Blessing (11 page)

Reaching the rear of the orphanage, Blessing asked Judson, her driver, to assist the girl out of the carriage. With her charge between them, they helped her into the house and directly into the washroom. Blessing heard Joanna speaking to the cook in the nearby kitchen. Judson left them and went to park the carriage.

“What are you going to do to me?” the girl whimpered.

“I’m offering to let thee take a warm bath, and when thee is clean, I will call a doctor if thee needs one.”

The girl leaned against the wall and gazed as if fascinated by the large tin tub across the room. “A bath?”

“Yes, with lots of warm water like in the summer, and soap scented with lavender. When clean, thee will feel better, and we can see if thee needs medical attention. I’ll have a hot, nourishing supper prepared for thee too.”

“What’s this gonna cost me?” The girl hung back.

“Nothing. God has provided for me, and I share what he’s given.”

Then the girl moaned long and loud, and blood pooled on the floor beneath her.

“Joanna!” Blessing called out. “Send for a doctor! Then come quick!”

Blessing helped her to a chair. The girl moaned and gasped. As Blessing realized what was happening, her heart sank. Was this child even fifteen?

“What’s happening to me?” she panted.

“I think thee is suffering a miscarriage.” A child should never have to endure this.

Gerard Ramsay encroached on her thoughts. She wished he could be here to see what was happening.
“There are two kinds of women,”
he’d said. If only she could ram that lie down his throat.

After several long, harrowing hours, Blessing, slumped in a kitchen chair, woke to Joanna’s tug on her shoulder and her plea. “Blessing, you need to go to bed. It’s too late for you to travel home.”

Blessing blinked her sleep-crusted eyes. “Bed?”

Joanna helped her up. “The bleeding hasn’t started again. The doctor has gone home. The girl is sleeping.”

Blessing stood still a moment, getting her balance, feeling about eighty years old. The girl she’d brought to the orphanage tonight lay on a cot nearby. “Someone should sit with her.”

“I will,” Joanna said as she led Blessing toward the door like a child. “I’m going to put you to bed in the attic room, and I’ll come down and keep watch over her.”

“Thee needs thy sleep too—”

“I have help coming tomorrow. But you must sleep. I’m worried, Blessing. You need to rest more. Or you’re going to make yourself ill.”

Joanna’s concern was gratifying, but Blessing could only mumble her thanks and, without further protest, give herself up to Joanna’s care.

SEPTEMBER 5, 1848

Blessing walked down from the attic late the next morning and entered the orphanage kitchen. She found Joanna spooning porridge to their patient, who still lay on her cot.

“Morning, Blessing,” Joanna greeted her without turning.

Blessing recalled Joanna’s tender care last night. She was blessed to have a staunch ally like this friend.

“What’s going to happen to me now?” the girl asked in a weak, trembling voice.

“Thee is going to eat, rest, and get well,” Blessing said, coming near and placing a hand on the girl’s forehead.

“Then what?”

“When thee is better, we will discuss that. Thee is safe here. Please believe that.”

“I never met nobody like you before.” The girl stared at her as if she were a giraffe or some other exotic animal.

Blessing smiled. “What is thy name? So we know what to call thee?”

“I don’t like my name,” the girl said and swallowed another spoonful of the cereal.

Joanna spoke up. “What name would you want to be called? A new name might do you good.”

The girl considered them. “I’ve always liked Rebecca.”

“Then good morning, Rebecca,” Joanna said.

The cook laid out Blessing’s breakfast on the table. Blessing’s stomach gurgled and Joanna chuckled. Blessing joined in, feeling the mirth loosen her own worries. “I’d best sit down and eat now.”

As she enjoyed the delicious breakfast, Blessing watched Joanna minister to Rebecca. One more life saved, but the girl’s future remained uncertain. Blessing must find her a home. But who would take in a fifteen-year-old who’d just miscarried an illegitimate baby? That list would be a short one indeed.

That afternoon, during the polite hours for social visiting, Blessing arrived at the Foster home to speak with Tippy. The events of the night before still hung lurid in her mind. Rebecca seemed to be doing well, but Blessing knew how quickly she could take a turn for the worse if infection set in.

At the door, the butler told Blessing that Mrs. Foster and her daughter had been called away to Louisville to visit an
ailing relative there. Blessing turned away but, before returning home, headed toward the bank. She needed to see her banker and discuss an investment in a new steamboat venture.

As she walked off, the events of the day before unrolled through her mind as thread on a spindle. Some days it seemed as if the world washed its evil against her in waves—cold, disgusting waves. What kind of life must Rebecca have suffered to bring her to her present circumstances? Even if the girl lived, Blessing had no certainty that she’d be able to help her leave the degradation of the past behind. But their God was the God of second chances. He’d given her one.

At the bank, she was greeted courteously and shown to the door of an office. Just as she turned to thank the man, she glimpsed Gerard Ramsay sauntering through the doors. Anger from last night rushed up inside her like steam in a kettle. She mastered herself and then told her escort that she needed to greet someone.

Blessing swept over to him. “Gerard Ramsay, thee seems to turn up wherever I am.” She pulled a sweet and false smile.

“Ma’am.” He doffed his hat and bowed to her. “Business at the bank?”

“That is usually the reason one enters a bank,” she replied, rendering his question ludicrous. “Does thee know another reason of which I, a weak woman, am unaware?”

“I was merely making social conversation,” he said in a tight voice.

Blessing was glad she’d irked him. She wanted to drag him to the orphanage and force him to visit poor Rebecca and to look in the faces of all the unwanted children she’d brought home over the past years. Did this man have even a thought
for what was really going on in this city? Or was life just a round of self-seeking pleasure to him?

“Mrs. Brightman,” came the low voice of her banker from behind.

“Thee must excuse me,” she said. “I must keep my appointment.”

Gerard bowed again and let the animosity toward this woman flow unheeded through him. She was annoying as a too-tight collar. He couldn’t get last night’s scene from the alley out of his mind. And now he couldn’t even go to the bank without running into the pious woman. Her parting words from the night before still stung. Gerard had never struck a woman in his life.

He addressed the young man who had escorted Mrs. Brightman through the bank, and soon he was standing in his own banker’s office. He executed his most charming smile and bow. “Good afternoon, sir. An excellent day for business, I hope.”

He had tonight’s meeting with Mr. Smith to prepare for by lining up bank funding, and nothing, especially not a meddling reformer, would stop him. The main objective behind the racetrack was, obviously, supporting himself. Embarrassing his father was a significant collateral benefit. Saul Ramsay would pay for interfering in Gerard’s life, for cutting off his allowance. And if this venture also provoked the good widow, all the better.

Late that evening a cool wind from the west chilled the back of Gerard’s neck. The wharf was busy with people doing
a night’s business: prostitutes, beggars, and—no doubt—thieves, all preying on travelers. As he headed toward the tavern to meet Clancy, who was to introduce him to this Mr. Smith, the feeling that he was being followed or watched heightened Gerard’s tension. He gripped his cane more tightly, ready to strike back if necessary. The light from the windows of the tavern drew him. He quickened his steps and entered.

Inside the door he halted. The place should have been crowded; it was empty. Not even the barkeep was present.
Something’s not right.
Gerard turned to leave.

“Don’t be goin’ yet,
Mister
Ramsay.” The voice caught him midturn. It was a low voice, but with the familiar accent of a Boston Irishman.

Gerard pivoted toward it.

A man had entered from the rear and was waving for Gerard to join him at a table in the back. Gerard took stock of him before approaching. He was tall with a fair complexion and thick black hair—what they called Black Irish. Handsome, he was dressed well, even expensively, with a gold watch fob dangling from his vest pocket. If he hadn’t spoken, the man could have passed for a gentleman. And Gerard had seen him before—this was the stranger who’d accosted him at the horse race he’d attended with Stoddard. “Mr. Smith, I presume.”

“One and the same.” He gestured again for Gerard to join him.

Gerard moved forward and took the seat facing Smith. He didn’t like having his back to the door, but he wasn’t going to let this man intimidate him. “This place isn’t doing very good business tonight.”

“I wanted to meet you without interruptions.” Smith reclined carelessly, his tone genial but his expression cynical.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Gerard wondered whether it was really necessary to close the tavern for this meeting. Odd.

“Are we going to have a staring contest?” Gerard finally asked with a wry twist of his mouth.

“No, I’m just wondering why Saul Ramsay’s only son is here in Cincinnati. I didn’t think Ramsays ever went farther west than Saratoga.”

Jolted, Gerard listened in wary silence. How did this man know about his family? “Have we met before?”

“Ha!” Smith responded. “I hardly think we moved in the same Boston circles.”

Gerard couldn’t think of any polite reply, so he merely inclined his head and waited.

“Your family is prominent enough to be recognized.” Smith’s lip curled.

Gerard accepted this with a nod, not wanting to pursue the subject. “Now can we get down to business?”

“What is your business, Mr. Ramsay?” Smith made himself more comfortable in the chair.