Blessing (6 page)

“The lower classes lack self-control. That’s all, and it’s not going to change no matter what people say.” Mr. Foster took another spoonful of the just-served beef consommé.

Gerard was aware that the woman beside him had gone very still. No doubt she agreed with the daughter, not the father. Blessing Brightman was a meddler if he ever saw one.

Tempted to say more, he decided to wait to pursue the topic till the gentlemen were left alone with the port after dinner. The idea of a permanent racetrack suddenly presented itself to him in another light. This might be an opportunity to address his most pressing need: a new source of income. And if he were forced to stay longer in Cincinnati than he’d anticipated, he might as well turn it to his monetary advantage. From what he’d seen yesterday, a new track would have no shortage of patrons. Here was a need he could meet.

Yes, a permanent racetrack just might prove to be an ideal investment. And it certainly would exasperate Miss Tippy Foster and perhaps Mrs. Blessing Brightman too.

Gerard smiled and, in spite of his touchy stomach, continued eating the excellent dinner, planning his course toward profit and vexation of the bluestockings. Abruptly, the memory of yesterday’s horse race brought up recollections of the
stranger who’d eyed him with such hostility. The unsettled feeling rose within, but he dismissed it.

Later that evening Blessing climbed down from her town carriage. Night was one of her busiest times. Gerard Ramsay crossed her thoughts, engendering so many varied feelings. But she couldn’t deal with them right now.

Judson, her driver, stood nearby. His dark, wrinkled face was barely visible in the night. “Miss Blessin’, I gon’ stay right here and wait for you. You call out if you need me.” He said this every night at the docks, always wanting to protect her.

Her mind drifted back to the previous hours at the Fosters’ and, before she could forestall herself, to Gerard Ramsay. A very handsome and disturbing man.
He doesn’t like me, and I shouldn’t care.

A passerby jostled her, and she immediately checked her pocket for her small purse.
Nothing gone.
Pickpockets and purse cutters abounded on the wharf. She brushed Gerard Ramsay out of her mind and turned, only to nearly bump into Mr. Smith.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she hoped it didn’t show. Mr. Smith liked to catch her by surprise, upset her if he could. She knew she stuck in his craw. “Good evening,” she said, making her voice cool and unruffled in complete contrast to the latent anger he always managed to inflame within her.

“If it isn’t the widow Brightman, out doing good among the poor sinners,” he replied, his voice shaded with a sneer but so subtle that to rise to it would put her in the wrong.

She attempted to smile, but a scene from the past glimmered within—Richard, sobbing with regret the morning after a night’s binge in this man’s company. The pain of that memory clutched at her. “May I help thee?”

“Help me to where or what? Perdition?” he mocked her.

She gazed at him wordlessly. Smith regularly sought her out and taunted her. This man had done her great harm through her husband, and she still struggled to forgive him. It was hard to forgive a man who was always busy enticing others down the path to destruction.

“As much as I’d like to stay and chat, ma’am, this is my time to do business.” He bowed his head and walked off, whistling. Smith’s so-called bodyguard—the man who beat others at his orders—followed behind like a faithful dog.

In Smith’s wake, Blessing tried to loosen her tension by drawing breaths of increasing depth.

Then one of the night watches who patrolled the wharf to keep order approached her. He’d been standing in the shadows, no doubt waiting for Smith to leave. No one wanted Smith’s attention. Blessing and Richard had found that out the hard way.

“Mrs. Brightman,” he greeted her respectfully.

In definite contrast to Smith. Irritated with herself for letting the man get under her skin yet again, she smiled at the tall young man in uniform. “Good evening.”

“One of the
women
asked me about you and your work with orphans. She has a child that needs a home.”

Another illegitimate child nobody wanted, another life she might save. As usual, Blessing simultaneously experienced
a lift of thanks and a pang of regret. “Thank thee. Where is the child?”

“I’ll take you there, ma’am.”

She nodded her gratitude and walked beside him to one of the many brothels on the quay. A line of men waited at the door. At the sight of her, they melted into the darker shadows.

“I’ll be near if you need me,” the night watch said. “Her name’s Ducky Hughes. You’ll find her on the landing, third door.”

Blessing touched his arm and then walked through the open door and scaled with caution the slanting staircase by the light of a few candles in glass wall sconces. At the stench of filth, she resisted the urge to cover her nose with her scented handkerchief. She tapped on the third door.

It opened with caution. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Ducky Hughes.”

“Who’s asking for . . . Ducky?”

“I’m Blessing Brightman.”

The door opened, revealing a thin, worn woman in a scanty, soiled dress. “You the Quaker lady?”

“Yes, I am.”

The woman waved her inside. “I hear you take in kids.”

“I have a home for foundlings and orphans and others.”

“I been taking care of a friend’s newborn. She died a month ago. I can’t do it anymore. But I want him safe and fed.”

“I understand. Is there no other family for the child?”

The woman let out a sarcastic grunt. “None who wants him. Will you take him?”

Blessing drew in a breath. “Of course I will.” Her mind went back to Seneca Falls. That meeting had not just been about winning the right to vote for women but also about securing women equal status. Society’s double standard had forced many a young woman into a life of prostitution. Why could a man sow his wild oats and still be accepted in parlors and churches while a woman who made one mistake became condemned to a life like this? And if women could work at honest jobs and earn enough to support themselves, would any seek this life?

In short order the woman wrapped the baby in a ragged blanket and placed him in Blessing’s arms. “I’m glad I heard of you. I was worried about what would happen to him.”

“No need to worry. Thee may come and visit him if thee wishes.”

“I can?” The woman sounded first startled, then suspicious. “Really?”

“Certainly. The house is on Seventh Street and Washington. The one with the fenced-in garden.” Blessing sized up the woman. “Now, does thee need anything? There’s room for women there too.”

The woman shook her head. “I do all right.”

Blessing wished she could counter this, but if the woman wanted to remain in “the life,” she could do nothing to help her. “Thank thee. We’ll take good care of him.” Blessing turned and headed out.

A man leaned in the open doorway. “Glad to see you’re doing something with that brat. But, Ducky, this Quaker scared away all your customers.”

Every word from this excuse for a man ground like sand
paper inside Blessing, but she didn’t let her disapproval show.
Brat
was a kinder term than
bastard
, which, unfortunately, this infant probably was.

The woman grunted again in disgust. “They’ll be back.”

The despair concealed within the woman’s sarcastic tone touched a raw spot in Blessing’s own wounded heart. Why wouldn’t Ducky leave this man who rented her out at night? Was it just despair or fear that kept her here?

Passing by the man, who sneered at her, Blessing realized once again that while she moved among the people who inhabited the wharf, she did not understand what caused them to live as they did. This life was not simply the result of poverty. She knew poor men who loved their wives and cared for their children in spite of need—and poor women who did the same. Perhaps those who lived at the wharf were the “poor in spirit.”

Blessing carried the infant down the stairs and out of the house. The child needed a bath, clean clothes, and food. She could provide all of those things, but what of the things she couldn’t provide—a family, a sense of self-respect, a respect for God and man? Who could supply those? A thought she’d entertained for a while nudged her. Perhaps there was a way she could provide this child with some of those things. She glanced at him in the scant light. In spite of his thinness, he was a handsome child with blond down on his head like a duckling. He opened his eyes wide as if studying her also. She grinned at him and he gave a little kick, almost smiling back.

The night watch stepped out into the gaslight’s illumination and pulled the brim of his cap in politeness.

“Thank thee! I have the child.” At that moment, Blessing
caught sight of a familiar figure on the other side of the pool of light.

She gasped, flooded with dismay. So this man not only disliked independent females but also abused helpless women himself.

Gerard Ramsay was unable to hide his shock. “What are you doing in
this
part of town at this hour?”

Blessing stared at him. In her arms, the baby in the bundle whimpered as if also unhappy with Ramsay.

“Everybody knows,” the night watch said in a stiff tone, “that this lady is a very respectable widow. She works among the poor on the docks. We look out for her. Now go about your business, sir.”

“Thank thee,” she said to the young man. “This
gentleman
is new to Cincinnati.”

“I didn’t realize that suffragists also worked for the poor,” Gerard said in a disparaging tone.

His tone fired up her indignation. “My work includes helping those women who are most mistreated by the unjust laws and prejudice we women must endure. How else would I work for women’s betterment here and now? Lobbying for new laws while ignoring present abuses would be negligence.”

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?

T
HE 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.”