by Lyn Cote
Gerard snorted in response.
Then Blessing recognized with distinct displeasure that Stoddard Henry stood behind Gerard.
“Mrs. Brightman,” Stoddard stammered.
Unable to think of anything to say to him, she walked toward her carriage. She felt Gerard’s gaze follow her till her driver helped her into the carriage and turned it to head back up the bluff overlooking the river.
Mr. Smith came to her mind. In spite of Gerard’s apparent proclivity for the vices of the wharf, she hoped he wouldn’t meet up with Smith. It occurred to her that both men spoke with similar accents, so Smith must have come from Boston too. She hoped that was all they had in common.
What did Gerard Ramsay think of her now? She certainly knew what she thought of him. Perhaps she should warn Tippy that Stoddard’s cousin was luring him to the wharf with all its temptations and pitfalls. Or maybe he didn’t need luring. It was possible she had misjudged Stoddard Henry. Was he just another privileged wastrel, wearing the mantle of respectability? Like Richard? Like Gerard Ramsay himself?
THE UNWELCOME IMPACT of meeting a lady—and especially that lady—down here at the wharf worked its way through Gerard in cold waves. He watched her enter her glossy-black closed carriage and drive away. Only then did he exclaim, “Why in heaven’s name is she down here?”
“I told you,” the night watch said with impatience. “If you’re so upset to see a lady here, what are you doin’ here?” With a sound of derision, the officer stalked off.
“I said this was a bad idea,” Stoddard said. “And nobody tells Blessing Brightman where she can go or what she can do.”
Could nothing go right? Gerard shook off his exasperation. The idea of the racetrack had taken root, and he knew the wharf was the kind of place he must begin his research. He’d need two kinds of investors: the respectable and the disreputable. In the process of making it happen, he didn’t want to brush up against some ugly customer who had already decided to do the same.
But the thought of meeting the Quakeress here had never crossed his mind. His thoughts still raced. What was the widow doing carrying a baby?
“I don’t come down here,” Stoddard said. “My days of venturing into places like this are long past. I thought the same was true for you. We were young and stupid when we frequented the Boston docks. It’s a wonder both of us survived some of those dangerous nights. And came away without catching a disease.”
In the dim moonlight Gerard stared at his cousin, realizing he half agreed with Stoddard, a startling thought. Nonetheless, the man’s superior tone grated on him. Was Stoddard going to become one of those stuffy men like Gerard’s father? Had his cousin forgotten how many of the socially prominent possessed feet of clay? “So you really are getting respectable.”
“You are respectable and I am respectable. I just used to do things that I now see were foolish. And wrong. We’re nearly thirty, man. Getting old enough to know better.”
Gerard decided to adopt an honest approach. “Just a few drinks. I still want to broach the topic of a permanent racetrack with this strata of society and see what the reaction is.”
Stoddard grabbed him by the shoulder. “You don’t mean that you are serious about that idea?”
“Yes, of course I’m serious.”
“Why?”
Gerard did not want to reveal the truth to his cousin, but he always had, so why stop now? “Where can we go and talk in private?”
“Home?”
Gerard shook his head. He couldn’t go home yet. The restlessness that goaded him to seek bawdy humor and drink was roiling up inside. “How about that tavern a few blocks from our boardinghouse?”
Stoddard assented, and after a brisk walk, they entered the one-room tavern. The windows were open to let in the evening breeze, and a few lamps lit the interior. The clientele was mostly men—honest workmen, from all appearances—who stood at a short counter talking to a man in a white apron. The place hummed with quiet conversation. Gerard and his cousin sat at a small, round table and waved to the man.
Soon a woman who seemed to be the barkeep’s wife, a white kerchief tied over her hair, delivered the ale they’d ordered.
“So what do we need to talk about that we couldn’t talk about at our lodgings?” Stoddard asked after his first sip of ale.
Gerard hesitated. “That widow, how does she come to be in your friend Miss Foster’s company? I would think they would move in different circles.”
Stoddard stared at him. “They would have moved in different circles if Blessing hadn’t married Richard Brightman. The marriage was quite the sensation, I’m told—a dashing society bachelor and a pious Quakeress. But why do you care?”
“It’s just odd. How does she move in society? Where does her wealth come from?”
A group of men nearby laughed suddenly. Stoddard waited for quiet before replying, “Her husband left her his fortune: two breweries and much prime real estate.”
“She was married to a brewer?” Gerard couldn’t mask his amusement. “When he died, were there no male relatives to handle the estate? A woman left in control of a fortune—what was her husband thinking?”
Stoddard’s expression closed. “You’ll have to ask Mrs. Brightman. I’m not a gossip.”
At Stoddard’s reproving tone, Gerard decided to come to the point of why he wanted to pursue the racetrack without delay. Hang the troublesome widow. “When I visited my mother, my father said he’d all but chosen my future bride and told me it was time to come into the family business.”
“Oh?” Stoddard raised an eyebrow.
“And if I didn’t, he would cut off my allowance.”
Stoddard considered him, smiling grimly. “So you need a new source of income.”
Gerard was gratified that Stoddard was unsurprised that he hadn’t fallen in with his pompous father’s plans. “Now you see why a racetrack appeals to me?”
Stoddard took his time with another swallow. “I could get you many interviews for good positions here. My future—ah, Mr. Foster is well connected. You’re educated, a gentleman. I don’t see the need to set up a racetrack.”
Gerard felt the old exasperation rise in him. “But none of those positions will spite my father like a racetrack will.” He said the words with a twisted satisfaction. His father would pay for trying to force him to dance to his tune. He didn’t want to dance to any man’s tune—not his father’s, not an employer’s. He would make his way on his own terms or know the reason why.
Stoddard drained the last of his glass and rose, looking down almost sternly at Gerard. “I have already spoken to Tippy’s father, and I have his permission to pay my addresses to her. I expect that we will be married before a year passes. Though I hope you will wish me happy, I doubt it. I’ll see you in the morning. See that you don’t turn up drunk at Mrs. Mather’s. She’ll put you out.” Stoddard left with a wave to the proprietor.
Shaken by his friend’s stern declaration and abrupt departure, Gerard sat alone, holding the thick glass of ale in both hands. So it had come to this. Gerard lifted his glass, rose, and moved to the counter. Well, here was as good a place as any to begin the spadework for his endeavor.
“Evening,” he began after introducing himself to the barkeep. “I know it’s near the end of the season, but are there any horse races coming up near here?”
Blessing’s orphanage sat on the far south edge of “respectable” Cincinnati, near Little Africa. Though she spent much time here, she’d decided to maintain residence in the house where she had lived with her husband, over a mile farther away from the river. Yet, once again, she didn’t know when she’d be able to return home for the night.
In the washroom off the kitchen on the first floor, with her sleeves rolled up, Blessing finished bathing the baby boy. He lay in her arms, so very thin and so quiet with sunken eyes, but still he managed to keep his attention on her. Had she brought him here in time? Or would he expire as so many undernourished babies before him had?<
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She wondered if he’d ever had a bath. He was eaten up with diaper rash. But the woman had kept him alive. How easy it would have been to let the infant die. Blessing tried to shut out the memories of other children she hadn’t reached in time. She said a prayer for this child to survive and for the woman who’d cared for him to find peace and safety. Blessing drew in a breath to hold back the tears that wanted to come. The infant tried to grip her finger as if clinging to life.
Would she ever become accustomed to the way the world treated unwanted children? No child should be unwanted. But how could she possibly prepare this child for a world that would always look at him with scorn? She finished bathing him and wrapped him in a towel. This little boy was affecting her more than usual, and she wondered why. Gerard Ramsay’s face came to mind. That didn’t make sense. He had nothing to do with this child or with her.
Her friend and coworker Joanna, slender and pretty with caramel skin, entered the room. Joanna was in charge of the children’s care here, and she and Blessing had grown up together and been as close as sisters—until Blessing married Richard Brightman. That had separated them for a time.
“I got his clothing.” Joanna laid out a worn but clean blue flannel blanket, gown, cap, and diaper on the dressing table.
Glad of her friend’s company, Blessing carried the listless infant to Joanna, who deftly cradled the child. The boy still did not cry or make a sound, but merely stared up at them.
“Probably has never felt clean before,” Joanna murmured. She began to hum to the baby as she unwrapped him from the towel and started dressing him.
“I’ve sent my driver for the wet nurse.” Blessing leaned her head against Joanna’s shoulder, seeking comfort for her low spirits. Joanna’s father and mother worked for Blessing’s parents, Samuel and Honor Cathwell. Before that, Joanna’s mother, Royale, had been Honor’s slave. Together Royale and Honor had left Maryland to come to a free state. When Blessing had moved to the city, Joanna had come along as her day maid. Joanna had been engaged to Asher, a lifelong friend, for three years, but he didn’t yet have the means to wed.
Blessing rolled down her sleeves. She and Joanna had been born only a year apart. Blessing was glad to have a friend who understood her work, her life. Still she wondered how long before Joanna married, began her own family, and left the work here, left her.
“How is that Miss Tippy doing?” Joanna asked, lifting and patting the child.
“I’m worried.”
Joanna looked up. “Why? Is it about that man from Boston that’s making up to her?”
“Yes.” Blessing chewed on the worry again. “I just don’t want her to make the mistake I did . . . with Richard.”
Joanna gazed at her. “You were younger then.”
Blessing half smiled sadly. “Tippy is younger now.”
“Does this Boston man she interested in act like your late husband?”
Blessing considered this. She’d seen him at the docks tonight, but it was the first time. “Stoddard makes it plain that he wants to court her.”
“If I remember rightly, Richard Brightman did more than that. He wouldn’t leave you alone. Sending flowers every day. Little love notes. He didn’t hardly give you a chance to think.”
Scenes from her whirlwind courtship with Richard played in her mind. He had done whatever she wanted, whatever pleased her. Said he would die if she didn’t agree to be his wife. She’d been so innocent then. “I should have known it was too good . . .”
“To be true,” Joanna finished for her.
“I’m still assessing Stoddard Henry.” Blessing sighed and switched her mind back to the present. “This baby doesn’t have a name,” she said, not putting her fear for the child into words. Would they choose a name only to etch it on a small tombstone?
“Well, we don’t want to repeat a name.” Joanna looked thoughtful and her humming lowered. “How about Luke?”
Blessing considered this, stroking the child’s baby-soft skin. “It’s a strong name and has a good feeling about it. What surname shall we give him?”
“How about Green? Simple. Easy to say and spell.”
Blessing bent down and kissed the baby’s forehead, wishing she could make up for the fact that he’d not been welcomed by proud and happy parents. Only one woman had cared about him or his mother enough to keep him alive. She blinked away tears again. “Welcome, Luke Green. May God bless thy life. May thee be a willing worker, honest and kind. May thee be strong enough to live and face this world.”
“Amen,” Joanna agreed.
Then the back door opened and their wet nurse, Theodosia, as dark-complected as Joanna was light, came in and shed her shawl. In short order she gathered the child from Joanna, sat down, and began to nurse him. “He’s nearly starved. I can’t stay long. I left my others sleeping. My aunt will look in on them.”
A young widow with two little ones under four, Theodosia supported herself through her work for the orphanage.
“I think you should consider moving here,” Blessing said once more. She still didn’t like sending babies to Theodosia’s neighborhood, even though it was close to her own. Little Africa was always a target for ruffians and violence.
Theodosia frowned. “I got a safe place and don’t want to lose it.”
Blessing didn’t press her. Theodosia and her children spent their days here, and every evening she took the nurslings home with her. She liked to remain somewhat independent. And after all, Blessing couldn’t blame her—she herself needed time away from the weight of this place.
After the child had eaten till he fell asleep, Joanna handed Theodosia a cloth bag holding clean clothing and diapers. The baby in her arms, Theodosia nodded and headed outside to the waiting carriage, bidding them good night.
Joanna sighed, bid Blessing the same, and left for her room upstairs. A nearby church bell tolled eleven times.
Wishing Joanna would have stayed up for a chat, Blessing sank down at the kitchen table, suddenly bone-weary. Joanna was in charge of the orphans’ needs, but Blessing bore the ultimate responsibility not only for the orphans but also for most of the people who cared for them.
The orphanage had a staff of six. Four were former slaves or the children of former slaves: the cook, maid, laundress, and of course, Joanna. They were all at risk of kidnapping and violence, so she’d hired a white gardener/handyman and his wife, who had left North Carolina because of their antislavery sentiments and were needed here to protect the others when Blessing was absent. Even free people of color had no legal rights in Ohio.
She realized she was in an odd, reflective humor. Meeting the men from Boston at the wharf had stirred her up somehow, though how the two men passed their time was really none of her concern. But should she warn Tippy that the man she loved might be guilty of frequenting the dens by the river?
Later, after returning to her own home, Blessing struck a match and lit a candle to guide her way to bed. Then she heard a quiet knock at her kitchen door. The very stealth of it galvanized Blessing. Candlestick in hand, she opened the door.
Two people slipped inside but remained in the shadows, away from any window. Blessing recognized one of her visitors, a young man from Joanna’s church, and with him was a petite black woman. Blessing didn’t need to ask why they’d come. Another runaway.
“All the other stations are being watched,” the young man said. “Can she hide here till it’s safe to move her?”
Blessing didn’t waste words. “Follow me.” She led the two swiftly up the stairs to the second story and into the attic. There she ran her hand across the wall until she found the catch that opened the secret door. She waved the woman inside. “I’ll bring up food and water soon.”
The runaway slave nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” She slumped, exhausted, onto the pallet along the wall, giving one last shudder of fear.
Blessing saw by candlelight the woman’s face—it was lovely. And then she understood why the other houses were being watch
ed. She rarely hid slaves; her home was reserved as a last resort, thus making it safe for the most-wanted runaways. This woman was no doubt some master’s prized mistress, and he was willing to pay top dollar for her return—probably four to five times the usual bounty on an escaped slave.
“Thee’ll be safe here,” Blessing said, sickened by the woman’s plight, and shut the panel.
The young man pattered down the steps behind her and, back in the kitchen, peered out the dark window.
“Perhaps thee should stay too,” Blessing cautioned. “The watch might take thee up for being out at night.” Or he might be set upon by ruffians.
“That might be best,” he agreed.
She waved to the back door. “Thee can sleep with the driver over the carriage house. He has an extra bed.”
He nodded his thanks and hurried outside. She closed the door and sank onto a chair at the kitchen table, wearier than ever. Head in her hands, she felt all the evils in this world piling up around her. The face of Gerard Ramsay came again to her mind, and she couldn’t help the sudden indignation that welled up inside.
Did privileged Gerard Ramsay comprehend the realities of life? Babies were being born into poverty and worse. Women were living in bondage to procurers. Black men and women were fleeing soul- and body-destroying shackles. And all he could think of was having a good time. If he were here, she would shake him till his teeth rattled.
She would warn Tippy not only about Stoddard’s appearance by the river, but that Ramsay was a bad influence on the man she wanted to marry. Resolved, she shoved away thoughts of Ramsay—a spoiled, probably dissolute gentleman—and prayed for the little baby with the whimsical expression who might not live through the night and the desperate runaway hiding in her attic. Spiriting her from the city unseen would be a challenge even for Blessing. The Lord would need to provide a way—Blessing couldn’t think of one.