Blessing (19 page)

So he’d reserved a room at a prominent hotel, ordered engraved dinner invitations, and sent them to the prospective investors from the list.

Tonight, with the sound of rain on the windows, he welcomed his eight guests into the comfortable dining room, with its velvety flocked wallpaper, ornate fireplace, and thick, claret-colored carpet, for a delicious meal. After dinner, over a fine port and cigars, he would outline for them his plans for a racetrack, including the two promising tracts of land he’d found when he toured Cincinnati’s outskirts.

Dinner went off without a hitch, and all of the men were more congenial than Gerard would have expected from Smith’s acquaintances. He’d made brief allusion to the racetrack early on, and at least a few of his guests seemed amenable. As he started the bottle of port around the table,
Gerard knew the decisive moment was almost here. He looked for an opening in the conversation.

“We had a bad week for business at the end of September,” said a man with a pronounced paunch straining against his embroidered vest.

Another with thinning hair and a sarcastic expression accepted the bottle and poured. “But it got rid of a lot of our
unwanted
population. I’ve noticed a black exodus, haven’t you?”

The other men all nodded with approval.

They couldn’t mean what Gerard thought they meant. “Are you talking about the riot?” he asked.

“Yes,” the first man said. “The mayor could have handled it more efficiently, but he got the job done.”

Gerard recalled Theodosia’s terror and felt again the impact of each child landing in his arms. Would these men have let them be burned alive? He stared at the group, unexpectedly repulsed. And disgusted. No doubt they attended church each Sunday. Hypocrites. Blessing Brightman’s fierce expression flickered in his mind. Well, he’d met one real Christian here in Cincinnati. And she bedeviled him at will.

“We hear you’re interested in Brightman’s widow,” another suggested with a sly grin.

Gerard jerked inwardly. It was as if the man had read his mind.

“Hope you have better luck with her than her late husband did,” the man with the paunch said and laughed, making his belly shake. “Poor Brightman came to a sudden end.”

“There was gossip that she had something to do with that
untimely and abrupt end,” the gent with the thinning hair added.

A few men nodded. “That’s what comes of a man leaving his fortune to his young wife,” one said.

Gerard could not believe what was being hinted about the Quakeress. These men thought her capable of her husband’s demise? Again their conversation repelled him. But he’d wondered about one aspect of this situation before, and now he had someone to ask. “Why did he leave her his fortune? Was she aware of that before he died?”

The man with the paunch shrugged. “Don’t know—”

The pocket door to the private dining room slid open. And Blessing Brightman herself stepped in, dressed in her most sober gray Quaker garb, as if on her way to the meetinghouse.

The jovial men were struck dumb.

Gerard nearly choked on his port. He couldn’t believe it himself. Blessing had pursued him once more. How did she know of this dinner party? And to come uninvited to an all-male gathering—did nothing intimidate her?

“Good evening, gentlemen. I heard Gerard Ramsay was holding a meeting of prospective investors for his future racetrack.”

The men had risen as one in the presence of a lady. Their expressions were ludicrous but told a clear tale. They, of course, all understood the potential social consequences if this lady let it be widely known that they were investing in a disreputable gambling venture. Even in circles not prone to reform, public proclamation of this fact would be viewed with disfavor as not “respectable.” Universal dismay registered on each face.

“Racetrack?” the one who had approved of the black exodus blustered. “That wasn’t mentioned to me.” He moved away from the table, feigning outrage.

The others joined in with a spatter of disgruntled
Or me
’s.

Within minutes the men had thanked him for their fine dinner, remembered other engagements, and left.

Gerard helplessly watched them go and then turned to the widow. Blessing gazed at him without any gloating in her expression. As usual, she was studying him. He should have been very angry with her.

But in truth, he was glad in some ways to see the men go. He had no plans to admit that, however. “Well, Widow Brightman, how did you find out about my business dinner?” Though unable to keep the resentment from his voice, breeding dictated that he politely motion for her to take a seat before he resumed his own.

Blessing settled across from him. “Stoddard told me. And I’m glad I came. Every man in this room is no doubt beholden to Smith. If thee obtained thy capital from them, he would in actuality hold the strings to thy scheme. He would own thy investors, own thy racetrack, own thee. Is that clear enough?”

Gerard refused to cede victory to her. “I can handle Smith.”

“Is thee so certain of that?”

He changed directions. “I still do not understand how you know so much about Smith.”

A veil dropped over her features. She looked away.

He waited to hear her explanation.

“Smith is my adversary and has been for many years.” Her voice was low and hinted at some unreadable emotion.
She looked into his face. “Thee must have realized by now that if thee joins thyself to him, only he will profit from this venture. Hasn’t thee?”

“I don’t see that at all,” he retorted, holding in his irritation at her interference. “You act as if Smith were in charge of Cincinnati. From what I’ve heard, he’s merely the most successful bookmaker.”

She let out a sound of dark mirth. “His influence runs wide throughout the criminal class, and he is universally feared. He is relentless and unscrupulous toward any target. The men here tonight could have told thee that. I’m quite sure that each was sent a message that he must accept thy invitation tonight. Each man here
owes
Smith. And fears him.”

Gerard hated her way of speaking openly of matters no lady should ever even acknowledge. “Do you never stop meddling, ma’am?” he snapped.

“I don’t meddle. I shine the light into the dark corners of this city. Does thee really want to belong to Smith?”

“No, I don’t.” For once he told her the absolute truth.
But I don’t have to.
He’d step back and give this some thought. Certainly there were some men in Cincinnati who didn’t belong to Smith, were sufficiently discreet, and could be interested in his racetrack.

“Then pay the bill and let us leave this place.”

Again her audacity stymied him. What other woman would do what she’d done tonight? And then act as if she’d done nothing more than drop in for a visit?

Marveling, he rose and obeyed her. There really was nothing else for him to do—not now, at least. As he finished
paying, he recalled that he had only enough money left to support himself for two more weeks. Then he’d be broke and forced to ask his mother for more than she could spare of her private funds. The realization ignited his stomach. He might have to follow an unexpected course of action. After escorting the widow out and handing her over to her driver, he stepped back under the overhang at the entrance, eyeing the unwelcoming rain.

From her carriage window, the widow waved at him. “Would thee like a ride home?”

“Why not? It’s the least you can do for me.” Ducking his head and running through the rain, Gerard climbed in beside her, and the driver started off. Gerard shook the rain from his hat and swiped at the raindrops on his shoulders. He wished he could shake off Smith as easily.

Then he recalled how Smith had revealed that he was keeping close watch on Gerard. And more unsettling somehow, the man’s marked animus toward Blessing. Her words tonight had affirmed this hostility. What grudge lay between these two unlikely people?

Rain pattered on the carriage roof as if taunting him. He might have been playing the fool, and this irritating woman had intervened. But he was unsure whether she did it to settle a score with Smith or to save Gerard from his own folly.

Blessing, mostly shielded from his view by the darkness, spoke without preamble. “I asked Stoddard why thee was pursuing the racetrack. He wouldn’t tell me, but I could see that he knew thy reasons. Will thee tell me? I want to understand.”

“Why am I of interest to you?” he snapped, her disruptive forthrightness still jabbing him with each breath.

“Ah, I am delving too deeply,” she observed in that calm and maddening way of hers.

The rain continued to fall in a constant tapping on the roof. Gerard brooded in silence. “Let me say again: my life is of no concern to you.”

“On the contrary, the lives of others are my main concern. Thee seems to be at odds within thyself. Thee has every opportunity to make a good life here in this city, but instead thee takes delight in flouting society—”

“You’re the one who flouts society,” he interrupted hotly. “Going to the docks at night, associating with . . . harlots and their bastards. Why does society tolerate you?”

In spite of the murky shadows, he felt her intense gaze upon him. “I am deemed an Original,” she said in a light tone with a self-mocking edge. “A Quakeress who married into high society. I’m also fair to look at and very, very wealthy. I give much to municipal projects, such as the free library being built. I support political candidates. And if I weren’t there to enliven society, whom would the ladies whisper about behind their fans? I amuse them, intrigue them. That is why I continue to be received.”

After viewing her movements in society, unfortunately he couldn’t refute her logic. He never had—yet.

The rain suddenly intensified against the carriage roof.

“Again I will invite thee to attend James Bradley’s lecture with me.”

He batted the invitation away like a fly and raised his voice against the falling rain. “How will that help me establish myself here?”

“More important, how will it help thee establish who thee is—here or elsewhere?”

Many hot words bubbled up. Gerard swallowed them down. His plan for tonight had been thwarted. After taking the measure of the men Smith had suggested—men who, Gerard had to admit, might have been his last resort—he was coming to a sobering conclusion. He would have to find employment.

Perhaps pursuing a career here could broaden his pool of acquaintances. He didn’t have to give up on the racetrack completely, just take his time and do it without Smith and his ilk.

Still, he didn’t want to let go of the possibility of striking back at his father for his overbearing ways. The sound of the downpour mirrored the way his heart beat whenever he thought of letting his father go unscathed after cutting off his allowance, all with the goal of controlling him.

But the Quakeress was right. He could make a good life here for himself away from his father’s influence. Still, he must make his father pay for all the hurt he’d inflicted, not only on Gerard but also on his mother and anybody he deemed inferior to himself. His father did not deserve to prosper. He deserved judgment, and who could shame him more than his only son? His father had quoted King Lear to him more than once:

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is

To have a thankless child!

Then another quote came to mind:

Living well is the best revenge.

OCTOBER 20, 1848

Several days later, Gerard, with the Quakeress at his side, entered the small auditorium at Lane Seminary. The days were becoming shorter and shorter, so candle sconces flickered on the walnut-wainscoted walls, and a large chandelier glimmered overhead. He felt as if he were outside himself, watching a stranger.
Am I really doing this?

As if she heard his thoughts, Blessing glanced at him. “Thee can always back out now.”

The veiled taunt in her voice grabbed him around the throat. He shook off the sensation. “I am unintimidated, madam.”

She had the nerve to grin at him.

The last week had been eventful for Gerard. He’d telegraphed his mother, and she had arranged for the transfer of some money into his bank account here. But he knew it was wrong to depend on her, especially in light of the strict limits Father placed on her funds. So in spite of this infusion of cash and with the racetrack still in the back of his mind, he’d faced the facts and gone to one of the businessmen he’d met at Stoddard and Tippy’s party. The man had offered to interview him for a job in his steamboat firm. The position hadn’t been a good fit, but the man had said he was sure there was a position for a Ramsay in Cincinnati. He would let it be known that Gerard was looking for employment.

I am looking for a job.
That was just as unbelievable as his walking into this promiscuous meeting where both men and women would listen to a speaker—and a speaker with
dark skin, to boot. His own discomfort offered him some satisfaction. If he couldn’t yet embarrass his father by owning a notorious racetrack, he might do even better by dabbling in abolitionism, a radical cause that, according to Father, no respectable person would support. But after his dinner with “respectable” gentlemen here, perhaps this evening would be enlightening.