Blessing (2 page)

In a few hours, after Gerard had walked around the small town and settled back on the bench outside, people began to exit the chapel at the time for luncheon, and he rose to watch for his cousin. Finally he saw Stoddard’s head above all the others. Gerard rushed forward. “Stoddard!”

Stoddard turned with a startled look, then pushed his way from the throng and hurried toward Gerard.

“Cousin, what are you doing here?” Stoddard gripped his shoulder, grinning but appearing puzzled.

“I met Kennan in Saratoga, expecting to see you, too, but he said you were here, so we came to find you.”

Stoddard’s grin tightened. “Came to save me from my own folly?”

What could he say here in this crowd? “Yes,” Gerard admitted, leaning close. “How could you ever think coming to a meeting like this was a good idea?”

Stoddard chuckled in reply.

Gerard glimpsed Conklin, the reporter, dodging in and out of the crowd, heading straight for them. “Cousin, there’s a Boston reporter here. Remember Conklin—?”

“Stoddard,” a soft, feminine voice from behind his cousin interrupted Gerard.

A truly lovely blonde, dressed in the height of fashion and almost as tall as Stoddard, claimed his cousin’s arm.

Beside her walked a petite Quakeress dressed in simple gray and white, her prettier-than-average face framed by a plain white bonnet. The ladies were arm in arm, but in total contrast. They looked to be from two different worlds.

Gerard snapped his mouth shut so he wouldn’t blurt out any ill-considered words. Over the heads of the crowd, he noted that Conklin had been snagged and buttonholed by another attendee. Saved.

Stoddard chuckled, shaking his head at Gerard. “Ladies, may I introduce you to my cousin? This is Gerard Ramsay of Boston. Gerard, this is Miss Xantippe Foster—known as Tippy—and her friend, Mrs. Blessing Brightman, both of Cincinnati.”

Blessing—an unusual name even for a Quakeress. And since Stoddard presented her by her given name and not her
husband’s, she must be a widow. Gerard commanded himself enough to accept the blonde’s curtsy and both women’s gloved hands in turn. “Ladies, a pleasure I’m sure,” he recited the social lie.

“A pleasure? Truly?” Miss Foster laughed merrily as if he’d made a jest.

Gerard stiffened.

“Gerard Ramsay, won’t thee join us for luncheon?” the Quakeress invited, speaking in the Quaker way and dispensing with any title, even
mister
. “Expecting that we might meet a friend, we reserved a table for four at our inn.” Without waiting for his answer, the woman started walking briskly toward the main street, lined with shops and inns.

Stoddard offered his arm to Miss Foster and nodded Gerard toward Mrs. Brightman.

Gerard could not disobey years of training in proper manners. He edged forward as efficiently as he could through the crush of the surrounding crowd.

The Quaker lady paused, letting Stoddard and the blonde precede her. Then she gazed up at Gerard with a look that he might have used when trying to decide without tasting whether a glass of milk had soured. It unnerved him. He tried to step back but bumped against a stranger. He swallowed an unkind word.

She cocked her head, still studying him.

He’d had enough. He offered her his arm. “May I escort you, ma’am?” he said as if issuing a challenge.

She touched his arm and then began to walk on. “Yes, but I do not need to cling to thy arm. I am quite capable of walking unaided.”

More startled than insulted, Gerard held back a sharp reply. As audacious as she might be, a gentleman did not contradict a lady. Peering ahead, he observed the possessive way the tall blonde clung to Stoddard’s arm. He wanted to snatch up his cousin and run.

“I did not mean to be rude or uncivil,” the Quakeress continued, walking beside him. “I’m sure thee offered thy arm simply from courtesy. But after this morning’s meeting, I am afraid I see more clearly the prescribed manners between gentlemen and ladies as a form of bondage.”

The equation of courtesy with bondage sent prickly disbelief rippling through him. “I beg your pardon.” And with the press of the crowd threatening to bowl him over, he was forced to walk faster. What would this woman say next?

She looked up at him. A mischievous smile lightened her face, and he saw now that it was not just pretty but beautiful—big blue eyes, a pert nose, generous pink lips, and thick chestnut hair peeping out around her close bonnet.

Her smile did something to him, something unexpected yet welcome. The heaviness he always carried relented and he could draw breath freely. What was going on here?

“What is thy stand on abolition?” she asked, completely ignoring what should be the standard polite conversation between a man and a woman upon first meeting. They should discuss the weather and then move on to discreetly find out about each other’s family connections.

He stared at her. Ahead, Stoddard was chuckling at something his lady had said. The sound wrapped Gerard’s nerves tighter.

The Quakeress shook her head at him, still grinning.
“Very well. I don’t mean to be impolite. I will follow propriety.” She cleared her throat. “Gerard Ramsay, what brings thee to Seneca Falls this July day?”

He swallowed and tried to come up with a palatable conventional reply. He failed. “I’m against slavery,” he said instead.

“I am happy to hear that, but I asked what thy stand on abolition is.”

He was not accustomed to women who put forth opinions, and her tone, though cheerful, was almost cavalier, as if she was making fun of him. Usually, with him, people did that to their own peril. But this Quakeress had pushed him off balance. “You are in favor of abolition?” he ventured, trying to find his feet in this discussion.

She laughed softly, the sound reminding him of children playing. “Yes, I am in favor of abolition. Has thee ever heard Frederick Douglass speak?”

“No,” he said, trying to keep up with her unexpected questions and her brisk pace without bumping into anyone.

“Would thee like to hear Frederick Douglass?”

“Who is that?” He looked down at her again, her face attracting him in spite of himself.

“Thee hasn’t read his autobiography,
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave
? It was published three years ago and has sold over five thousand copies.”

Distracted, he wished he could overhear what the other lady was saying to his cousin. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

“Indeed thee hasn’t read it, then. It is not a pleasure to read. It is as harsh as the slavery that bound him.”

Gerard felt as if he were back on the wagon, only riding
over an even bumpier road. Though primarily concerned with Stoddard’s flirtation, he scrambled to keep up with the Quakeress’s odd conversation. “He’s a fugitive slave, you say?”

“He is a free man of color who left the state and master that enslaved him.”

Gerard gaped at her. Ladies didn’t discuss slavery. No woman had ever spoken so frankly to him in his life. All his usual sangfroid evaporated.

“I see my direct manner has disconcerted thee. I apologize.” She smiled and said in a sweetly conversational tone, “When does thee think this hot weather will ebb?”

His mind whirled, but he wouldn’t bow in defeat. “Is this Frederick Douglass attending your . . . convention?”

“Gerard Ramsay, thee must make up thy mind whether thee wishes me to be conventional or not. I own fault. I started by speaking frankly as I do among people with whom I’m acquainted, not strangers like thee. But this morning’s discussion of the Declaration of Sentiments has made me overbold with thee—one who is not at all acquainted with me.”

She tilted her head like an inquisitive robin. “I apologize. Should we try to follow convention or proceed with frankness?” She looked at him expectantly as she continued walking. “Please choose. I do not wish to be rude.”

He inhaled the hot, humid air. Her candor irritated him, and he would be cursed if he let this woman best him. He girded his defenses. “Mrs. Brightman,” he drawled, “I must confess your conversational style is completely unparalleled in my experience.”

She laughed once more, sounding almost musical.

Was this woman being artless or artful? He glanced at
Stoddard’s companion again. The two women differed in costume, but did they both share this originality?

The foursome arrived at the besieged Seneca Farmers’ Inn. Telling them to wait, Stoddard threaded his way through the crowd to the harassed-looking, aproned proprietress and then turned at the door to the rear arbor. “They saved us our table outside!” He waved them forward. “Come.”

They followed a flustered-looking hostess to a table at the rear of the inn, just outside under a shade tree. She pointed out the bill of fare posted on the outside wall near the door, then left them, promising to bring glasses of cold springwater.

“Oh, this is so much cooler,” Miss Foster commented as Stoddard helped seat her.

Gerard was at a loss. He was a gentleman and had duties as such. He never broke any of society’s rules around ladies, no matter what he thought of them. Should he offer to help the unpredictable Mrs. Brightman sit or not?

The Quakeress peered up at him. “Which does thee choose?”

“What?”

“Should I sit with or without thy assistance?”

Her perspicacity nicked him. He swallowed his discomfort, his tight collar constricting his throat. He could not let her get the better of him. “I would feel unmannerly if I didn’t assist you.”

“Then please help me.” She beamed at him as if this were all a game. Maybe to her it was, but Stoddard’s being here with the blonde was serious to him.

He seated the Quakeress, then took his place and sent a tart, questioning look at Stoddard.

The waitress delivered the sweating glasses of springwater
and took their orders. They all chose cold sandwiches of ham and cheese. Then the four of them were left alone.

Gerard could not think of a word to say, an unusual occurrence. And each moment he watched Stoddard and Miss Foster interact with little glances and intimate smiles upset him more and more. This did not appear to be a mere holiday flirtation with which Stoddard was diverting himself. It was different because the woman was too. Had her sense of novelty ensnared his cousin?

Blessing took her time sizing up Gerard Ramsay as he turned his attention to his cousin. Ramsay was of medium height, a good build, very expensively dressed yet without any dandyism. His dark-brown hair curled slightly, which gave him a boyish appeal, but his guarded brown eyes and cynical mouth warned her that he was not merely the proper Boston gentleman he seemed.

She tried to detect a family resemblance between the cousins but saw none. Fairer and taller, Stoddard Henry had red hair and striking green eyes. He was well dressed, but not as expensively as his cousin.

She’d ruffled Gerard Ramsay with her frankness. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but the stirring phrases discussed this morning, regarding man’s treatment of woman over the years, had tilted something inside her.
“He has endeavored, in every way that he could, to destroy her confidence in her own powers, to lessen her self-respect, and to make her willing to lead a dependent and abject life.”

That’s what Richard had done to her. The old hurt twisted inside her, a physical pain. She drew in air and
then sipped her cold springwater, quieting herself. The past had been buried with Richard. She was free now, forgiven. But the deep scars remained and could never be sponged away by anyone.

“So, Cousin, what did you think of this morning’s meeting?” Stoddard asked.

“Sitting outside, I heard only snatches,” Ramsay replied with a sour twist.

Both men spoke with Boston accents. She noted that, just like Stoddard, Gerard dropped
r
’s in most words and the
g
in words ending with
-ing
. She had heard this accent in other Eastern abolitionists and wondered why they didn’t like
r
’s or
-ing
’s. Those living west of the Alleghenies certainly enjoyed the sounds.

“No doubt Mr. Ramsay questions your sanity, Stoddard,” Tippy said lightly. “‘Whatever are you thinking, man,’” she asked, mimicking a deep voice, “‘going to a women’s rights convention?’”

Blessing hid her smile behind her glass. “Tippy, don’t tease Gerard Ramsay. It’s not fair. As a gentleman, he can’t contradict thee.”

Ramsay glanced at her but revealed nothing of what he was thinking.

But Blessing could guess. Did he suspect that she, too, had reservations about this new romance between his cousin and her friend?

Tippy inhaled deeply and sat back in her chair. “I can’t tell you how invigorating this morning has been. I have never felt so liberated before, so free.”

Ramsay frowned.

“We are not being polite, Tippy,” Blessing said, not unsympathetic to the man from Boston who obviously disapproved of today’s convention. “Gerard Ramsay, please tell us about thyself. I confess I am curious.”

The man shrugged. “A mutual friend saw Stoddard near Saratoga Springs and asked me to come and enjoy the Finger Lakes region. Said it would be cooler.”