You really look sick. Have you been able to eat anything?”
“Toast and coffee.” Gerard reclined obediently, soothed by his cousin’s concern. Soon he felt Stoddard rest a cold, damp cloth on his forehead.
“I’ll check on you later.”
“Thanks.” Gerard tried to relax and fall asleep. Maybe he’d feel better later. But doubts over what he’d done last night wouldn’t leave him. The sound of laughter and images of those women with rouged lips and cheeks and dresses of black lace flashed in his mind.
Blessing Brightman’s words floated back to him. “There are two kinds of men—those who respect women and those who debase them.” He recalled the poor, beaten girl he’d carried to the widow’s carriage that night not so long ago, and his stomach lurched precariously. Until that evening, he’d always assumed easy girls had enjoyed being with him. But had they, or was it all an act bought and paid for?
OCTOBER 7, 1848
Saturday evening, still balmy in spite of the shortening days, Blessing let her driver help her down from her carriage in front of the Foster home. In contrast to her somber mood, the house glowed with lamplight in the October dusk. Tonight the Fosters were giving a party to celebrate the announced engagement of their daughter.
Though Blessing never wore her corset cinched tightly, she was having trouble drawing a full breath. Dear Lord, is this of thee? Will Tippy be glad she married Stoddard Henry?
She had no way of knowing, but she needed to trust in the Father and support her friend. If Tippy was making a mistake, she would need encouragement in the coming years. Blessing had isolated herself from everyone out of shame over her disastrous marriage. She would watch and make certain Tippy didn’t fall into that trap.
Inside the brightly lit home, the butler and footman relieved her of her light shawl, and she entered the parlor, already full of cheerful guests. Tippy, in a new rose-colored gown lavish with cream lace, stood in front of the cold marble hearth beside her beaming intended groom. Both of them radiated joy.
Blessing felt the sting of tears and lo
oked away, only to lay eyes on Gerard Ramsay. Her response to him was instantaneous, and her skin tingled with awareness. The gentleman from Boston, in conversation with a local businessman, stood against the wall opposite the couple. He glanced at them occasionally with no sign of joy. As usual, she felt the pull toward Gerard as if some invisible bond linked them.
Two ladies approached Blessing and entered into polite social chatter. Was she wearing a new dress? Its amber hue looked lovely with her hair. Wasn’t it exciting that Tippy was marrying a man from such a prominent Boston family? And so romantic that they’d met at Saratoga Springs.
Blessing replied pleasantly and did not miss the women’s glances back and forth between her and Gerard Ramsay. Were people speculating about whether they were becoming a couple? She couldn’t think why anyone would consider that a possibility. Perhaps it was merely because she and Tippy were friends and Gerard and Stoddard were cousins. Did society hope to enjoy the gossip about another deliciously unlikely match?
“We all wonder if Mr. Ramsay will be staying in Cincinnati or returning to Boston,” the older of the two ladies ventured with a questioning glance to Blessing.
“I could not say. I am so busy I rarely have time even to see my friends, much less newcomers.” She didn’t appreciate finding herself under even more scrutiny than usual.
The ladies smiled knowingly but were called away by another group of women who waved to them.
Blessing remained where she was. Theodosia had informed her that she’d gone to Prudence Mather’s house a couple of days ago and had thanked Ramsay for his heroic act. Her wet nurse had reported that the man had looked as if he’d spent the night before drinking blue ruin.
Blessing pondered the many names people assigned to adulterated gin, cheap liquor that could kill. She hadn’t realized Gerard had sunk to that kind of gone-too-far-to-care drinking. This thought caused a pang of concern she didn’t want to feel.
The businessman turned and walked away from Ramsay, and she couldn’t stop herself from moving toward him. If Theodosia was correct, he seemed bent on self-destruction just as Richard had been. What drove a man to dangerous choices? Her own hasty decision to marry Richard Brightman should have shed some light on this question. She had certainly lived the truth of “Marry in haste; repent at leisure.” But she’d been so very young, and it had all been so exciting after living such a sheltered life, just as Tippy had.
She hadn’t been able to stop Tippy from becoming engaged to Stoddard much too soon. She doubted she would have any better luck turning Gerard Ramsay from a dark path that would be hard to retrace. But she must try. Surely this desire explained why he drew her to him. And she had an idea of something that might influence him for the good. He would probably decline, but she would issue the invitation anyway. He just might rise to her challenge.
Gerard watched Blessing Brightman walk toward him. Dressed in a high-necked amber silk gown this evening, in contrast to the other ladies’ bare shoulders, she looked prim, proper, and utterly lovely. However, her manner was determined, like a ship gliding toward its destined port. He wanted to move away, not let her dock beside him.
Of all the people milling about the parlor, he inexplicably wanted to talk to her both least and most. It was confusing. Nobody else in the room interested him, but this woman could annoy him faster than anyone, aside from his father. He swirled the wine in his glass and averted his eyes from her.
When she reached him, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Well, they’re engaged,” he observed, trying to alleviate her effect on him.
“Yes, they are.” She moved to stand at his side, the wisteria fragrance subtle and alluring. “Doesn’t thee know better than to go on a spree at the docks?” She spoke the words as she smiled and nodded to another lady passing them. “Theodosia said you looked like death on a hard day.”
Her quip forced a chuckle from his dry throat. “Worried about me?”
“Some of the gin served at the wharf can blind a man.” She lifted her plain fan and used it against the stuffiness around them.
Gerard didn’t answer. He knew what she said to be true. But he didn’t have to account for his behavior to her. It was difficult enough accounting for it to himself. The most troubling aspects of the night were twofold: first, that he couldn’t recall anything of substance; and second, that afterward Kennan had evidently disappeared or gone to ground. Gerard couldn’t shake the feeling that Kennan had a part in what had happened to him. Or had Kennan succumbed to rotgut and fallen dead in some dank hole?
He shook off this idea and dealt with the woman’s tart words. “Then, Widow Brightman, I advise you not to imbibe the gin at the docks.”
She shook her head at him, not responding to the barb.
Another couple passed by, greeted Blessing, and moved on. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Blessing and Gerard once more, a knowing expression on her face. Evidently their “association” was a topic for public conjecture. He bristled. Gossips.
“So, Gerard Ramsay, is thy cousin good enough for my friend?”
“I’ve been wondering the reverse of that myself.”
“Well, let us hope so. Neither of us could stop them from taking this life-altering step.”
“I can agree with you there. How did you know I opposed the union?”
“On the last occasion we were here together, the relief on thy face just as I fainted told all.”
Her brazenly honest answer jolted him. “No matter how often we meet, I cannot get over your frank conversation. Do you talk this way to everyone?”
“Thee is not everyone, Gerard Ramsay. I still cannot make thee out.” A group near them broke into spirited conversation, and she stepped closer. “When faced with danger or crisis, thee rises to the occasion. But in everyday life thee follows a course that can only bring disaster. What drives thee?”
That her assessment was correct again infuriated him. He stiffened. “My character and my endeavors are none of your business.”
She swung to face him. “I urge thee to stay away from that man Smith. He is dangerous, and his main business is to ruin people and enslave them. He holds me in bitter hatred because he has been unable to bring me under his control. I’ve learned to see through his schemes. And I am too respected, too prominent for him to touch. But thee is playing with a consuming fire. This is not Boston.”
Her words resonated inside him. If he never saw Smith again, it would be too soon. He tried to come up with a response to put her in her place, but a hard knot in his heart made replying difficult. “How do you know so much about my association with Smith?”
“I have my sources.” She did not meet his gaze.
He wouldn’t tolerate her intrusion, even as he was dogged by the knowledge that she was right. “Don’t meddle in affairs that don’t concern you.”
“If you knew what I . . .” She paused and then continued, “I am going to challenge thee again. Thee invited me to a play. I am inviting thee to an upcoming meeting to hear James Bradley, one of the Lane Rebels, on his life as a slave.”
A former slave? Associated with the radical Lane Seminary? What would this woman come up with next? “Trying to draw me into the movement for abolition?” he said with scorn.
“Trying to give thee something worthy of thy intellectual capabilities.” Blessing smirked as she walked away.
He fumed and sipped his very good wine, barely tasting it. There was nothing worse than this woman who could pierce his armor by telling the truth.
Gerard had heard much of the Lane Rebels, a group of seminary students who were rabid abolitionists. He couldn’t imagine what their parents must think of their debates and activities. In fact, if Gerard could ensure that his father would hear of his own attendance at such a meeting, he might be tempted to go. But this was a matter for later contemplation. For now, Gerard selected another gentleman from the gathering and approached him, ready to discuss his racetrack plans. He might as well take advantage o
f this social gathering for his own ends.
OCTOBER 16, 1848
It had been over a week since Stoddard’s engagement party, and so far Gerard had failed to drum up any interest in his racetrack venture among the gentlemen he’d become acquainted with there—or, to be honest, among any of his contacts. He knew the Fosters moved in a segment of society that leaned toward social reform, but he’d held out hope that some of these men would support reform with one hand while engaging in beneficial investments with the other. This not being the case, Gerard had at last decided to use the list of investors Smith had provided him. But it would be the final time he would ever take anything from Smith. From now on, he would proceed on his own.
So he’d reserved a room at a prominent hotel, ordered engraved dinner invitations, and sent them to the prospective investors from the list.
Tonight, with the sound of rain on the windows, he welcomed his eight guests into the comfortable dining room, with its velvety flocked wallpaper, ornate fireplace, and thick, claret-colored carpet, for a delicious meal. After dinner, over a fine port and cigars, he would outline for them his plans for a racetrack, including the two promising tracts of land he’d found when he toured Cincinnati’s outskirts.
Dinner went off without a hitch, and all of the men were more congenial than Gerard would have expected from Smith’s acquaintances. He’d made brief allusion to the racetrack early on, and at least a few of his guests seemed amenable. As he started the bottle of port around the table, Gerard knew the decisive moment was almost here. He looked for an opening in the conversation.
“We had a bad week for business at the end of September,” said a man with a pronounced paunch straining against his embroidered vest.
Another with thinning hair and a sarcastic expression accepted the bottle and poured. “But it got rid of a lot of our unwanted population. I’ve noticed a black exodus, haven’t you?”
The other men all nodded with approval.
They couldn’t mean what Gerard thought they meant. “Are you talking about the riot?” he asked.
