Blessing (13 page)

As he seated her, the woman sent him a wry glance over her shoulder. He recalled the day they’d met—her outrageous conversation. With a start, Gerard realized she had secured his interest then, and that marked her as a dangerous woman, not one he could brush aside like most of the others. He would never be able to dismiss her as a mere society widow, boring and inconsequential.

At the head of the table, Mr. Foster smiled at his daughter, who was smiling into Stoddard’s besotted face. Gerard cringed inwardly at this.

“Come now, Foster,” a burly man seated near the host said. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Now that the ladies have returned, what were you about to announce?”

Gerard gripped the stem of his wineglass hard enough to
turn his knuckles white. It was nearly impossible for a gentleman to break an engagement once it was publicly declared.
Not yet!

“Friends, here in your company and the company of my dear family—” Mr. Foster stood and raised his glass toward his wife and then his daughter—“I have decided to run for state legislature as a reform candidate this fall. I ask for your support.”

A stunned moment, followed by applause and well-bred words of encouragement.

Blessing raised her glass and glanced at Gerard Ramsay on her right.

The man looked grim.

She watched furtively as he gained control of his features and cast them into a bright, congratulatory expression. Why didn’t he want Tippy’s father to run for office?

Then she recalled seeing Gerard at the bank. Perhaps he was trying to move ahead with his ill-advised scheme to start a horse-racing track. If he’d hoped to gain support from Mr. Foster and any of his set, this announcement would impinge on his plans. A reform candidate would not want his name linked to a racetrack.

Where was the elation she would have thought she’d feel over this setback for Gerard? Since everyone was still talking and backslapping, out of the corner of her eye, she continued to study the man. Due to the general chaos, she could do this for a few moments without stirring up his notice.

One thing became clear to her. Ramsay was not happy.
He even looked a little sickly. Too many nights drinking and carousing could lead a man to ill health.

A tiny seed of concern for him germinated.
He’s as lost as the men his racetrack might bring to ruin.
This knowledge stiffened around her heart, just a simple band of worry. Was it possible to save Gerard Ramsay from himself? And why did that matter to her?

SEPTEMBER 15, 1848

A few days later, Gerard entered the same seedy tavern he’d visited twice before, having received a message that Smith wanted to see him tonight. Gerard resented the barely disguised order and the way these meetings with Mr. Smith made him feel. It was a cross between the apprehension of entering his father’s presence as a child and the intimidation of older, bullying boys at school.

Gerard kept his smooth outward mask in place and forced himself to show no sign of nervousness as he sat down across from the man. He needed Smith to navigate the murky waters of the bookmakers, but after the racetrack was up and running, they would see each other only in passing. Tonight, in contrast to their last meeting, the tavern was full of people, both men and women, drinking and talking in small groups. Gerard drew some comfort from the presence of others.

“So Foster is going to run as a reform candidate for the state legislature?” Smith said, his accented voice low and mocking.

“Yes, that simply means I must cast my net further into
society,” Gerard said with outward composure. “I’ve just begun—”

A man at the bar laughed explosively, drowning Gerard’s words and setting his teeth on edge.

“I’ll give you the names of some men who might be ripe for our enterprise,” Smith cut in.

Gerard did not like the
our
. “Again, I must insist that this is
my
enterprise. I contacted you strictly for your knowledge of Cincinnati racing.”

“Don’t worry,
Mister
Ramsay. I know our parts in this.” Smith eyed him, a wry grin creeping over his face.

Gerard sensed the man was trying to make him nervous, but he resisted giving in. Smith might be dangerous, but only if crossed, and Gerard didn’t intend to cross him. Besides, he had the security of cold steel—the very newest Colt—tucked in a leather holster under his arm. He waited Smith out.

Finally, after a long silence, Smith said, “I hear you are getting friendly with the good widow Brightman.”

Gerard didn’t like hearing Blessing’s name coming off Smith’s curled lips. He went for his best nonchalant shrug. “She amuses me.”

“And she’s attractive and very wealthy,” Smith continued smoothly. “I can see why you’re tempted.” He chuckled in a way that implied carnality.

Gerard fought to avoid rising to the taunt.

“She is a thorn in my garden,” Smith pronounced. “She disrupts trade and goes where she doesn’t belong. If you can interest her—give her something better to do with her time—that would be a welcome development to many at the docks. And could also, in the end, make life easier for her.”

The subtle threat in these words caused a reaction more powerful than Gerard could have predicted. “Mrs. Brightman is an unusual woman.”

Smith laughed out loud. “She is indeed, and perhaps you are the man who can return her to her proper place.”

“And what’s that?” Gerard drawled, though the question played into Smith’s hand.

“Under a man’s . . . thumb.”

Repulsed by the bawdy insinuation, Gerard stared at the man and rose. “I’ll continue with my own plans. Good evening.”

Smith nodded, smirking.

As Gerard walked away, Smith called after him, “I’ll bid you good luck with the widow, then!”

Gerard ignored it. He wanted to best Blessing, not ruin her. Originally, he had planned to do a little drinking and discussing the racetrack here on the wharf tonight. Now, as he walked the quay, he just wanted to get home to his room at Mrs. Mather’s.

But perhaps he’d stop at that neighborhood tavern near the boardinghouse and have a quiet drink with the barkeep. He would be glad once his racetrack was up and running, and he’d never have to associate with Mr. Smith or his ilk again.

Then he recalled something his cousin had mentioned over breakfast this morning, and an idea for making mischief with the widow began forming in his mind. She’d refuse, of course, but it would be amusing to tempt her. Especially since the “temptation” he had in mind was a far cry from what Smith had suggested.

SEPTEMBER 18, 1848

Blessing was sitting in the orphanage kitchen holding Luke when the cook answered a knock at the back door. As always, this infant called to Blessing in a way none other had. Something in the child had touched her heart in an unusual way. Just as she was kissing his downy head, she heard a vaguely familiar voice say, “The widow said I could come see my nephew.”

“Come on in, then,” the cook replied.

Blessing turned to see Ducky Hughes, neatly dressed, entering the room. “Ducky Hughes, thee came.” She couldn’t keep the pleased surprise from her voice. So few of the orphans had any visitors. And perhaps Blessing might yet find a way to help this woman.

Like a doe about to venture out of the forest, Ducky hesitated just inside the doorway. She very obviously scanned the room, taking in Rebecca still lying on her cot. Glances of recognition between the two connected and then slid apart. Yes, they had lived—and suffered—in the same world.

“Come in and see the child,” Blessing encouraged, not forcing the two to greet each other.

Ducky took a few steps forward but still stood back from Blessing. “Oh, Danny looks good.” Her words were packed with relief and gratitude. She reached out but then pulled her hand back.

Blessing glanced over Ducky’s shoulder to the cook. “Please pour our guest a cup of tea.” She rose and nearly pushed the other woman into the nearest chair. “Would thee like to hold him?”

Ducky looked painfully uncertain. “Can I?”

Blessing set Luke in her arms. “Did thee call him Danny?”

For a moment, the woman said nothing, just gazed at the child in her arms. With her head down, she replied, “Yes, I named him for his grandfather.”

“He is your nephew?” Blessing probed gently, making sure she’d heard right.

Ducky nodded, still not looking up.

The cook set a cup of tea, the milk and sugar pots, and a plate of fragrant oatmeal-and-raisin cookies in front of the woman. “I baked yesterday. Your boy’s a sweet baby.”

Ducky looked up. “He is. Thanks for the tea and such. Can’t remember the last time I had a cookie.”

Blessing didn’t ask any further questions. She had found that just sitting in comforting silence often opened mouths shut by suffering. Many prized a sympathetic ear above rubies.

The cook also delivered a cup of hot tea to Rebecca and set one in front of Blessing, who sipped quietly and waited, hoping for Ducky to tell her more about this child and how he came to be here.

“My sister and me,” Ducky began haltingly, “lost our parents when we were still kids.” She lifted her head as if to meet Blessing’s gaze but lowered her chin again. “They were respectable people. Afterward we stayed with a friend of our mother’s until she died. Cholera.” Ducky stared down at the tea in her cup, lost in sorrow.

“So thee only had thy sister?” Blessing prompted gently.

Ducky nodded and at last sipped her tea. “I’m glad I heard of you. I want better for Danny.”

“Of course. What is thy family history? When he’s older, Danny will want to know and be proud of his grandfather.”

At this encouragement Ducky raised her head with a trace of dignity. “My dad, Daniel Hughes, worked as a cobbler. My mother’s maiden name was Cummings. They come here from Syracuse, New York.”

Blessing stored away this information. She had found that sharing parts of her own story helped visitors like Ducky feel understood, so she said, “I am blessed with four sisters and a brother. But as children, we did lose another brother and sister to measles. That was hard.”

Ducky looked into Blessing’s eyes for the first time. “Death comes for everybody.”

“Yes.” And sometimes it brought blessed relief. She gripped her cup, thinking what her life would be like if Richard still lived. Guilt twisted her stomach for being glad of his early death.
“There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.”

Both of them remained silent for a moment, and Blessing sensed Rebecca’s rapt attention on her dealings with Danny and his aunt. “Ducky, can I help thee?”

“No, I’m fine.” The answer was quick. “I’m just grateful you took in Danny.”

“I’m glad thee came to visit him. I hope thee will again.”

“I will if I can.”

Theodosia came down after leaving her children with the others. Baby Luke—
Daniel Lucas Hughes,
Blessing mentally adjusted his name—sent up a yelp when he saw her.

Ducky finished her tea and, with obvious satisfaction,
watched her nephew nurse in Theodosia’s embrace. When Ducky rose to leave, she had noticeably relaxed and looked refreshed. She turned to Blessing. “Ma’am, walk me out, please?”