Blessing by Lyn Cote

forward ideas. Now she was simply worried. She would write to some abolitionist acquaintances who lived in the Boston area to discover more about Stoddard Henry and his cousin. Forewarned was forearmed. Tippy deserved the truth, needed the truth.

    Entering the orphanage kitchen, Blessing found Theodosia at the table, munching a sandwich and drinking a tall glass of milk with Luke in one arm. “Hello, Theodosia.” Her heart beat faster. What would the report be on the infant?
    “Miss Blessing,” Theodosia said, inclining her head toward Luke, “he’s been nursing ’bout every hour.” The woman nodded at her plate. “I’m having to eat and drink more just to keep up.”
    Lightened by relief, Blessing smiled and sat near them. “Did thee take a nap? I don’t want thee to become overdone.”
    “I did. Joanna took over my two little’uns and watched them with the rest while I napped most of the afternoon. This one just sleeps and eats.”
    The cook at the stove turned and smiled at the baby. “Heis a good one. Before long he be as fat a baby as anybody could want.”
    Except nobody wants him. Despair suddenly knotted Blessing’s throat. For a long time, she had thought she might adopt a child or two from the orphanage. Maybe Luke would be the first one. He drew her in a special way.
    She stroked his fine golden hair. He spared her a brief glance before going back to the important task of nursing. He already looked like a different baby from the one she’d rescued. Food and care had awakened his will to live. Blessing rejoiced.

    After dinner and on his way to follow up a racetrack lead, Gerard could not shake the aftertaste from his troubling day spent in Blessing’s audacious company. Somewhere on the drive home, he had come to the realization that she was a complex and resourceful woman. His usual tactics might not work on her, but he wouldn’t give up. She believed she was the equal of a man. That alone needed to be addressed. He would find a way to humble her, teach her to take her womanly place in society.
    However, furthering his racetrack came first. In the autumn twilight the wharf had barely begun to stir when Gerard entered one of the alehouses, looking for a prominent bookmaker named Clancy. Gerard walked directly to the barkeep and asked for the man.
    “Who wants to know?”
    Gerard had already planned what he’d say. “A man with means and connections who has a business proposition which will benefit both parties.”
    The barkeep, who appeared as though he’d once been a boxer, looked him up and down. And then glanced toward the darker back corner. At a nod from the man there, he motioned Gerard toward a table. “Clancy’s over there.”
    Gerard thanked the barkeep and strolled over. He sized up the bookmaker quickly. Clancy appeared to be on the dark side of forty, with rumpled clothing but a clean face and hands, as well as a fine gentleman’s hat hanging on the back of his chair. A ham-fisted man stood behind him.
    Clancy had also been sizing up Gerard. “Who’re you? And what da ya want?”
    Gerard pulled out a chair, sat down across from him, and paused to flick a particle of dust from his pant leg. Then he looked up at Clancy. “I’m Gerard Ramsay of Boston,” he said, in no hurry. “I’m new in town and looking for a profitable investment. I was thinking it’s a shame—” he lowered his voice slightly—“that Cincinnati doesn’t have a permanent racetrack. I heard that you’re one of the main bookmakers in town—”
    “He’s the top bookmaker,” the ham-fisted man spoke up, “and a lot more.”
    Clancy raised a hand. “Go on, Mr. Ramsay.”
    “I thought you might be able to tell me if anybody else is trying to bring this into being.” He sent the man a knowing grin, like a slice of crescent moon. “Since I’m new in town, I don’t know whose toes I might be stepping on as I proceed.”
    Clancy tilted his head as if trying to see another angle of Gerard’s