children rested against their mothers or fathers. Although a few babies whimpered or fussed, their noise didn’t disturb the process of letting go of the world and entering God’s peace. Her worries continued to bob up and she continued handing them to Christ.
Across the room on the men’s side, her father, Samuel Cathwell, rose from his position beside her brother, John. This was a rare occurrence. Her father, who had been deaf since a childhood illness, did not speak often because his voice sounded odd and it embarrassed him. Blessing waited, filled with a special love for this quiet man.
Instead of speaking aloud, though, he began signing, and her mother interpreted the motions of his hands aloud for the congregation. “Sometimes I tremble for our nation,” shesaid. “The scourge of slavery has cost many lives and will cost many more. A deep blindness, born of greed, has covered the Southern states. I long for God to find a way to end it without bloodshed. That is my prayer.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the meeting. Even those who didn’t approve of helping escaped slaves could agree, as no Friend wanted violence. Her father sat down. The stillness resumed except for the cries of one baby. His mother rose and left the meeting, murmuring to the child.
Blessing considered her father’s words and prayed in agreement for slavery to end soon and without violence. But how that could be done only God knew.
As much as Blessing longed to be centered within God’s peace, her mind began to disobey her again, bringing up scenes from the past months. Meeting Gerard Ramsay in Seneca Falls, dining with him at the Fosters’, bumping into him at the riverfront. Stop, she ordered herself. Then a plan began to form in her mind of how she might help two birds at risk with one stone. A sweet, devious smile curved her lips.
Gerard rose from bed long after breakfast had ended. Sitting on the side of his bed, he scrubbed his face with his hands, but that did nothing to alleviate the ache behind his eyes or the frustrations circling through his mind.
When Blessing Brightman had recognized him last night, the look she’d given him . . . Another meddling reformer who would tell him how to live his life and enumerate his sins. How could he disarm her? Spike her guns while he peeled Stoddard out of Miss Foster’s gloved mitts—assuming Blessing’s ownwords didn’t do the job? A plan began to form in his mind. He chuckled. Military history class had taught him one thing, at least: always attack on the least-expected front.
SEPTEMBER 4, 1848
The next morning Gerard drove up to Blessing Brightman’s impressive home and tied his rented horse and gig to the ornate iron hitching post shaped like a horse’s head. Sure of success, he ran lightly up the steps and knocked. Women were so easy to manipulate.
Before long he was waiting in her parlor.
The widow entered, not making much effort to conceal her unease or lack of pleasure at seeing him there. “Gerard Ramsay, what may I do for thee?” she challenged him.
“I think we started off on the wrong foot, Mrs. Brightman.” He crafted his most charming smile, the one he used on the wives of pompous men—wives he was trying to seduce. “I’ve hired a gig and would like you to show me Cincinnati and a little of the surrounding area. It will give us an opportunity to become better acquainted. Will you join me?” He said the last as a light dare. Would the woman come or demur?
She stared at him for a long moment and then did something he hadn’t expected: she chuckled. “What a kind invitation. I have a friend visiting me whom I was going to carry to her next destination, about six miles from here. I dreaded driving back alone.”
“A friend?” he stammered. He wanted to have Blessing to himself in order to ply her with flattery and pique her interest in him.
“So kind of you,” the widow went on, ignoring his question, moving toward the door. “We’ll be
Across the room on the men’s side, her father, Samuel Cathwell, rose from his position beside her brother, John. This was a rare occurrence. Her father, who had been deaf since a childhood illness, did not speak often because his voice sounded odd and it embarrassed him. Blessing waited, filled with a special love for this quiet man.
Instead of speaking aloud, though, he began signing, and her mother interpreted the motions of his hands aloud for the congregation. “Sometimes I tremble for our nation,” shesaid. “The scourge of slavery has cost many lives and will cost many more. A deep blindness, born of greed, has covered the Southern states. I long for God to find a way to end it without bloodshed. That is my prayer.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the meeting. Even those who didn’t approve of helping escaped slaves could agree, as no Friend wanted violence. Her father sat down. The stillness resumed except for the cries of one baby. His mother rose and left the meeting, murmuring to the child.
Blessing considered her father’s words and prayed in agreement for slavery to end soon and without violence. But how that could be done only God knew.
As much as Blessing longed to be centered within God’s peace, her mind began to disobey her again, bringing up scenes from the past months. Meeting Gerard Ramsay in Seneca Falls, dining with him at the Fosters’, bumping into him at the riverfront. Stop, she ordered herself. Then a plan began to form in her mind of how she might help two birds at risk with one stone. A sweet, devious smile curved her lips.
Gerard rose from bed long after breakfast had ended. Sitting on the side of his bed, he scrubbed his face with his hands, but that did nothing to alleviate the ache behind his eyes or the frustrations circling through his mind.
When Blessing Brightman had recognized him last night, the look she’d given him . . . Another meddling reformer who would tell him how to live his life and enumerate his sins. How could he disarm her? Spike her guns while he peeled Stoddard out of Miss Foster’s gloved mitts—assuming Blessing’s ownwords didn’t do the job? A plan began to form in his mind. He chuckled. Military history class had taught him one thing, at least: always attack on the least-expected front.
SEPTEMBER 4, 1848
The next morning Gerard drove up to Blessing Brightman’s impressive home and tied his rented horse and gig to the ornate iron hitching post shaped like a horse’s head. Sure of success, he ran lightly up the steps and knocked. Women were so easy to manipulate.
Before long he was waiting in her parlor.
The widow entered, not making much effort to conceal her unease or lack of pleasure at seeing him there. “Gerard Ramsay, what may I do for thee?” she challenged him.
“I think we started off on the wrong foot, Mrs. Brightman.” He crafted his most charming smile, the one he used on the wives of pompous men—wives he was trying to seduce. “I’ve hired a gig and would like you to show me Cincinnati and a little of the surrounding area. It will give us an opportunity to become better acquainted. Will you join me?” He said the last as a light dare. Would the woman come or demur?
She stared at him for a long moment and then did something he hadn’t expected: she chuckled. “What a kind invitation. I have a friend visiting me whom I was going to carry to her next destination, about six miles from here. I dreaded driving back alone.”
“A friend?” he stammered. He wanted to have Blessing to himself in order to ply her with flattery and pique her interest in him.
“So kind of you,” the widow went on, ignoring his question, moving toward the door. “We’ll be
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