Blessing (17 page)

However, two stark memories bedeviled him more than
the others: the look on the widow’s face in the light of dawn and the feel of a little boy seeking his protection. Once more he tried to shake them off, unsuccessfully.
“What kind of man is thee, Gerard Ramsay?”

The docks were littered with debris, and Gerard noticed a greater number of night watchmen than usual, along with deputized citizens. The ugliness of the riverfront glared at him. He entered the same tavern as before and found it crowded. Many of the patrons sported bruises, burns, and cuts, just as he did.

He went directly to Mr. Smith at his customary table.

“Mr. Ramsay.” The man greeted him in his quiet yet sneering voice.

Gerard wondered whether Smith practiced sounding this way or whether it was natural. “Evening.” He took a seat across from the man, who, as always, sat with his back to the wall.

“You look a bit worse for wear,” Smith observed.

Gerard shrugged.

“I hear you protected the good widow from the rioters.”

These words dismayed Gerard. How did Smith know? “Having me watched?”

Smith chuckled mirthlessly. “I told you once that Mrs. Brightman is a thorn in my garden.”

Gerard stared at the man. Did this mean that Smith had something to do with the mob that had followed them to Blessing’s door? “I am a gentleman. When a lady requires protection, it is my duty to provide it.”

This time Smith laughed out loud. “And what does the widow provide for you?”

The thick innuendo in the man’s tone drew Gerard to his feet, hands fisted. “I do not know what you mean.” The stiff words felt like nails on his tongue. “I came to discuss business, not to bandy about a respectable woman’s name.”

“Sit down,” Smith ordered. “I have a few names for you. Men I think might be eager for a racetrack and for a sure investment. They won’t deal directly with me but will probably do business with you, a
gentleman
.”

Remaining on his feet, Gerard ignored the man’s tone, bristling at the order to sit. “Always remember, Smith, I am your business contact and
nothing more
.”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes. Anger? Or darker than that? Smith visibly commanded himself. “Of course. Understand—I don’t want to be associated with a Boston prig any more than you want to be associated with me.”

Gerard accepted the list of names Smith held out and vacated the tavern. Outside the door he again felt a surge of caution. Maybe he needed to drop this racetrack idea. Smith was not a man he desired to fraternize with in any way.

“Well, hello.”

The familiar voice halted Gerard. It was Kennan, loitering outside the tavern.

“So how did you enjoy the riots?” Kennan went on. “I had a great time.”

Gerard was caught between several reactions—surprise, relief to see Kennan here and alive, and a desire to cuff him on the side of his head. Riots, fun? He mastered himself. “I knew I’d seen you around the city. When did you come west? Why are you here?”

Kennan ignored the first question but answered the second. “I came to an agreement with my stepfather. He will continue my allowance, provided I move away from New England. I’m the black sheep—” Kennan grinned with satisfaction—“and they want me out of sight.”

Gerard looked at Kennan, suddenly understanding why his friend was drinking and running away from family. He, Stoddard, and Kennan remained the unwanted sons they’d been at boarding school. But he chose not to broach the subject at present. “When did you get into town?” he repeated.

“A while back. Wanted to see what drew stuffy Stoddard to this place. Frankly I can’t comprehend its allure except for that radical blonde female he’s besotted with.”

“Exactly how long is ‘a while’?” Gerard pressed.

“Oh, I saw you arrive.”

Gerard recalled that he thought he’d spied Kennan on the wharf that day. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

“You’re getting as uptight as Stoddard, or so I thought till I heard you were trying to get a racetrack started. That will embarrass your father, all right. Well done.” Kennan beamed at him. “Let’s go have a drink to that.”

Gerard did not like hearing his motivation said aloud. He studied his old school friend’s face and noted his bloodshot eyes and unshaven face. The last thing Kennan needed was another drink. But Gerard couldn’t say that.

When Kennan tried to draw him back into the tavern he’d just exited, Gerard resisted. “Let’s go elsewhere. I don’t like the company in there.”

“You mean Mr. Smith?” Kennan chuckled. “All right. Lead on. Just make sure it’s a place where they don’t water the gin.”

Gerard claimed Kennan’s elbow and led him toward the neighborhood tavern on the rise above the wharf. He hadn’t realized that Kennan knew of Smith. What did that mean for Gerard, for Kennan?

OCTOBER 5, 1848

Gerard woke and wondered if he’d died during the night. His head felt as if it had been split in two. He could barely open his eyes, and hammers pounded behind them. He slowly sat up. A mistake. Dropping to his knees, he quickly snatched his chamber pot and retched. When the heaving finally ceased, he slid to the floor and lay on the carpet, gasping for breath.

He tried to focus and clear his mind, but clarity eluded him. Flashes from the night before—raucous laughter, standing at a bar with Kennan, scantily clad women . . .

He groaned and the sound hurt his ears. What happened last night? Where had he been? What had he done to feel this way?

Gerard lay still, gasping for air and forcing his mind to work. Eventually he recalled meeting Kennan after his
interview with Smith. They’d gone to his neighborhood tavern . . .

But they hadn’t stayed there. He’d intended to go home afterward. Why hadn’t he?

He rubbed his face with both hands. In his youth he’d often suffered morning-after spells from overindulgence, but he’d never experienced one where he couldn’t recall what he’d done the night before.
What could have caused me to go on a bender? I must remember.

He rose tentatively to sit on the side of his bed. The sun shone bright at the window, so he averted his gaze to the patterned carpet. Sudden thirst prompted him to try to stand to go downstairs. But he realized he must become more presentable before he could enter the kitchen and beg some coffee. His stomach lurched at the thought, but he knew he must eat something, and coffee would help his headache.

Moving like an old man so he wouldn’t disturb his hammering head, he went through his morning routine and managed to shave using cold water, with only a few nicks. After finishing, he walked carefully down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen.

Just before entering, a thought occurred to him. Had his Quaker landlady seen him intoxicated? He’d been warned about her standards. Maybe he’d been lucky and she hadn’t witnessed his arrival. How had he gotten home, anyway? Why couldn’t he remember the night more clearly?

Gerard entered the kitchen, relieved to find the big-boned, red-haired cook alone. He eased down at the table in the center of the room. “I overslept. Do you still have coffee and something for me to eat? Please.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I be thinking ye dipped too deep last night.”

Gerard stared at her, begging with his eyes.

“All right. You look that sick. But don’t ye be expecting this again.”

“I am under the weather.”

“Is that what you call it in Boston?” She raised her eyebrows in starched disapproval. When she set a mug of coffee in front of him, he cringed at the sound. She looked at him with pity and made him some dry toast. “Try to keep this down, child.”

“Thank you,” he muttered. He nibbled the bread and sipped the steaming coffee, praying he wouldn’t be sick again.

A knock sounded at the back door.

He steeled himself for more noise, but he didn’t leave, not wanting to move unless he had to.

The cook let someone into the room.

“Mr. Ramsay, sir? I’m Mrs. Theodosia March.”

Gerard looked up to see the woman who’d jumped from the fire into his arms. He rose cautiously. “Yes?”

“I come to thank you for saving me and my kids.”

He raised a hand. “No need to thank me. Glad you’re safe.”

A familiar-looking little boy clung to her hand. But he couldn’t be her son; he was white. Gerard tried to place the child.

Then the boy charged Gerard, grabbing him around the knees. “You’re Mr. Ramsay. You ’tected us from the bad men.” The little boy stared up at him.

Gerard recalled waking with this child on his lap in the
orphanage parlor. “Scotty?” he said, trying to avoid thoughts of his conversation with Blessing that morning.

“Yeah, I’m Scotty.” The child grinned at him.

“Mrs. Brightman thought I’d be safer bringing Scotty along with me,” Theodosia said. “No one would dare accost a nursemaid with her charge.”

“I see,” he said, patting Scotty on the head. So Theodosia still felt unsafe. He didn’t blame her.

“Mister, can you come to my house and play ball?” Scotty asked.

Gerard patted the boy’s head once more, unable to come up with a response to this.

“Scotty, you come on now. We’re goin’ home. Mr. Ramsay’s a busy man.”

Scotty looked crestfallen, but he waved and hurried to take Theodosia’s hand. The two left.

The cook gazed at him as if trying to understand why the woman had come.

He sank back into the chair and managed to consume the coffee and dry toast. Rising, he thanked the cook, who merely frowned at him and waved him out of her domain with a wooden spoon.

He was walking through the dining room when Mrs. Mather approached him.

“Gerard Ramsay, a word in the parlor.” The silver-haired landlady crooked her finger at him as if he were a child and marched ahead, expecting him to follow.

He had no intention of going against her wishes. Shame at his condition warmed his face, and he could not think of an excuse. He was no longer a callow lad sowing his wild oats.

Mrs. Mather shut the parlor door with a snap that was painful to his head. “Gerard Ramsay, thee was warned about how I expect my gentlemen boarders to behave themselves. Give me one reason that I should not send thee packing today.”

In that moment he realized the import of what he was facing. Not only did he not want to leave this comfortable home with its good food and friendly boarders, but also he didn’t want to lose this lady’s respect.

“Mrs. Mather, I met with an old friend and brought him to the local tavern. I don’t know what happened after that. But I have not overindulged like this for a very long time. Please give me a second chance, and it won’t happen again. In fact, if it does, you won’t have to ask me to leave. I will just go.”

With lips pressed together, she stared at him like a disapproving teacher. “Very well. We will leave it at that.” She quit the room.

He moved to the stairs. Images of provocatively dressed women from the night before dogged his every step. Ever since the evening he’d helped Blessing save the girl Rebecca from a beating, he’d been unable to look at women of the night the way he always had, the way society viewed them. The question now was what he had done with these women during the time he couldn’t remember.

As he mounted the third step, the front door opened.

Stoddard walked in and barked, “I see you finally got up. I’m home early for
luncheon
.”

Gerard stared at him.

“I’ve never seen you in such bad shape. Let’s go upstairs. I
want an explanation.” Stoddard gestured for him to continue up the stairs.

Gerard couldn’t reply; he had just enough energy to make it to his room.

Stoddard followed him closely and shut the door behind them before starting his attack. “Last night I stumbled across you lying in the gutter outside this house. What possessed you to get stinking drunk?”

“I didn’t plan on it,” Gerard mumbled. “Kennan—”

“Kennan?” Stoddard’s voice rose.

“I saw him.” Gerard rubbed his throbbing forehead. “At the docks.”

“Kennan?” Stoddard repeated, then sat on the bed beside Gerard. “Here?”

Gerard nodded and regretted it. “I don’t know what happened,” he muttered. “I saw him and brought him up to Jenkins’s place for a drink. After that, everything is fuzzy.” He could feel Stoddard staring at him.

“Do you think you got some rotgut in one of those seedy bars?”

“I’m not sure.” Gerard longed to lie down. “I just know that I didn’t intend to go back to the docks with Kennan.” With a look, he implored his cousin to sympathize.

Stoddard gazed at him, his expression shifting from disapproving to concerned. “You don’t think Kennan might have taken you somewhere and someone put something in your drink—say, opium?”

Or put it in himself?
Gerard thought the question he sensed Stoddard was skirting. How far had Kennan fallen? Would he do something like that to a friend? Then Gerard
recalled that Kennan had been in Cincinnati for weeks without informing either of them—and that he knew Mr. Smith. Could Kennan be tangled up with Smith?

How and why had Gerard been left lying in the gutter in front of his boardinghouse? Nothing made sense.
If I could only concentrate.