Blessing

by Lyn Cote

  “View it this way. He cannot do harm to others if he is focused on thee. And me.” She pushed a muffin toward him and nibbled another bit of hers.

  “Very comforting,” he replied with thick sarcasm. “I lost my job today.”

  “What?” She put down her muffin.

  “I was let go. I was late to work, and when I told my employer it was because I’d been to court to testify against two slave catchers, he told me he didn’t want any man in his employ aiding runaways and breaking the law.”

  Unexpected tears poured from Blessing’s eyes, and she bent her head, sobbing silently.

  Instantly he regretted his words. “Don’t cry.”

  She paid no attention to him, pushed away her tableware, folded her arms on the table, and hid her face in them, shaking with her tears.

  Gerard did the only thing he could think to do. He rose and drew her up into his arms. For once she yielded and rested against him. She was so soft and scented with wisteria, as always, and her hair was silken under his chin.

  Moments passed. Her sobs ebbed into weeping. He kissed her hair and began to murmur soothing sounds—not words, just the sounds someone long ago must have murmured to him. She looked up. Her tear-streaked face moved him. He kissed her.

  A gasp caught in her throat and she stepped back, her hair now unloosed completely from its pins and sliding down to her shoulder.

  He didn’t want her to say anything about his kissing her. I didn’t mean to do that.

  “Tippy could die,” she whispered, gazing at him, tears still trembling on her eyelashes.

  Gerard nodded. He’d hoped she wouldn’t refer to his lapse, yet now that she didn’t mention it, he felt insulted.

  “I’m sorry thee lost thy job, but thee will find another. Tippy could die,” she whispered, wiping her tears with her fingertips.

  He understood her meaning. Jobs were not life and death, at least not to him.

  Then Blessing did something he did not expect. She returned to him and rested her head on his chest. “Ramsay, don’t talk; just hold me. My heart is breaking.”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it. No woman, not even his mother, had ever turned to him for this degree of comfort. A wave of tenderness for this indomitable woman flooded him. He pressed her gently to him, enclosed her with his arms, and rested his cheek against her soft hair. Her moment of weakness gave him a strength he’d never known.

  MARCH 1, 1849

  Tippy did not die. But she barely survived. Three nights after he’d held Blessing in his arms, Gerard finally had gone home to bed. The Quakeress hadn’t given way to emotion again. She’d girded herself and battled alongside the doctor to save her friend’s life.

  In the full light of a new morning, Gerard felt somehow set adrift. Now that he’d lost his job, his normal routine was gone. He must make plans for what to do next. After a welcome bath and shave, Gerard shuffled down the stairs and went into the kitchen to beg food from Mary.

  Mrs. Mather sat at the kitchen table. “I hear Stoddard’s wife has survived.”

  “Yes, but she’s very weak.” He sank down in the chair adjacent to his landlady.

  “I don’t wonder. Mary, fix Gerard some scrambled eggs and toast. He looks depleted.”

  The cook began cracking eggs.

  Mrs. Mather drew a letter from her pocket. “This came for thee this morning.”

  He accepted it, reading the return address. With a butter knife, he unsealed the wax emblem. His mother’s handwriting was familiar but showed signs of her feeble state. She wrote, I know you will want to come and be with me at the end, but please don’t. I am unwilling to put you through that. His gut tightened as he read what was probably her last letter to him. Tears wet his eyes.

  “Bad news?” Mary asked, setting a plate in front of him.

  “My mother is in failing health.” Gerard’s voice was husky. He drew in breath and banished the moisture from his eyes.

  Mrs. Mather touched his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mary poured him coffee and set that beside his plate. “I be sorry too. A mother is special.” She shook her head and turned to Mrs. Mather. “I’ll be leaving now, ma’am. I’ve got me shoppin’ to do.” With that, she left the room.

  Gerard stared at his breakfast, now without appetite. The events of the past week had left him perpetually unsettled. But he picked up his fork. One had to keep breathing, keep eating, keep living.

  “Oh, I forgot.” Mrs. Mather rose and hurried from the room. She returned with another letter. “Yesterday, this also came.”

  Again Gerard recognized the writing. His father’s. He opened it and read the terse note, demanding that Gerard do his duty as a son and return home. Gerard nearly crumpled it, but with his landlady watching him, he didn’t. His father had used his mother’s decline as a stick to prod Gerard—as if the man cared anything about her at all.

  But the thought of his mother near death washed through him. Anger bowed to purpose. “Mrs. Mather, I will be going east for a while, but I’d like to keep my room here if I may.”

  “I have a special rate for that since no meals are involved.”

  “Excellent. I will leave on the morrow.” First he must eat, and then he must visit his cousin once more. And Blessing—should he visit her? Their momentary encounter kept coming to mind. He respected her, admired her, but she was not a woman he would ever be comfortable with. How far would she go to further the causes of abolition or women’s rights? Her determination seemed to know no bounds, an unsettling realization.

  Gerard called later that day at Stoddard’s house to take leave of his cousin.

  His eyes sunken and clothing disheveled, Stoddard clamped a hand on Gerard’s shoulder. His cousin managed a weak imitation smile of greeting. “Tippy was able to keep broth down twice.”

  That this simple act should make his cousin rejoice caught Gerard in his throat. He nodded in reply.

  “But every time I enter her room, she weeps.” Stoddard’s voice was hollow. And Gerard felt the pull of family. People were looking after Tippy. Who was looking after Stoddard? He knew that fell to him. “What have you eaten today?”

  Stoddard stared at him, his brow wrinkled. “I think I had some coffee this morning. At the mention of cholera, our cook left us. Honoree has been trying to do meals as well as help with Tippy.”

  Gerard gripped his cousin’s elbow and steered him toward the kitchen. The room was empty, but a pot of coffee sat warming on the woodstove. Gerard piloted Stoddard to a chair at the table. “Stay here. I’ll find your maid.”

  “Don’t bother her.” Stoddard caught his arm. “She’s sitting with Tippy.”

  Gerard looked around the kitchen helplessly. He’d never cooked anything in his life.

  As if summoned by Gerard’s desperation, Blessing entered through the back door carrying an oak basket laden with packages.

  Gerard turned to her, and the sensations from their kiss washed over him in one overwhelming wave. He stood rooted to the floor.

  Blessing glanced at him, then at Stoddard. “Does thee need help, Ramsay?”

  Gerard had trouble finding his voice. “Stoddard hasn’t eaten breakfast.”

  “To help Honoree, I just did the day’s shopping,” she said, setting down her basket.

  He gazed at her, silently asking for help.

  “I’ll have breakfast done in a moment.” Blessing bustled about, putting away the groceries. She waved him to the coffeepot. “I’m sure thee can pour three cups of coffee. I have fresh cream.”

  He managed to find the cups and distribute the coffee. Soon Blessing had made Stoddard toast and eggs. The three sat at the kitchen table.

  “I’m not really hungry,” his cousin said.

  “Stoddard, thy wife is depending on thee,” Blessing said, touching the man’s hand. “Please eat.”

  Stoddard reluctantly began to fork up his eggs.

  Blessing gazed at Gerard and pointedly nodded toward his cousin.


  Gerard for once read a woman’s unspoken message. His cousin needed someone to look after him—and Gerard had already realized he was that someone. He sent her a look in reply that said, I know. “After breakfast, Stoddard, I think you need to take a bath and shave,” Gerard said. “I took my own advice this morning and I felt better immediately.”

  Stoddard peered at him, rubbing his stubbly chin. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t think I am ever going to feel better.”

  “In this life there will be trials,” Blessing murmured. “If we love, we suffer not only our own trials but those of our beloved.”

  “I would gladly have assumed Tippy’s suffering,” Stoddard said.

  Blessing pressed a hand over his wrist. “I know. But right now thee must take care of thyself so thee can support her as she recovers. This will be a long recuperation. Anything could set her back.”

  Gerard didn’t like the sound of that. Tippy might still die?

  “What should I do?” Stoddard asked, his eyes moist.

  “Eat thy breakfast and then take thy cousin’s advice. I have already arranged for another cook and a maid. Honoree is a good nurse and should stay at Tippy’s side. Thee will take her place when she must sleep and eat. I know I am intruding into thy business—”

  “The help of a friend is no intrusion,” Stoddard interrupted.

  “I expect more help will arrive any moment,” she said. “Tippy’s mother will be coming over soon, and I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.”

  “I’m here too,” Gerard said, “as long as necessary.” The words were the right ones, but he’d wanted to leave Cincinnati and go to his mother. She might pass away at any time, he knew, and he would have to leave. But until then, his path was clear. For the first time in his life he was considering others more than himself. Seek ye first the kingdom of . . .

  A knock sounded at the back door, and at Blessing’s call, two women of color entered, apparently a mother and daughter. Blessing greeted them and introduced them to Stoddard as his new cook and maid. The two donned aprons and began taking stock of the kitchen.

  Stoddard finished eating, and Blessing instructed the new maid to begin heating water for his bath. Soon, along with the maid, Stoddard and Ramsay carried buckets of steaming water up to the spare bedroom, where Stoddard was staying until Tippy recovered.

  Gerard returned to the kitchen for more water.

  “I’m glad thee is here for Stoddard,” Blessing murmured, standing very close.

  He wanted her closer but at the same time didn’t. “I was planning to head east tomorrow. My mother’s in decline, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”

  Blessing touched his arm. “I’m sorry to hear about thy mother. But I believe thee made the right decision, for Stoddard’s sake.”

  Hiding his reaction to her gentle touch, Gerard didn’t know how to respond, so he merely pressed his hand over hers. Their gazes locked, and awareness rolled through him. Through her? He pulled away abruptly. The pot on the stove top was bubbling. “I need to get this water upstairs.”

  Blessing said nothing but helped him refill the buckets. He headed up the stairs, trying not to spill either of the buckets. As he watched the quivering water, he thought back to the man he’d been the day he arrived in Cincinnati. He barely recognized that man and his motives. So much had happened. But in spite of it all, he couldn’t shake his persistent antipathy toward his father.

  He still needed to find out the truth about the house in Manhattan. But that must wait. If his mother changed her mind and summoned him to her deathbed, he would go, even if it meant leaving Stoddard. Otherwise, he was beginning to fear that he would not see her until her funeral.

  MARCH 12, 1849

  A little more than two weeks had passed since Tippy had fallen ill. Now Blessing lurked just inside Stoddard and Tippy’s parlor doorway. She was listening to the murmurs of Ramsay taking his leave of Stoddard at the bottom of the staircase.

  Knowing Ramsay must pass this doorway as he left, she waited, hidden. She knew she should not be lingering here so she could say farewell to Ramsay. She tried to go deeper into the shadowy room, but she could not make herself obey this good sense.

  Then he appeared before her, reaching for the front doorknob.

  “Ramsay.”

  He turned to her and they both froze. He broke free first. “I didn’t know you were here. I was going to stop at your home and leave word that I had gone.”

  Memory of the night he’d held her in his arms kept her mute, wrapping around her heart. She nodded. The premonition that he was leaving and would not return welled up within her, a fountain of pain.

  “I wouldn’t be leaving if my mother weren’t so close to the end of her life,” he said. “And now Stoddard can manage without me.”

  She nodded again, feeling like an idiot.

  “I know you’ll watch over my cousin and his wife.”

  She cleared her throat. “Of course,” she managed to say. “I’m sorry thee must face the loss of thy mother.”

  “We seem to be mired in the dark valley this year.”

  An understatement. She offered him her hand. “Godspeed.”

  Gerard received it and held on to it, searching her face. “Keep safe, Widow Brightman.” He kissed her hand and then left swiftly.

  In his wake, she remained in the parlor doorway, holding the hand he’d kissed to her cheek. A foolish gesture. In this moment, she confessed that the man from Boston mattered to her, and as much more than a friend. She’d let her heart be ensnared.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed for strength. She’d already gone through the grief of losing her illusions about a husband and then losing the man himself in an awful event. Now she must endure similar circumstances again. She would sever this attachment before he returned—if he returned. I will guard my heart more carefully in the future. But that didn’t help her aching heart now.

  MARCH 19, 1849

  After the journey from Cincinnati, Gerard had spent the night in a modest New York City inn. He felt a bit guilty at not going immediately to his mother, but a telegram had reassured him that she was holding on. Now he stepped off an omnibus into the same neighborhood he’d visited in December. The early flowers—red tulips amid jonquils—were in bloom in the small yards, and the grass was greening up as if to spite his weltering confusion.

  Different ploys bounced around in his head. How did one approach a complete stranger and ask about their relationship with someone? He kept reliving the moment he’d glimpsed his father walking into the house as if he lived there. How could that have happened?

  Was the woman living here his father’s mistress? But this looked like a quiet, residential neighborhood, not the locale for a lovebirds’ nest. And the woman he’d seen in the garden looked like a respectable wife, not a mistress. Gerard’s speculations chased each other around in a circle.

  As if of their own volition, his feet carried him straight to the door he’d seen his father enter. He knocked without pausing for thought. Suddenly he was chanting silently, Don’t be home, please. Don’t be—

  The door opened, and a pretty young girl of around seventeen stood before him. She had his father’s large, dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Shock rippled through him.

  “Yes?” the girl asked politely.

  Gerard strained to find his tongue. “Good day.” Words he’d considered but had initially rejected flowed from his rebellious mouth. “My name is Ramsay, and I’m looking for a distant relative, Saul Ramsay.”

  “Oh! Mother!” The girl turned. “Someone is here looking for Father.”

  For a moment Gerard’s knees weakened. He grasped for his composure and caught the tag ends of it.

  The same plump, middle-aged woman he’d seen last December bustled to the door.

  “He says he’s a Ramsay too,” the girl reported.

  “Well, come in, then!” the cheerful woman invited. “Are you related to my husband, Saul?”

  “Yes,” Gerard said.
“Yes, I am.”

  Standing in her old bedroom at her parents’ house, Blessing was struck by the contrasts in life. She’d just spent weeks nursing Tippy, who was still too weak to get out of bed and who continued to mourn the miscarriage of her first child. A terrible loss. And now Blessing had traveled to her family’s home to attend yet another wedding, the marriage of Caleb and Rebecca, though she was still uncertain about this union. Was it a happy event?

  She and Rebecca found themselves alone in the girls’ bedroom, Rebecca sitting on one of the three trundle beds and Blessing standing near the door. Everyone else was busy with preparations for the wedding later today and for the meal to celebrate it. Blessing listened to the mingling voices of her family and Joanna’s loved ones.

  Rebecca had been too shy to go to the meetinghouse for the usual Quaker wedding, so aged Brother Ezekiel, Joanna’s grandfather, had ridden with Blessing to her parents’ house. The wedding would be held with just family and immediate neighbors in attendance. Rebecca wore a new dress in a flattering shade of blue. Blessing’s youngest sisters, twins Patience and Faith, had plaited wild violets into a circlet for Rebecca’s hair—a lovely, simple adornment.

  “You don’t think I should be marrying your cousin.” Rebecca’s voice was thin and apologetic.

  “That’s not true.” Blessing sought the right words. “I just want to be certain that thee is marrying him for more than protection.”

  Rebecca gazed out the small window at the green spring grass. “Caleb will protect me. That’s true. And your family is so good to me. I had forgotten good people.” She looked to Blessing. “I don’t care that he can’t hear. I think it has given him a tender heart.”

  “But does thee love him?”

  “How does a girl know if she’s in love with a man?”

  The question was an arrow straight into Blessing’s heart. She thought she’d been in love with Richard, but it had truly been an infatuation with a man who turned out not to exist. The dashing Richard had changed into a man who, when in his cups . . . She turned away from the memories. And ran straight into her confusion over Gerard Ramsay. Fortunately Rebecca was still speaking.