Blessing Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE QUAKER BRIDES SERIES

  Blessing

  “Can love grow between a Quakeress widow, whose passion is nurturing the abused, and a man of means, who’s striving for independence from his father? A relationship separated by the culture and values of 1848 explodes on the page in a story only Lyn Cote could pen.”

  DIANN MILLS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE FBI: HOUSTON SERIES

  “Rich and rewarding! Blessing will captivate you from beginning to end. A unique and compelling plot and well-drawn characters will bring you back in history to Cincinnati, Ohio, where women’s rights were nonexistent and racial tension permeated the city. I couldn’t put this book down until I learned their fate. A must read!”

  JUDITH MILLER, AUTHOR OF THE REFINED BY LOVE SERIES

  Honor

  “Strong in faith and determined to do what is right no matter the law, [Honor] is a spirited testament to the strength a wife can offer her husband. The unfolding of their sweet romance is a joy to read. . . .”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “With strong characters and compelling action . . . this story was highly engaging, and is one I would gladly recommend to my family and friends.”

  THE CHRISTIAN MANIFESTO

  “Author Lyn Cote has carefully presented the situation of a period when women had little freedom and the Underground Railroad operated in secrecy. . . . I’m glad I met her heroine Honor, and I’ll be watching out for more [of her] historical romances.”

  FRESH FICTION

  “A wonderful story of a brave and strong woman, Honor is both a sweet romance and a lesson on the importance of doing what is right. The historical detail is fascinating, and the characters are rich and real. Highly recommended!”

  GAYLE ROPER, AUTHOR OF AN UNEXPECTED MATCH

  “Cote skillfully and deftly combines period details with a touching, heart-warming love story in a thought-provoking tale that will have readers eager for the next book in the Quaker Brides series.”

  MARTA PERRY, AUTHOR OF THE LOST SISTERS OF PLEASANT VALLEY SERIES

  “In Honor, Lyn Cote has given her many faithful readers another story of suspense, surprise, and love that will hold their attention from beginning to end.”

  IRENE BRAND, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF LOVE FINDS YOU UNDER THE MISTLETOE

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Lyn Cote’s website at www.lyncote.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Blessing

  Copyright © 2015 by Lyn Cote. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Stephen Vosloo

  Edited by Danika King

  Published in association with the literary agency of Browne & Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 410 Michigan Avenue, Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Blessing is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cote, Lyn.

  Blessing / Lyn Cote.

  pages ; cm. — (Quaker brides ; #2)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-7561-8 (sc)

  I. Title.

  PS3553.O76378B58 2015

  813'.54—dc23 2015003183

  Build: 2015-04-23 11:15:32

  To my dear friend Christine: wish you lived closer.

  And to our beloved friend Gwen, may she rest in peace.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Preview of Honor

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  SENECA FALLS, NEW YORK

  JULY 19, 1848

  On the high bench of the farmer’s open wagon, Gerard Ramsay tried to take a deep breath, but the heaviness of life, a constant pressure over his heart, made it difficult—not to mention the July heat. Under the cloudless royal-blue sky, the New York countryside blazed green with healthy crops and full-leafed trees.

  From the corner of his eye, Gerard observed with increasing chagrin his lifelong friend Kennan Buckley, who was sitting next to him. The man’s expression radiated a kind of unholy glee.

  Kennan’s devilish sense of humor had lightened their boarding school and university years, but now that they were nearing thirty . . . Gerard almost asked, “This isn’t one of your foolhardy pranks, is it?”

  The rough wagon lurched over a deep rut, and Gerard had to hold on to both his seat and his silk top hat. “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he growled into Kennan’s ear. “I left Boston for Saratoga for some horse racing and light flirtation at the springs—” another deep rut jarred them—“not this.”

  “Do you want to let your own cousin down?” Kennan retorted. “And of course, I had nothing better to do than bump along a country road in this heat.”

  Gerard sucked in hot July air and felt the starch in his shirt wilting in the blazing sun. “All right,” he said under his breath. “The whole idea seems inconceivable.”

  “Well, conceive it. Stoddard Henry is in danger of becoming ensnared by a female—and a female who would lure him to a women’s rights meeting. Have you ever?”

  “I—”

  “Whoa!” the driver announced. “Here we are, gents. The Wesleyan Chapel.” The wagon rolled to a halt. The two horses flicked their tails high, swishing away irritating flies.

  After Kennan, Gerard scrambled down from the bench, resisting the urge to rub his bruised posterior. He glanced around at the small town of Seneca Falls. He immediately recognized the chapel, a large brick building on the corner surrounded by tall leafy oaks and maples, with a few hundred people gathered around the door. So many standing outside in this heat and in this out-of-the-way village—the sight was startling. How had they heard about the meeting? “Look. Would you believe it—a crowd?”

  “What did I tell you?” Kennan said, striding toward the building.

  Gerard turned to pay the farmer. Kennan hadn’t bothered. But they’d been lucky to find this man and his wagon. When they’d arrived this morning on the early train from Saratoga, all the carriages at the station had already been taken. They’d persuaded this farmer, who’d been picking up a package, to bring them the few miles here.

  “Gent, I’ll be coming back this way in a few days.” The farmer mopped his face with a large, frayed kerchief. “Should I stop and pick you up?”

  Gerard hesitated. “Is there an inn here?”

  “A few. The best is the Seneca Farmers’ Inn—best food, clean sheets.”

  “When you come through, check for me—Gerard Ramsay—there, then. I’ll leave word whether to find me or forget me.” Gerard added an extra two bits.

  The farmer beamed at him. “You can count on me, gent. I’m Jim Patterson. Everybody around here knows me.” The man tugged the brim of his straw hat, pocketed the money, and slapped the reins.

  Gerard hurried into the shade of the tall trees near the Wesleyan Chapel. He too took out his handkerchief and wiped the grime and perspiration from his face and hands. This crisis would h
ave to land right at the very height and heat of summer.

  The large crowd of women and, unbelievably, some men still waited outside the double doors of the chapel. Something odd was going on there. Two men were lifting a boy up to a window near the door. The lad opened the latch and slipped inside. Soon, to everyone’s loud approval, he opened the chapel doors from within. No one had a key to open the chapel? What kind of ill-prepared meeting was this?

  Gerard already knew the answer to that. A bunch of lunatics and radicals. He hurried forward, craning to see above the crowd, looking for his tall cousin.

  “There!” Kennan shouted across the people now surging inside and gestured toward the door.

  Gerard glimpsed his cousin—who, at the sound of Kennan’s voice, turned just as the building swallowed him from sight.

  Kennan jogged back to Gerard. “So did you see her?”

  “No.” Gerard felt irritation, hot and unpleasant like the summer air, roll through him.

  “She’s a very pretty blonde and she was right beside him.”

  Gerard chewed on this information. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Believe it.”

  Gerard started forward.

  Kennan grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going after Stoddard.”

  “Into that women’s meeting?” Kennan’s voice rose. “Are you out of your senses too?”

  “Maybe he’ll come to his senses when he sees me.” Gerard pulled away.

  “Suit yourself. And I’ll do the same. I’m going to find a tavern and some cool, wet ale. Isn’t that better than charging into bedlam? Stoddard will come out at luncheon.”

  Gerard shook his head as he hurried to the chapel door. At seven years of age, all three of them—Kennan, Stoddard, and Gerard—had been sent away to boarding school. Stoddard and Kennan had been unwanted stepsons and Gerard had felt like one. The three had learned to count only on each other, and the bond still held. He must find his cousin and stop him from making a fool of himself.

  Inside the chapel, Gerard tried to glimpse Stoddard, but it was so crowded that he couldn’t. And since the seats were all taken, he found himself obliged to stand in the back. When a woman stepped to the pulpit to address the congregation, Gerard felt his jaw drop. A woman speaking to a group of females and males—in public?

  Astounded, Gerard stumbled back outside toward a bench in the shade under an old oak. What had Stoddard gotten himself into?

  “Hey! Ramsay!”

  The vaguely familiar Boston-accented voice stopped Gerard in his tracks. He turned to see who had called.

  “It’s been a long time,” a stranger said, holding out his hand.

  Suddenly recognizing him, Gerard felt a wave of disgust. Ambushed. Conklin had been a scholarship student at Harvard—the same university Gerard, Stoddard, and Kennan had attended. He forced himself to shake the man’s hand. “Conklin, what brings you here?”

  “Working.” Conklin waved a notebook. “I’m covering this women’s rights convention. Have you ever heard of anything so outlandish?” The man chuckled, mocking. “What is the scion of one of Boston’s most swank—uh, I mean, most prestigious families doing here?”

  Gerard stared at him, trying to hide his discomfort at being recognized by a journalist. This meant Stoddard’s folly might be written up in the Boston papers. Worse and worse. “Just happened to stop here,” Gerard said, attempting to smooth matters over. “I’m trying to find someplace cooler. Thought of the Finger Lakes.”

  “Really?” Conklin rocked on his heels, his expression amused.

  “Really. Now if it’s not against the law, I’m going to sit in the shade and relax.”

  Conklin studied Gerard for a moment. “Wish I could. But I have work to do.”

  Fuming, Gerard watched the journalist hurry into the chapel. He could only hope that Conklin wouldn’t see Stoddard and would find more to write about than the fact that a Boston Ramsay had come to Seneca Falls on the same day that fanatics and lunatics had gathered for a big meeting, promoting the rights of women. Unbelievable.

  Within him bloomed the urge to strangle Kennan for leaving him to deal with Stoddard alone. And a second urge: to throw a bucket of ice-cold water into Stoddard’s face, shock him back to his good judgment. Gerard would have been happier staying in Boston, and he hated Boston.

  In a few hours, after Gerard had walked around the small town and settled back on the bench outside, people began to exit the chapel at the time for luncheon, and he rose to watch for his cousin. Finally he saw Stoddard’s head above all the others. Gerard rushed forward. “Stoddard!”

  Stoddard turned with a startled look, then pushed his way from the throng and hurried toward Gerard.

  “Cousin, what are you doing here?” Stoddard gripped his shoulder, grinning but appearing puzzled.

  “I met Kennan in Saratoga, expecting to see you, too, but he said you were here, so we came to find you.”

  Stoddard’s grin tightened. “Came to save me from my own folly?”

  What could he say here in this crowd? “Yes,” Gerard admitted, leaning close. “How could you ever think coming to a meeting like this was a good idea?”

  Stoddard chuckled in reply.

  Gerard glimpsed Conklin, the reporter, dodging in and out of the crowd, heading straight for them. “Cousin, there’s a Boston reporter here. Remember Conklin—?”

  “Stoddard,” a soft, feminine voice from behind his cousin interrupted Gerard.

  A truly lovely blonde, dressed in the height of fashion and almost as tall as Stoddard, claimed his cousin’s arm.

  Beside her walked a petite Quakeress dressed in simple gray and white, her prettier-than-average face framed by a plain white bonnet. The ladies were arm in arm, but in total contrast. They looked to be from two different worlds.

  Gerard snapped his mouth shut so he wouldn’t blurt out any ill-considered words. Over the heads of the crowd, he noted that Conklin had been snagged and buttonholed by another attendee. Saved.

  Stoddard chuckled, shaking his head at Gerard. “Ladies, may I introduce you to my cousin? This is Gerard Ramsay of Boston. Gerard, this is Miss Xantippe Foster—known as Tippy—and her friend, Mrs. Blessing Brightman, both of Cincinnati.”

  Blessing—an unusual name even for a Quakeress. And since Stoddard presented her by her given name and not her husband’s, she must be a widow. Gerard commanded himself enough to accept the blonde’s curtsy and both women’s gloved hands in turn. “Ladies, a pleasure I’m sure,” he recited the social lie.

  “A pleasure? Truly?” Miss Foster laughed merrily as if he’d made a jest.

  Gerard stiffened.

  “Gerard Ramsay, won’t thee join us for luncheon?” the Quakeress invited, speaking in the Quaker way and dispensing with any title, even mister. “Expecting that we might meet a friend, we reserved a table for four at our inn.” Without waiting for his answer, the woman started walking briskly toward the main street, lined with shops and inns.

  Stoddard offered his arm to Miss Foster and nodded Gerard toward Mrs. Brightman.

  Gerard could not disobey years of training in proper manners. He edged forward as efficiently as he could through the crush of the surrounding crowd.

  The Quaker lady paused, letting Stoddard and the blonde precede her. Then she gazed up at Gerard with a look that he might have used when trying to decide without tasting whether a glass of milk had soured. It unnerved him. He tried to step back but bumped against a stranger. He swallowed an unkind word.

  She cocked her head, still studying him.

  He’d had enough. He offered her his arm. “May I escort you, ma’am?” he said as if issuing a challenge.

  She touched his arm and then began to walk on. “Yes, but I do not need to cling to thy arm. I am quite capable of walking unaided.”

  More startled than insulted, Gerard held back a sharp reply. As audacious as she might be, a gentleman did not contradict a lady. Peering ahea
d, he observed the possessive way the tall blonde clung to Stoddard’s arm. He wanted to snatch up his cousin and run.

  “I did not mean to be rude or uncivil,” the Quakeress continued, walking beside him. “I’m sure thee offered thy arm simply from courtesy. But after this morning’s meeting, I am afraid I see more clearly the prescribed manners between gentlemen and ladies as a form of bondage.”

  The equation of courtesy with bondage sent prickly disbelief rippling through him. “I beg your pardon.” And with the press of the crowd threatening to bowl him over, he was forced to walk faster. What would this woman say next?

  She looked up at him. A mischievous smile lightened her face, and he saw now that it was not just pretty but beautiful—big blue eyes, a pert nose, generous pink lips, and thick chestnut hair peeping out around her close bonnet.

  Her smile did something to him, something unexpected yet welcome. The heaviness he always carried relented and he could draw breath freely. What was going on here?

  “What is thy stand on abolition?” she asked, completely ignoring what should be the standard polite conversation between a man and a woman upon first meeting. They should discuss the weather and then move on to discreetly find out about each other’s family connections.

  He stared at her. Ahead, Stoddard was chuckling at something his lady had said. The sound wrapped Gerard’s nerves tighter.

  The Quakeress shook her head at him, still grinning. “Very well. I don’t mean to be impolite. I will follow propriety.” She cleared her throat. “Gerard Ramsay, what brings thee to Seneca Falls this July day?”

  He swallowed and tried to come up with a palatable conventional reply. He failed. “I’m against slavery,” he said instead.

  “I am happy to hear that, but I asked what thy stand on abolition is.”

  He was not accustomed to women who put forth opinions, and her tone, though cheerful, was almost cavalier, as if she was making fun of him. Usually, with him, people did that to their own peril. But this Quakeress had pushed him off balance. “You are in favor of abolition?” he ventured, trying to find his feet in this discussion.