Blessing

by Lyn Cote

  Gerard wanted to break free but couldn’t without resorting to violence. And the man sounded irrational, unpredictable. Warning quivered over Gerard’s nerves. Was there something wrong with Smith’s reason? Angling his free arm, he shifted his pistol from its holster, still concealing it under his coat.

  Smith must have felt the movement, but he did not loosen his grip.

  Gerard stared into Smith’s eyes, moonlight reflecting off them. “Why are you so concerned about that young woman? Didn’t you just pay her to try to embarrass me? I did her no harm except to object to her lie.” He continued improvising. “Why do you care where she went? Did she owe you money or something?”

  “Something,” Smith replied in an even darker tone.

  “Well, I can give you no more help. Now are we going to be reduced to a public brawl or will you release my arm?”

  Smith let go suddenly as if trying to jar Gerard off his feet.

  Ready for any move, Gerard straightened his coat and sauntered away as if unconcerned that Smith stayed behind.

  Just as he turned the nearest corner, he heard Smith mutter, “We’re not done. This isn’t over till I say it is.”

  He didn’t let on that he’d heard. Smith could threaten, but he had no proof. There was none to find. The man had fallen back on conjecture.

  Gerard tried to dismiss the lingering impression of seething anger and spite Smith left in the air, but he could not. Then he surprised himself with a silent prayer. God, keep Smith away from Blessing.

  DECEMBER 24, 1848

  On Christmas Eve after supper, Blessing sat at the table with her family and Rebecca, waiting for the evening’s annual event to begin. She gazed around her parents’ home. Though very simply decorated, the home displayed her mother’s style, elegant and welcoming.

  A bookcase filled with colorful leather-bound volumes sat against the far wall, away from the hearth and windows. The fireplace was flanked by settles with quilted cushions. On a large oval hand-hooked rug, two Windsor rockers sat in front of the fire with her mother’s sewing basket on the floor between them. A few framed samplers embroidered with Scripture hung on the walls.

  Their old wooden toy box sat in the corner, waiting for grandchildren in the future. That she would never bring home a child to delve into the carved horses, wooden blocks, and leather balls caught Blessing around her lungs. Then she recalled little Daniel Lucas, back at the orphanage, and she could breathe again. She had no doubt he would be welcomed here.

  Ramsay’s arresting face drifted into her mind, almost painfully. She forced herself to block out his image and sipped the sweet mug of wassail beside her, inhaling the scent of the cider, mulled with cinnamon and nutmeg—her mother’s own recipe.

  Many Quakers didn’t celebrate Christmas at all, and definitely not as other Christians did with feasting and gifts. Instead her parents had always set Christmas Eve apart. It had become a night of reflection on the birth of Christ and a time to honor those who’d already gone to be with him. Tomorrow, on Christmas Day, they would hold an afternoon open house where friends from miles around would visit.

  Much as Blessing tried, Gerard Ramsay was ever at the edge of her thoughts. She recalled his last visit and how close he’d drawn to her, how she’d feared—almost hoped—he’d kiss her. Her body awoke at his imagined touch. She drew in breath and regained control. He’d bidden her farewell and headed home to Boston for the holidays. And when he returned, she must once again set him at arm’s length. She must not continue flirting with disaster.

  Her mind shifted to the night he’d helped her and Jewel. Had the mistress he’d helped free reached her Canadian destination safely? The mail between Canada and southern Ohio was slow and irregular. Blessing sent another prayer heavenward for Jewel and her unborn child. And that God would help Blessing keep her focus on him alone. Nothing must impede her work. Certainly not this man from Boston.

  The expected knock at the door sounded. Her cousin Eli, home from his position as professor at Oberlin College, left his chair and opened the door. Dressed warmly, Aunt Royale and Uncle Judah—Joanna’s parents—came in, followed by their youngest children, pretty girls nearing marriageable age. Aunt Royale was still beautiful with her caramel skin and green eyes. Her husband, who worked with Blessing’s father in the glassworks, was tall and solid-looking.

  Blessing’s mother rose and embraced Royale. Blessing also stood, greeting both of them by name. In plantation society, the titles “uncle” and “aunt” were accorded to older slaves as a sign of respect for their age. But that wasn’t why Blessing had been taught to use these titles for Royale and Judah. The connection between the two families was long and deep.

  Tonight all Royale’s family appeared subdued. And Blessing thought she knew why.

  “I’m missing Joanna and Asher too,” her mother said, voicing the cause.

  Aunt Royale nodded. “It’s hard, but all those years ago we left our home in Maryland. Now Joanna and Asher want to be in Canada. It’s for their family’s best.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.

  Uncle Judah held a lantern, as did Royale and their daughters. They remained near the door, waiting.

  Everyone at the table rose and started to put on their own shawls or jackets.

  “Where are we going?” Rebecca asked in word and sign, which she was learning quickly.

  “On Christmas Eve, our two families always go by lantern light to our family plot,” Blessing explained, thinking of the few graves with the unmarked crosses that lay within the plot—runaway slaves who’d died hiding here. “We decorate the graves with wild holly and pine boughs to remember them on this holy night.”

  Rebecca looked frightened. “The family plot? At night?”

  Blessing understood the common hesitation about visiting a graveyard in the dark. “We’ll all be together. It’s a quiet time and peaceful.”

  Rebecca still hesitated.

  Caleb signed, “I’ll stay with her. You go on.”

  Blessing watched as her adopted cousin rested a comforting arm around the back of the girl’s chair.

  “That might be best,” Honor agreed.

  As they set off into the chill night under a crescent moon, Blessing hovered near her parents. She murmured for her mother only, “I see that Caleb and Rebecca are becoming close.”

  “Yes, I’m glad. It’s long past time he should have taken a wife.”

  “Will it be a wise union?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Caleb has very tender feelings toward her, and Rebecca, though still very subdued, is healing.”

  “There’s such an age difference between them—nearly twenty years,” Blessing objected. An owl swooped overhead with a rush of wings.

  “Yes, there is, but does that matter to the heart?”

  Blessing let it go at that. If the feelings between Caleb and Rebecca were mutual and honest, she had no right to object. But was Rebecca merely looking for a home and a man who could protect her?

  Again memories of Ramsay intruded. I must draw away from him. Neither of us could prevent Stoddard and Tippy from marrying, and he appears to have given up on the racetrack idea. At least he knows the truth about Smith. I can step back from him now.

  Blessing’s thoughts rang hollow in her own ears. She didn’t want to distance herself from Ramsay. She enjoyed, craved his company, and being with him meant much to her. Too much.

  DECEMBER 25, 1848

  To avoid arguing with his father, Gerard was hiding out in his mother’s suite of rooms. Father had been spectacularly unpleasant at dinner. Now Gerard sat in a chair near the fire while his mother lay upon her brocade chaise longue. She had lost weight since he’d last seen her, and her pale-blue dressing gown hung on her. Her breathing was shallow and at times labored.

  Gerard wanted to ask her what the doctors had to say about her decline but couldn’t bring the words to his lips. He also had not commented on the fact that she could no longer walk unassisted.

  “Gerard,” she s
aid weakly, “you are the only good thing I’ve done with my life, and your father has obstructed my efforts for you at every turn.” The comment came after a long interval of both of them staring into the flames in the rose marble hearth.

  He could think of no reply, so he merely gazed at his mother, questioning.

  “When she returned from Stoddard’s wedding, your aunt Frances visited me. She was so pleased with her son’s bride. I hear that while she is a pretty girl, her personality is what is most notable about her.”

  “Tippy is a bright girl and very charming.”

  “It seems she believes that women deserve equal rights with men.”

  Gerard tried to gauge his mother’s opinion from her tone and failed. “She does.”

  “And so does her best friend, a Quaker widow in whom you have shown interest.”

  Instantly Blessing’s face sprang to mind. She was smiling at him, teasing him. He buried his eager response. “Aunt Fran shouldn’t let her tongue run away with her,” he observed dryly.

  “Frances liked her very much. Said she was honest and good. I hear she operates an orphanage. That’s a fine thing to do. Many times I’ve tried to visit an orphanage here to offer my assistance, but your father forbade me. He just sent them money. He said he didn’t want me exposed to ‘such people.’”

  Gerard could hear his father saying those words and meaning them. “Father didn’t care for Mrs. Brightman.”

  She sent him a wry grin that said she understood. “I should have been stronger, Son.” She sighed. “When my parents decided that Saul Ramsay would be my husband, I should have resisted. But I’ve never been strong like your Quaker widow, who doesn’t seem to care what others say about her work. I protested but in the end gave in. I’m sorry.”

  Gerard leaned forward and captured her hands. “You’ve been a good mother. I’ve never doubted your love for me.”

  “Thank you, Son. But I’m not happy with how I’ve wasted my life. Perhaps if this ailment hadn’t come upon me when you were just a small child, our life might have been different. But it did come, and soon it will finally take me to the grave.”

  Her words touched a spark to his fear. “Mother, don’t speak like that.”

  “It’s the truth, and I’m glad to have this time with you while I am still somewhat myself.”

  “I don’t have to go back—”

  “Yes, you do. You’ve broken free from your father, and I won’t let my failing health interfere with that. In fact, Gerard, I don’t want you to witness my final days. Let’s enjoy this last holiday with each other. Then you’ll go back to your independent life in Cincinnati and not let your father hem you in.”

  Her expression lightened. “Now tell me about these freethinking speakers you’ve listened to. Your father was livid when he saw your name in the newspaper as attending radical meetings.”

  Ramsay smiled back. “You sound as if you’d like to go.”

  “I would. Please tell me what these speakers said.”

  And so he did, telling her first about meeting Tippy and Blessing in Seneca Falls, then recounting James Bradley’s lecture and Sojourner Truth’s. Finally he could tell she was lagging, so he rose and called for her maid. He kissed his mother’s forehead. “Sleep, Mother. I’ll visit tomorrow.”

  She responded only with a frail grip that caused him more distress. He returned to his room and found a note by his bed. He opened it and could not believe who had sent it. He hurried downstairs and found the butler. “When did this note arrive?”

  “After dinner, sir. You’d already gone up to your mother’s suite and I didn’t want to disturb you. The messenger boy said that I should just leave it in your room. I know it’s not the usual way, but a note this late in the evening . . .” The man looked worried as if he feared Gerard might be displeased.

  “That’s fine. It is unusual.” But then Kennan is unusual. And should he go to the meeting the note proposed? After his “lost” night in Cincinnati?

  DECEMBER 26, 1848

  Fluffy snowflakes fell in a gentle shower as Gerard arrived at Ticknor, Reed & Fields, a publishing house across from the Park Street Church with its imposing white steeple, the church where Gerard’s family had held membership for decades. The note that had prompted him to appear here lay in his pocket.

  Kennan stepped out from the leafless elms near the side of the church. Gerard’s onetime friend looked haggard, unshaven, and rumpled. “Gerard.”

  Remembering how awful he’d felt for two days after their last meeting, Gerard hesitated. “Kennan.”

  “I chose a church so we could speak privately and you wouldn’t feel . . .”

  Gerard let a carriage pass, then crossed to the entrance of the church as Kennan drew nearer.

  “Feel as if you might slip something into my drink?” Gerard asked, pinning Kennan with his gaze.

  “You figured that out?” Kennan almost smirked but without any humor.

  Anger flamed within. Gerard glared at him. But instead of speaking, he waved his friend through the white doors, out of the chill. Winter sunshine lit the cavernous interior of the church. He sat on one of the straight-back chairs, and Kennan took the seat beside him. The walls and floor breathed deep cold around their ankles and up into their faces.

  “I’m sorry,” Kennan muttered. “I didn’t want to do it, but Smith—”

  “Smith,” Gerard snapped in an undertone. Even though the church appeared empty, someone still might be inside.

  “Gambling got me. I owed him way more than I could pay. He told me he’d cancel half my debt if I could get you out for the evening onto the docks at a certain . . . brothel.”

  Each word galled Gerard. “Why did he want me at a certain brothel?”

  “I don’t know. Halfway through the night, I think someone else drugged me too. I woke up in an alley at the wharf, sick with an aching head.”

  “Serves you right. That’s how I woke up.” After being dumped in front of Mrs. Mather’s boardinghouse.

  “As soon as I was able to, I got on the next steamboat east. I reached Pittsburgh and was able to borrow money there from another old schoolmate to get the rest of the way home.”

  Gerard fumed in silence. Kennan had betrayed him and run away. He’d known Kennan had betrayed him, but each blunt fact was more bitter than the one before.

  “Frankly, I couldn’t face you after what I’d done. I don’t know why Smith wanted me to get you down to the docks. But it couldn’t have been good.”

  Gerard knew why, but he had no intention of explaining the scheme to Kennan. Thanks to Stoddard, Gerard’s reputation had been preserved and Smith’s intended scandal had been avoided. No need to rehash it or to satisfy Kennan’s morbid curiosity.

  “Are you still trying to get your racetrack started?” Kennan shifted in his seat as if the surroundings made him uncomfortable.

  “I’ve broken with Smith.” Gerard shivered with the chill. The idea of the racetrack still resurfaced from time to time, but Gerard knew it was unlikely ever to materialize.

  “That was wise. I’m not going back to Cincinnati. I still owe Smith money, and I’m not giving him another penny.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m really sorry, Gerard. The incident made me realize that I was going beyond the pale.” Kennan sounded sincere.

  “Good,” Gerard repeated and moved to rise.

  Kennan stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “Gerard, I tried to think of a way to make it up to you,” Kennan continued in a lower voice, sounding urgent. “So I started watching your father. I thought the man can’t be the plaster saint he makes himself out to be.”

  Gerard noticed the sudden suppressed excitement creeping into Kennan’s tone.

  “And I was right.” Kennan grinned, his eyes alight. “Here, take this.”

  Gerard glanced down at the folded paper. He accepted it but with a feeling of uncertainty. Was this another ploy to ruin him? Could he take a chance on trusting Kennan again?
r />   “How’s Stoddard?” Kennan asked as he stood nervously, obviously ready to escape the church.

  “Married.” Gerard looked again at the paper.

  “Poor sap. Don’t let that widow catch you,” Kennan said with a nonchalance that poked Gerard hard.

  Kennan took one step away, then paused. “I did this to make up for . . . that night. I felt bad, really bad, about wronging you. You and Stoddard have always been my friends. I’m sorry I broke trust with you.” Kennan gazed at him. “Go to the address on that paper.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I could hardly believe it myself. There you’ll find your father’s clay feet. Merry Christmas.” With that darkly turned felicitation, Kennan left as if escaping an enemy.

  Gerard didn’t follow Kennan. He sat in the silent church, listening to the muted street noises outside. Finally he unfolded the note. In Kennan’s scrawl was an address, an address in Manhattan. What was this about? Did it have anything to do with Smith? Did his reach extend all the way to the East Coast? But Smith was from Boston, not New York. And Kennan had sounded honest about his remorse. His father and clay feet? Gerard didn’t know what to think.

  DECEMBER 27, 1848

  Blessing sat quietly in her own kitchen, staring into space, shortly after returning from her parents’ home.

  Salina came in, glanced at her, and sat down with a grunt. “What’s ailin’ you?”

  The question shook Blessing out of her listless gloom. She chuckled. “Nothing really.” Nothing she would admit to.

  “Hmm.” Salina sounded unconvinced. “I know what’s got you down.”

  Blessing knew too, but she didn’t want to hear anything about Ramsay said out loud. “Just a bit of loneliness after visiting my family,” she alibied. “We were all there.”

  “Except for Joanna.”

  “Yes, that too,” Blessing said, grateful that Salina hadn’t added, “And except for Mr. Ramsay.” Blessing rose. “I need to get busy and do something constructive, not just sit here.”