Blessing (10 page)

“So you believe what he say?” Salina had returned after showing him out.

“Thee was listening?” Blessing asked in gentle reproof.

“I like Miss Tippy. That man want to marry her. Anybody can see how he looks at her.”

Blessing smiled. “Thee doesn’t miss much.” She walked toward the door. “I must go to the orphanage. If anyone else calls, I’m not at home till tomorrow.”

“Even that slick customer who carried that poor woman away today?”

She couldn’t help but smile at her housekeeper’s assessment. “Especially that slick customer.”

Soon, with her hot, dry eyes shut, she rested against the plush seat of her own carriage. Memories of Ramsay’s attempts to beguile her today had told her more about him than he would have guessed. What bedeviled him?

She’d originally been happy that Tippy had found a young man who was not put off by her forward ideas. Now she was simply worried. She would write to some abolitionist acquaintances who lived in the Boston area to discover more about Stoddard Henry and his cousin. Forewarned was forearmed. Tippy deserved the truth, needed the truth.

Entering the orphanage kitchen, Blessing found Theodosia at the table, munching a sandwich and drinking a tall glass of milk with Luke in one arm. “Hello, Theodosia.” Her heart beat faster. What would the report be on the infant?

“Miss Blessing,” Theodosia said, inclining her head toward Luke, “he’s been nursing ’bout every hour.” The woman nodded at her plate. “I’m having to eat and drink more just to keep up.”

Lightened by relief, Blessing smiled and sat near them. “Did thee take a nap? I don’t want thee to become overdone.”

“I did. Joanna took over my two little’uns and watched them with the rest while I napped most of the afternoon. This one just sleeps and eats.”

The cook at the stove turned and smiled at the baby. “He
is a good one. Before long he be as fat a baby as anybody could want.”

Except nobody wants him.
Despair suddenly knotted Blessing’s throat. For a long time, she had thought she might adopt a child or two from the orphanage. Maybe Luke would be the first one. He drew her in a special way.

She stroked his fine golden hair. He spared her a brief glance before going back to the important task of nursing. He already looked like a different baby from the one she’d rescued. Food and care had awakened his will to live. Blessing rejoiced.

After dinner and on his way to follow up a racetrack lead, Gerard could not shake the aftertaste from his troubling day spent in Blessing’s audacious company. Somewhere on the drive home, he had come to the realization that she was a complex and resourceful woman. His usual tactics might not work on her, but he wouldn’t give up. She believed she was the equal of a man. That alone needed to be addressed. He would find a way to humble her, teach her to take her womanly place in society.

However, furthering his racetrack came first. In the autumn twilight the wharf had barely begun to stir when Gerard entered one of the alehouses, looking for a prominent bookmaker named Clancy. Gerard walked directly to the barkeep and asked for the man.

“Who wants to know?”

Gerard had already planned what he’d say. “A man with means and connections who has a business proposition which will benefit both parties.”

The barkeep, who appeared as though he’d once been a boxer, looked him up and down. And then glanced toward the darker back corner. At a nod from the man there, he motioned Gerard toward a table. “Clancy’s over there.”

Gerard thanked the barkeep and strolled over. He sized up the bookmaker quickly. Clancy appeared to be on the dark side of forty, with rumpled clothing but a clean face and hands, as well as a fine gentleman’s hat hanging on the back of his chair. A ham-fisted man stood behind him.

Clancy had also been sizing up Gerard. “Who’re you? And what da ya want?”

Gerard pulled out a chair, sat down across from him, and paused to flick a particle of dust from his pant leg. Then he looked up at Clancy. “I’m Gerard Ramsay of Boston,” he said, in no hurry. “I’m new in town and looking for a profitable investment. I was thinking it’s a shame—” he lowered his voice slightly—“that Cincinnati doesn’t have a permanent racetrack. I heard that you’re one of the main bookmakers in town—”

“He’s the top bookmaker,” the ham-fisted man spoke up, “and a lot more.”

Clancy raised a hand. “Go on, Mr. Ramsay.”

“I thought you might be able to tell me if anybody else is trying to bring this into being.” He sent the man a knowing grin, like a slice of crescent moon. “Since I’m new in town, I don’t know whose toes I might be stepping on as I proceed.”

Clancy tilted his head as if trying to see another angle of Gerard’s face. Then, visibly stalling, he took a swallow of his ale. “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Ramsay.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Not only me but other gents have tried to get one going, but the city bigwigs are pushed around in this
town. They got a God-fearing seminary here, and the holy don’t think a racetrack is good for the city.”

Gerard nearly rubbed his hands together with joy. However, he let nothing of this show. “That’s where I can help you. I can get to the people who can make or break this deal. I move in society and can come up with backing and capital from investors who would publicly countenance the plan.” He sat back and grinned. “Always follow the money. Virtue bows before profit.”

Clancy chuckled, then laughed outright. “That’s a good one. I’ll remember that.”

“So? Should I draw up a plan? Or is there somebody I should meet first?”

The bookmaker didn’t hesitate. “His name’s Smith. Mr. Smith. He’s got a finger in every ripe pie in the city.”

“And where can I meet this gentleman?”

“Come back here tomorrow night about ten. I’ll see if I can interest him in meeting with you.”

Gerard rose and reset his hat with a jaunty tap. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Clancy laughed again, a dark, mocking sound.

The hair prickled on the back of Gerard’s neck. He ignored the sensation and walked smartly out into the street. Once outside, he felt a mixture of elation and trepidation, both a lifting and a tightening.

When one stirred a muddy pond, one never knew what might float to the surface. A few hair-raising memories from his nights haunting Boston Harbor came back to him. He always had his cane at the ready and knew how to use it, but he would resume carrying his pistol tomorrow.

“Gerard Ramsay, I see thee is starting early this evening.”

Not again. The tart tone behind him broadcast exactly what Blessing Brightman thought he was starting early this evening. He wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but that wouldn’t serve his purpose. His goal was to best this woman, so he turned and arched his lips into a mock smile. “Ah, the widow Brightman, doing good among the poor.” He tried to sound approving, not scathing.

She only lifted an eyebrow at him. And stared.

He flushed and prepared to speak, to try to do better this time. But a shrill outcry caught both their attentions.

Without hesitation, Blessing picked up her black skirts and ran in the direction of the cry, into a dark alley—an alley that no decent lady would or should enter. Gerard cursed under his breath and chased after her. “Hold up!”

On her heels, he arrived at the source of the disruption. The sound of a rod whistled through the dank air. A blow landed with a thump. Another pained shriek.

“Let her go,” the Quakeress commanded the rod-wielding man, who was beating a young girl.

“Go about your business,” the man growled, and he struck the girl again. She wailed, begging him to stop.

The sight sickened Gerard. He moved closer.

Blessing thrust herself into the man’s face. “Let her go. Or I’ll call the watch.”

The man threw the girl backward with such force that she hit the wall behind, cried out, and fell hard to the ground, where she remained still.

But Gerard was more worried about Blessing. He hurried forward to protect her.

“Go ahead,” the man taunted her. “Call the watch! They won’t do anything. She belongs to me, she does—”

“She is white and not a slave,” Blessing said, not giving ground—indeed, moving closer to the man. “Who is she?”

The man hesitated for a telling second and then muttered, “She’s my daughter, yeah.”

“Liar,” Gerard said before he could stop the word.

Glad for a target, the man turned to him, face aflame and hands fisted. “Mind yer own business!”

Gerard swung up his cane, aiming the point at the man’s throat. “Is this young woman truly your daughter?”

“No, she ain’t, and you know what she is too,” the man tossed back. “From firsthand experience, right?”

Gerard’s spine tingled, his face flushing hotly.

Blessing took a deep breath and faced the man squarely. “Go away. I’m taking her home with me.”

“She’ll be back tomorra night,” the man jeered. “Her type allus is.” He curled his lip and stalked away. “She’ll be back!” he taunted once more.

Without hesitation the widow bent over the girl. “Can thee stand?”

“Who are you?” the girl stammered, panting, sprawled against the wall like a limp rag doll.

“I’m Blessing Brightman.”

“Oh, I heard of you. You help people.” The girl moved to rise but then fell back, groaning with pain and holding her arm against herself.

Blessing turned to Gerard. “If thee will help her to her feet, I can get her to my carriage.”

“Where are you taking me?” the girl whimpered.

“To a place where you can have a good meal, clean clothes, and a warm bed for the night. Would thee like that?”

The girl nodded, then moaned, still protecting her abdomen with her arm.

Gerard did not want to touch this girl. She gave filthy a bad name. But a lady had made a request within his power, and he must grant it. Gingerly and at arm’s length, he slipped his hands under the girl’s arms and lifted her, then propped her against the wall. With his every move, her moans tore at him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Without any reluctance, Blessing slid an arm under the girl’s arms and drew her close. “Can thee walk if I help thee?”

The girl grunted her assent. “Just go slow,” she whispered, panting. “Please.”

Blessing took a step forward and the girl stumbled with her, wavering precariously.

Gerard knew he should ask Blessing to take his cane and then lift the young girl himself and carry her. But he found he simply couldn’t touch her again, till she staggered and fell, taking the Quakeress down with her onto the filthy alley pavers.

He growled with frustration and thrust his cane toward the widow. “Here. I’ll carry her.” He helped Blessing up, then stooped and lifted the girl into his arms. She weighed barely anything. “Where’s your carriage?” he gasped at Blessing, breathing through his mouth at the stench.

She hurried forward. “Not far.”

Within a block, the carriage came into sight. Gerard picked up his pace, wanting to get this over with. The old, black driver scrambled down and opened the carriage door.
Gerard climbed inside just long enough to deposit the girl on the seat, then backed out quickly.

The Quakeress gazed at him through the dusk. “Thee is a surprising man, Gerard Ramsay. Just when I think I have thee figured out, thee does something unexpected.”

He didn’t like this at all. He wanted to captivate Blessing and then bring her down a step or two, not actually help her. “You can take the girl and clean her up,” he retorted, “but there are two kinds of women. And she’s the kind who will end up back here in a week.”

Blessing Brightman drew herself up and held out her hand to her driver, who helped her into the carriage. Then she turned regally to face Gerard. “Thee is wrong, Gerard Ramsay. In truth there is only one kind of woman, but there are two kinds of men—those who respect women and those who debase them. Which kind is thee?” She sat; her driver shut the door and drove off up the bluff.

Gerard stood there, feeling a mix of shame and anger drift through him. That woman. He would best her yet.