by Lyn Cote
She laughed softly, the sound reminding him of children playing. “Yes, I am in favor of abolition. Has thee ever heard Frederick Douglass speak?”
“No,” he said, trying to keep up with her unexpected questions and her brisk pace without bumping into anyone.
“Would thee like to hear Frederick Douglass?”
“Who is that?” He looked down at her again, her face attracting him in spite of himself.
“Thee hasn’t read his autobiography, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave? It was published three years ago and has sold over five thousand copies.”
Distracted, he wished he could overhear what the other lady was saying to his cousin. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”
“Indeed thee hasn’t read it, then. It is not a pleasure to read. It is as harsh as the slavery that bound him.”
Gerard felt as if he were back on the wagon, only riding over an even bumpier road. Though primarily concerned with Stoddard’s flirtation, he scrambled to keep up with the Quakeress’s odd conversation. “He’s a fugitive slave, you say?”
“He is a free man of color who left the state and master that enslaved him.”
Gerard gaped at her. Ladies didn’t discuss slavery. No woman had ever spoken so frankly to him in his life. All his usual sangfroid evaporated.
“I see my direct manner has disconcerted thee. I apologize.” She smiled and said in a sweetly conversational tone, “When does thee think this hot weather will ebb?”
His mind whirled, but he wouldn’t bow in defeat. “Is this Frederick Douglass attending your . . . convention?”
“Gerard Ramsay, thee must make up thy mind whether thee wishes me to be conventional or not. I own fault. I started by speaking frankly as I do among people with whom I’m acquainted, not strangers like thee. But this morning’s discussion of the Declaration of Sentiments has made me overbold with thee—one who is not at all acquainted with me.”
She tilted her head like an inquisitive robin. “I apologize. Should we try to follow convention or proceed with frankness?” She looked at him expectantly as she continued walking. “Please choose. I do not wish to be rude.”
He inhaled the hot, humid air. Her candor irritated him, and he would be cursed if he let this woman best him. He girded his defenses. “Mrs. Brightman,” he drawled, “I must confess your conversational style is completely unparalleled in my experience.”
She laughed once more, sounding almost musical.
Was this woman being artless or artful? He glanced at Stoddard’s companion again. The two women differed in costume, but did they both share this originality?
The foursome arrived at the besieged Seneca Farmers’ Inn. Telling them to wait, Stoddard threaded his way through the crowd to the harassed-looking, aproned proprietress and then turned at the door to the rear arbor. “They saved us our table outside!” He waved them forward. “Come.”
They followed a flustered-looking hostess to a table at the rear of the inn, just outside under a shade tree. She pointed out the bill of fare posted on the outside wall near the door, then left them, promising to bring glasses of cold springwater.
“Oh, this is so much cooler,” Miss Foster commented as Stoddard helped seat her.
Gerard was at a loss. He was a gentleman and had duties as such. He never broke any of society’s rules around ladies, no matter what he thought of them. Should he offer to help the unpredictable Mrs. Brightman sit or not?
The Quakeress peered up at him. “Which does thee choose?”
“What?”
“Should I sit with or without thy assistance?”
Her perspicacity nicked him. He swallowed his discomfort, his tight collar constricting his throat. He could not let her get the better of him. “I would feel unmannerly if I didn’t assist you.”
“Then please help me.” She beamed at him as if this were all a game. Maybe to her it was, but Stoddard’s being here with the blonde was serious to him.
He seated the Quakeress, then took his place and sent a tart, questioning look at Stoddard.
The waitress delivered the sweating glasses of springwater and took their orders. They all chose cold sandwiches of ham and cheese. Then the four of them were left alone.
Gerard could not think of a word to say, an unusual occurrence. And each moment he watched Stoddard and Miss Foster interact with little glances and intimate smiles upset him more and more. This did not appear to be a mere holiday flirtation with which Stoddard was diverting himself. It was different because the woman was too. Had her sense of novelty ensnared his cousin?
Blessing took her time sizing up Gerard Ramsay as he turned his attention to his cousin. Ramsay was of medium height, a good build, very expensively dressed yet without any dandyism. His dark-brown hair curled slightly, which gave him a boyish appeal, but his guarded brown eyes and cynical mouth warned her that he was not merely the proper Boston gentleman he seemed.
She tried to detect a family resemblance between the cousins but saw none. Fairer and taller, Stoddard Henry had red hair and striking green eyes. He was well dressed, but not as expensively as his cousin.
She’d ruffled Gerard Ramsay with her frankness. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but the stirring phrases discussed this morning, regarding man’s treatment of woman over the years, had tilted something inside her. “He has endeavored, in every way that he could, to destroy her confidence in her own powers, to lessen her self-respect, and to make her willing to lead a dependent and abject life.”
That’s what Richard had done to her. The old hurt twisted inside her, a physical pain. She drew in air and then sipped her cold springwater, quieting herself. The past had been buried with Richard. She was free now, forgiven. But the deep scars remained and could never be sponged away by anyone.
“So, Cousin, what did you think of this morning’s meeting?” Stoddard asked.
“Sitting outside, I heard only snatches,” Ramsay replied with a sour twist.
Both men spoke with Boston accents. She noted that, just like Stoddard, Gerard dropped r’s in most words and the g in words ending with -ing. She had heard this accent in other Eastern abolitionists and wondered why they didn’t like r’s or -ing’s. Those living west of the Alleghenies certainly enjoyed the sounds.
“No doubt Mr. Ramsay questions your sanity, Stoddard,” Tippy said lightly. “‘Whatever are you thinking, man,’” she asked, mimicking a deep voice, “‘going to a women’s rights convention?’”
Blessing hid her smile behind her glass. “Tippy, don’t tease Gerard Ramsay. It’s not fair. As a gentleman, he can’t contradict thee.”
Ramsay glanced at her but revealed nothing of what he was thinking.
But Blessing could guess. Did he suspect that she, too, had reservations about this new romance between his cousin and her friend?
Tippy inhaled deeply and sat back in her chair. “I can’t tell you how invigorating this morning has been. I have never felt so liberated before, so free.”
Ramsay frowned.
“We are not being polite, Tippy,” Blessing said, not unsympathetic to the man from Boston who obviously disapproved of today’s convention. “Gerard Ramsay, please tell us about thyself. I confess I am curious.”
The man shrugged. “A mutual friend saw Stoddard near Saratoga Springs and asked me to come and enjoy the Finger Lakes region. Said it would be cooler.”
“It should be cooler here,” Stoddard replied, touching his upper lip with his folded handkerchief. “After this convention, I want to spend a few days relaxing by Cayuga Lake, near here. Mother has been taking the waters at Saratoga. That is how I met Miss Foster.”
Blessing was becoming familiar with the accent. It was different but held a certain appeal.
“Yes, my mother was there also, drinking the waters,” Tippy said, lifting her glass in a mock salute and taking a sip.
“When Tippy read about this meeting in the newspaper, she sent me a telegram,” Blessing spoke up. “I set off immediately from
Cincinnati and arrived yesterday. I wish there had been more advance notice. I barely made it in time.”
“You’re both from Cincinnati?” Ramsay asked.
“Yes, we’re longtime friends,” Tippy replied, reaching for the Quakeress’s hand. “Blessing is a very exceptional and interesting woman. I know my life would be very flat without her.”
Blessing shook her head but accepted Tippy’s hand. “Tippy, my life would be flat without thee.” And very lonely. Tippy had been one of the few who’d persisted in being her friend during the dark years of her marriage. And there were not many others Blessing could trust with her secret missions.
Their food was served, and luncheon ended up being brief. Soon the four of them rose to cede their table to other hungry convention attendees.
“Well, Gerard,” Stoddard said, looking mischievous, “I take it you won’t be joining us this afternoon?” Before Gerard could reply, Stoddard went on. “I have a room here at the inn, and you can bunk with me tonight if you wish. Kennan, too, if he doesn’t mind some crowding a bit.”
“Thanks. I will stay with you and tell Kennan.” Gerard turned to Blessing and Tippy. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, ladies.”
“Don’t you mean a surprise?” Tippy teased again.
“Mind thy manners, Tippy,” Blessing scolded gently. She offered her hand to Ramsay. “I enjoyed our conversation, Gerard Ramsay. I hope thee finds something interesting and cool to occupy thyself with today.”
Ramsay merely bowed over her hand.
The four walked through the noisy inn together and out the door, the women preceding the men. Blessing resisted the urge to turn around and glance once more at Ramsay. He had gained her attention, something few men did. Maybe it was the accent, maybe something more. But he had the same air of wealth and security that Richard had possessed. That alone was a warning to her.
She drew in the thick air and pushed him from her mind. Thinking of the afternoon of spirited discussion ahead, she took a quick step onto the dusty street and walked arm in arm with Tippy, who laughed out loud unexpectedly. Blessing suspected she knew the reason why.
“Stoddard, may I have a private word with you?” Gerard asked, realizing he sounded a bit desperate.
“Ladies, I’ll just be a moment,” Stoddard called after them. “I’ll catch up with you.” He drew Gerard into the greenery around the inn. “I’m going to the meeting. It’s the most interesting, most revolutionary event I’ve ever attended. And you don’t have to stay and chaperone me. I know what I’m doing.”
Gerard steamed. “Do you? That reporter is here. He might include our names as attending this farce.”
“You’re not concerned about his mentioning your name. Just think how you’d enjoy the unpleasant jolt that would give your father. A Ramsay at a radical meeting.” Stoddard paused. “And I don’t care one whit if all Boston—indeed, all Massachusetts—knows I’ve attended a women’s rights convention.”
Gerard nearly swallowed his tongue.
Stoddard laughed and shoved Gerard’s shoulder. “Go find Kennan. He’s probably somewhere getting drunk. Then stay here or go back to Saratoga Springs or Boston, whichever you choose. But be happy for me, Gerard. I’ve found a woman who defies our dismal concept of womanhood and the bondage we considered marriage.”
Gerard tried to interrupt, but Stoddard pressed on.
“And I’m not going to let Tippy or her exciting ideas slip from my grasp. I’m tired of my lonely bachelorhood and stifling Beacon Hill society. I’m moving to Cincinnati, Cousin. I’m going west!”
Following the afternoon meeting and supper at the packed inn, Blessing mounted the narrow stairs toward the room she shared with Tippy. As Tippy’s chaperone, Blessing did not think she needed to stand over the two while the younger woman said good night to Stoddard. They both were sensible. What did it matter if Stoddard stole a kiss in the gloaming?
A bittersweet memory of the first time Richard had kissed her spiked like a stitch in her side. He’d been so handsome, so charming, and she’d allowed that to sway her from all she believed. Trying to ignore the ache of guilt, she let herself into their room and immediately slipped off her shoes and stockings. Oh, to be free to run barefoot as a child again.
She shed her bonnet and gloves, moving to the open window and letting the soft evening breeze cool her. Fine linen tacked to the window kept out the mosquitoes and provided privacy.
Tippy came in and bolted the door behind her. “Oh, Blessing, isn’t this wonderful?” Tippy danced in the middle of the room as if waltzing.
Blessing turned to enjoy her friend’s happiness. “Is thee referring to the decision to include seeking the franchise for women in the declaration, or to a certain young gentleman of Boston?”
Tippy sank onto the bed with a gurgle of laughter. “Both!”
A crosscurrent of emotions kept Blessing by the window. She was happy for Tippy. She was frightened for her. Loving posed such a risk. Was Stoddard all that he appeared to be? Or did his handsome face and quick smile conceal unforeseen heartache for Tippy?
“What did you think of Stoddard’s cousin?”
Gerard Ramsay’s handsome but world-weary face flashed in Blessing’s mind. “He is interesting.”
Tippy grinned. “How interesting?”
“Not as interesting as the day’s events. I can’t believe we got to hear Frederick Douglass speak.”
“Not to mention hearing Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott addressing a promiscuous gathering—men and women in the same audience! A shock the walls did not fall in.” Tippy gave a small laugh. “My mind is bursting with all manner of ideas,” she admitted. “I wish all men respected women as much as the men who attended the meeting today.”
The sound of Stoddard’s and Ramsay’s voices, as they no doubt walked the hall to their nearby room, came through the door. Blessing thought again of Gerard Ramsay. He clearly didn’t approve of the convention or of Tippy and Stoddard’s friendship or of Tippy’s radical ideas. Was it merely because Tippy was from Cincinnati, not from snobbish Boston?
“Blessing?” Tippy prompted.
She turned and smiled. “I’m sorry. I was remembering so many things from this day.” And wondering if thee will love more wisely than I.
BOSTON
JULY 24, 1848
“I cannot understand what you were thinking.” Gerard’s father, Saul Ramsay, slapped the folded and somewhat-mangled newspaper from a few days ago in front of Gerard at the breakfast table in their pale-blue-and-white morning room. The open floor-to-ceiling windows allowed a scant breeze inside, barely stirring the white sheers.
“What possessed you to go to Seneca Falls and on those particular two days? You were seen outside that ridiculous women’s rights meeting. And I had to read about it in the newspaper and then field impertinent inquiries.” His father’s voice dripped with haughty censure.
Gerard stared at his father, his heavy-lidded, walnut-shaped eyes. Except for those, the two men looked so similar, but they had never liked each other. The heaviness over Gerard’s heart plagued him most here. He’d only returned home to see his mother before—
“Well?” His father filled his cup from the sterling-silver coffee urn and then opened the matching chafing dishes on the sideboard, releasing the fragrance of bacon.
“I went to see Stoddard. He was in the district and it was convenient to pay a visit.” In Seneca Falls, Gerard had stayed with Stoddard at the inn while Kennan had left the next day, going off with some friends to gamble at a horse race. Betting on horses was nothing a man given to drink should attempt. Kennan didn’t appear to realize this. Typical. Troubling.
“I knew, of course, that Stoddard had gone to Saratoga Springs with my sister,” his father replied.
Gerard nodded and tried to begin eating again. He had little appetite in this place, a house that had never felt like home.
“So what drew your cousin from Saratoga Springs to the Finger Lakes?”
His father began working his way through breakfast while Gerard nibbled his toast and sipped the good coffee.
“I’m glad you’ve come home, Son.” The gravity of his voice did not bode well.
Gerard silently waited for him to continue. What was Father going to demand from him this time? Did he want another promise that Gerard would reform his way of life?
“I have been talking to the banker Briggs Mason. His daughter Cordelia has just come out this year. She is charming, sweet—the perfect candidate for your wife. Well connected, and she’ll come with a generous portion. You’ve been the young bachelor around town long enough. It’s time you settled down and came into the family shipping business.”
Gerard hadn’t expected this . . . yet his father had been making noises about Gerard’s settling down over the last year or so. Did Father really think that he would go along with this plan, give up his independence and go into the bondage of a society marriage? “I see.”
“The Masons have invited us to dine this Saturday evening. Your mother has agreed to make the effort to leave her chaise longue to go with us.”
Gerard enjoyed saying his next sentence. “I’m very sorry, but I won’t be in town this Saturday.”
The vein in his father’s right temple began to bulge, a sure sign of his irritation. “This is important. You can change your plans.”
Gerard drained the rest of his coffee. Perhaps it was his age, but he was tired of this fencing with his father over duties he never intended to assume. He decided not to use evasion again. He would tell his father the plain truth, go upstairs to spend an hour with his mother, and then leave Boston.
“Father, I’m leaving today for Ohio. I won’t be going to meet Miss Mason or courting her. I am not settling down—not here. I might settle in Cincinnati.” Or not.
“Cincinnati?” His father sounded more bewildered than angry. “It’s a provincial backwater. Why would you even think of leaving Boston?” He made Boston sound synonymous with heaven.