Blessing (26 page)

As he walked quickly down the street, Gerard gradually became aware of footsteps behind him. Strange—the streets were nearly empty at this hour. He rounded a corner, but the determined footsteps followed him. He checked for his pistol and gripped his cane more tightly, ready to stop and defend himself.

“Mr. Ramsay.” A gruff voice spoke from behind.

He turned and by the moonlight glimpsed, of all people, Smith.

G
ERARD’S ALERTNESS
leaped high. He searched for a tactical advantage. Ahead at the next house someone had left a lantern burning on their gate—no doubt waiting for a family member coming home late. He walked briskly to the lamp and stood in its light so that, perhaps, the people at home nearby could observe whatever happened.

Smith chuckled unpleasantly. “Trying to protect yourself?”

Gerard stared at the shadowy figure, ignoring his question. “Why are you here? None of your investors signed on with me, and I’ve given up the idea of the racetrack. Our dealings are done.”

Smith stayed in the shadows. “You know why I’m here.”

“I really don’t,” Gerard lied. Not only his own safety but also Blessing Brightman’s might depend on how he handled
this interview. And he couldn’t forget Jewel, the woman who’d been debased by and escaped this man.

“You don’t? Really?” Smith sounded disbelieving, mocking.

“No. The good widow scared off all those investors, and I finally decided to just get employment.” He kept his tone light as if all this were not significant to him. “I think I overestimated my talent for entrepreneurship. We have nothing to discuss, and I’m heading home now.”

“I see you’re getting thick with Widow Brightman. That’s unwise,” Smith threatened.

“I’m unlikely to take any character recommendations from you.”

“I knew her unfortunate husband. She made his life a living hell.”

Gerard didn’t dignify this slur with a reply. He moved as if to depart.

“Didn’t a young woman visit you at your boardinghouse?” Smith pressed, drawing nearer though still avoiding the light.

Gerard stared into the night, barely able to make out Smith’s face. “A young woman?” He acted as though he were thinking. “Ah, do you mean that unfortunate young woman who falsely told my landlady that I had gotten her with child?”

“Yes.” The word sounded ripped from Smith’s throat.

“So you sent her? I wondered if you might have been behind that. I couldn’t think of anyone else I know in Cincinnati who would try to do me harm in such a scurrilous way.” Gerard infused his tone with contempt and adjusted his arm so he could easily reach for his pistol if necessary.

No reply came from Smith.

But Gerard felt the waves of his animosity and continued. “It didn’t work. Mrs. Mather refused to believe her and ordered her from the house. The young woman left by the back door.”

“That’s not true.” Smith’s every syllable was laden with pent-up anger.

“I was there. You were not. She left of her own accord, out the back door, and that was the first, last, and only time I’ve ever laid eyes on the woman. Now I’m heading home. And, Smith, our business—our association—is done.” He started away from the lamplight.

Smith grabbed his arm. “I’m not done with you, Ramsay. After I left Boston, I never thought I’d see you again—” Smith broke off.

“See me again? When did we meet in Boston?”

Smith barked an imitation of a laugh. “We never met formally, but I saw you.” The words seethed with repressed fury and resentment.

Baffled, Gerard stared at Smith. “Where did you see me?”

“In front of your house in Beacon Hill, I saw you. Many times I watched you.” Again the simple words were laden with hostility, and Smith still grasped his arm.

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.