Blessing (25 page)

His father humphed, moving away as quickly as courtesy allowed, letting all know that his mere presence here today was noblesse oblige.

Aunt Fran leaned closer. “You know that this will probably be your mother’s last Christmas?”

Gerard tingled from his head to the soles of his feet. He managed to nod. Impulsively he leaned down and embraced her. “I’m glad you’re here, Aunt Fran.”

She squeezed his hand and blinked away tears.

The wedding dinner passed without incident—many flowery toasts, clattering silverware, and cheerful chatter. Gerard had been seated across from Blessing this time. He tried to keep from looking at her too much, a struggle. She
was always attractive, but in her best silk she was beautiful. Nonetheless, Gerard wanted to give no hint to his father that he viewed her as anything more than Tippy’s friend and a shocking radical. He did not want his father to think that he might be interested in her romantically, because it might lead Saul Ramsay to be rude to her today. His feelings toward Blessing were in flux.

In the weeks since Sojourner Truth’s lecture, he’d stayed away from her simply because he wanted so much to be in her company. Now he once again felt the pull she exerted over him. It was physical, as if they were linked by an invisible bond. He glanced at his aunt and was arrested by her look of sympathy. The sad news she’d brought from home about his mother caught afresh in his heart.

The dinner ended. The party began to break up, and Gerard found himself leaving at the same time as Blessing. They met at the front door and paused simultaneously.

“May I offer thee a ride home?” Blessing said, pulling her woolen shawl closer around her in anticipation of the stiff wind.

As Gerard prepared to accept, his father rounded the corner. “Gerard will be riding home in my carriage.”

Gerard gritted his teeth at the man’s high-handed behavior, then lifted Blessing’s hand to his lips and clasped it within both of his hands. He’d wanted very much to touch her and would not let his father put him off. “You looked lovely today, Mrs. Brightman.”

Blessing nodded, slipped her hand free, and walked down the steps to her waiting carriage. Her grace and composure made him proud.

Gerard decided to go along with his father and get the big scene over and done with. His father looked about ready to explode with venom.

As soon as Father’s hired carriage pulled away from the curb, he launched his attack. “I can’t believe your cousin has married a pretty little nobody, here of all places.”

Already out of patience, Gerard looked directly at his father. “I am not returning to Boston. So save your breath.”

“I cannot understand what has possessed you to come to this provincial town.”

The fact that you don’t live here,
Gerard replied silently, then changed the topic. “Is Aunt Frances really moving here?”

“Yes.” His father sounded dazed. “She wants to be near her only son. I suppose that makes sense. Though why Stoddard doesn’t bring his bride to live at the estate near Boston that he inherited from his stepfather, I can’t understand. And why is he working at a bank? There’s no need for that.”

“He likes his job.”

“And you? Do you like your job?” his father jeered.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Selling insurance.”

“Yes, I am rendering that service to companies and individuals.”
And I am free of your interference.

“Going to make your fortune?” Father taunted. “Or going to marry one? I’ve heard you’re often in the company of that Quaker widow. A
Quaker
, of all things.”

Gerard had expected no less than scorn from his father. Tempted to lose his composure, he kept himself in hand. “Do you have to be so predictable, so commonplace?”

His father glared at him.

“Mrs. Brightman is an intelligent and interesting woman. We sometimes attend antislavery meetings and other lectures together—”

“Together.”
Saul said the word as if tasting vinegar. “Going to promiscuous meetings on outlandish subjects. What possesses you to do this? Just to flout me? Come to your senses and return to Boston. Take up your rightful place in the family business. I’ll reinstate your allowance, and I’ll take your opinion into consideration before presenting another candidate for marriage.”

Gerard sat back, letting himself feel the rhythm of the team as it drew nearer to the boardinghouse. Not long ago he’d have relished his father’s unhappy capitulation. But now he felt removed from it. “Actually, I have come to my senses—I think for the first time in my life.”

“What does that mean?” his father snapped.

“It means I am finally discovering who I am apart from you.”

“You’re my son, and you always will be.”

“True. That’s blood speaking, and blood can’t be denied. But I want my own life.” He glanced out the window and saw they were pulling up at Mrs. Mather’s house. “When do you leave for Boston?”

“Tomorrow on the first riverboat.”

The carriage halted and Gerard moved to exit.

His father’s arm came up, barring the way. “You’ll come home for Christmas?” This wasn’t a command but a request—and it was different, at last personal. It wasn’t about Saul Ramsay but must be an unusual plea for his wife’s sake.

“Yes, I’ll come home for Christmas,” Gerard replied. “I
wish you good travel, Father.” Then he was standing outside, watching the carriage drive away. He wanted to go to Boston for the holidays like he wanted to have all his teeth drawn. But he must return for one reason. Aunt Fran’s words echoed in his heart, wrenched already with sorrow.
This will be your mother’s last Christmas.

DECEMBER 18, 1848

In the days following the wedding, Gerard had fought going to visit Blessing. Now, the day before he was to leave for his parents’ home, he finally gave in. He could no longer deny that he was unable to leave without seeing her. Golden lamplight shone in her windows, and a wreath with holly and berries hung on her door.

Accustomed to the harsher winters of the northeastern coast, he felt that the December evening was unusually balmy. Kentucky lay just across the river, and the warmer climate was welcome while it lasted.

The housekeeper opened the door and reprimanded him. “Mr. Ramsay, the hour for house calls is long past.”

Her bold remark forced him to chuckle. “I realize that, but I worked late today and leave tomorrow. I’d like to see Mrs. Brightman before I—”

Then Blessing appeared in the hall. “Let him in, Salina.”

A new realization came to him. This woman was at ease with everyone, no matter their color, gender, or status. Blessing turned back into the rear parlor, the one usually reserved for intimate friends.

He hesitated, but the housekeeper was shutting the door
behind him and he couldn’t just stand on the rug. He let the housekeeper take his hat and cane before following Blessing toward the rear parlor. If she had been a never-married woman, he could not have called on her alone at this time of the evening. But society accorded widows more freedom. Especially Blessing Brightman.

On the other hand, his calling after dark would be viewed as significant, a sign of interest in her. While his mind reviewed this, his feet carried him straight to her. He paused at the threshold of the cozy room. Pine boughs adorned the mantel, cradling glowing pillar candles, their flames shielded within tall glass globes. A fire burned in the hearth, cheery and bright.

Clothed in one of her simple gray dresses, Blessing sat in a Windsor rocker. She had just picked up her knitting. The scene warmed him in a way he’d never experienced.

“Mrs. Brightman, I apologize for arriving here late.”

“Please make thyself comfortable, Ramsay.”

He chose the seat opposite her, unbuttoned his coat, and drew in a deep breath of the familiar fragrance of bayberry. He allowed the peace, elegance, and charm of the setting to soothe him.

“Thee leaves in the morning?” she said, the click of her wooden needles balm to him.

“Yes. I don’t really want to go, but I need to visit my mother. And then I will escort my aunt Fran back here so she can take up residence.”

The lady nodded. “I liked your aunt very much.”

No comment about his father. That sparked a chuckle. “Yes, she is a good woman who has known much sadness.”

Blessing counted her stitches. “I’m happy that she and Tippy seemed to take to each other.”

“She was quite fond of Tippy, and I’m glad she purchased a cottage so near Stoddard’s new home. Aunt Fran deserves to have some happiness.”

Blessing met his eyes. “I take it she was unlucky in husbands?”

He inclined his head. “But fortunate in her son.”

Blessing sent him one of her sweetest smiles. “I believe that.”

He forced himself not to reach for her hand.
What am I doing here?
Then he knew exactly what he’d come to discuss. “Do you think what that woman said actually happened?”

Blessing paused and looked up. “Who?”

“That woman we heard speak. Sojourner Truth. What kind of name is that, anyway?”

“Her real name was Isabella. She gave herself the name she bears now.”

“I see. Well?” he prompted.

“Thee must be more specific. She said much that I believe.” Blessing gazed at him.

“Do you really think she saw a vision of Christ?”

Blessing bent over her knitting and pushed down her foot to make her chair rock. “I am a Friend. We believe that the Holy Spirit guides us if we let him.”

“But it could simply have been her imagination.”

Blessing kept the rocker creaking in a gentle rhythm. “We are told, ‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find.’ Sojourner Truth was asking with a broken and contrite heart—a heart God promises not to despise. She couldn’t
read and didn’t have a Bible. How could she find God if no one bothered to teach her?”

He thought of all the Sundays he’d endured church services. He’d never felt the presence of anything divine there. “It just seems . . . unbelievable.”

“Before we had the written Scripture, God used visions and prophets. Yet not all such experiences are true. Friends depend on the Inner Light, Christ’s Light, yet we are always guided by Scripture.”

“How does one do that?”

She frowned slightly at him. “Thee knows the Scriptures. Who is the only mediator between God and man?”

He hadn’t thought of spiritual matters for a long time, but the answer was on his lips immediately. “Christ.”

“And in her vision, whom did Sojourner Truth see as the intercessor between herself and God?”

He closed his eyes, not needing to speak the answer.

“We are also told to test the spirits,” she continued, her gentle voice easing the kinks in his taut neck muscles.

He opened his eyes. “How?”

She shook her head at him. “Thee knows. Did Sojourner Truth have her vision and then go back and slaughter those who oppressed her? No. Her life is not a shame to Christ but a pleasant fragrance. And indeed I believe it took a powerful meeting with God to help this woman gain the courage to do what she does. God found a willing heart and claimed her for his work.”

Gerard smiled, still sorting her words. “You have all the answers.”

“No, I don’t. That much I know.” She put down her
knitting. “Tippy confided in me that thy mother is not in good health.”

Gloom fell on him. He looked away. “I fear this may be her last Christmas, as my aunt believes.”

“I am so sorry. Mothers are irreplaceable.”

He could not think of a response, so he merely nodded.

Salina entered with a tray and offered him a cup of holiday punch. He accepted it and relaxed in their companionable silence, listening to Blessing’s knitting needles and the comforting crackle of the fire.

Passing time with Blessing like this both stirred and calmed him, a confusing mix. He gazed at her as she bent over her knitting and felt he would be content never to leave. The thought of kissing her came to mind, making his lips tingle.

At this thought, he roused himself to bid his hostess good night. But, remembering, he reached into his pocket and brought out a slim, leather-bound volume. “I saw this in a shop and thought you might enjoy it.” He handed her the gift.

“
A Christmas Carol
by Charles Dickens. I’ve heard of it but haven’t read it. I do like Dickens. His fiction has substance.” She smiled up at him. “Thank thee, Ramsay.”

Longing shot through him, forceful and demanding. He pulled her up and stood within inches of her, staring into her green eyes. He desired to say something to her, something she would think of while he was gone. But all his words had fled. He stroked her soft cheek with the back of his hand, wanting to kiss her. Again he could almost feel their lips meeting. But he stopped himself short. “Merry Christmas, Blessing Brightman.”

She glanced downward and stepped back. “Godspeed, Ramsay.”

The urge to draw her deep into his arms crashed over him. So he, too, stepped back from temptation. “Good night.”

He left the parlor swiftly, not waiting for anyone to see him out. By the door, he gathered his things and hurried outside. The widow was becoming more and more special to him—something he hadn’t asked for, couldn’t afford. He wasn’t the man for such a free-thinking woman.