“Just a few drinks. I still want to broach the topic of a permanent racetrack with this strata of society and see what the reaction is.”
Stoddard grabbed him by the shoulder. “You don’t mean that you are serious about that idea?”
“Yes, of course I’m serious.”
“Why?”
Gerard did not want to reveal the truth to his cousin, buthe always had, so why stop now? “Where can we go and talk in private?”
“Home?”
Gerard shook his head. He couldn’t go home yet. The restlessness that goaded him to seek bawdy humor and drink was roiling up inside. “How about that tavern a few blocks from our boardinghouse?”
Stoddard assented, and after a brisk walk, they entered the one-room tavern. The windows were open to let in the evening breeze, and a few lamps lit the interior. The clientele was mostly men—honest workmen, from all appearances—who stood at a short counter talking to a man in a white apron. The place hummed with quiet conversation. Gerard and his cousin sat at a small, round table and waved to the man.
Soon a woman who seemed to be the barkeep’s wife, a white kerchief tied over her hair, delivered the ale they’d ordered.
“So what do we need to talk about that we couldn’t talk about at our lodgings?” Stoddard asked after his first sip of ale.
Gerard hesitated. “That widow, how does she come to be in your friend Miss Foster’s company? I would think they would move in different circles.”
Stoddard stared at him. “They would have moved in different circles if Blessing hadn’t married Richard Brightman. The marriage was quite the sensation, I’m told—a dashing society bachelor and a pious Quakeress. But why do you care?”
“It’s just odd. How does she move in society? Where does her wealth come from?”
A group of men nearby laughed suddenly. Stoddard waited for quiet before replying, “Her husband left her his fortune: two breweries and much prime real estate.”
“She was married to a brewer?” Gerard couldn’t mask his amusement. “When he died, were there no male relatives to handle the estate? A woman left in control of a fortune—what was her husband thinking?”
Stoddard’s expression closed. “You’ll have to ask Mrs. Brightman. I’m not a gossip.”
At Stoddard’s reproving tone, Gerard decided to come to the point of why he wanted to pursue the racetrack without delay. Hang the troublesome widow. “When I visited my mother, my father said he’d all but chosen my future bride and told me it was time to come into the family business.”
“Oh?” Stoddard raised an eyebrow.
“And if I didn’t, he would cut off my allowance.”
Stoddard considered him, smiling grimly. “So you need a new source of income.”
Gerard was gratified that Stoddard was unsurprised that he hadn’t fallen in with his pompous father’s plans. “Now you see why a racetrack appeals to me?”
Stoddard took his time with another swallow. “I could get you many interviews for good positions here. My future—ah, Mr. Foster is well connected. You’re educated, a gentleman. I don’t see the need to set up a racetrack.”
Gerard felt the old exasperation rise in him. “But none of those positions will spite my father like a racetrack will.” He said the words with a twisted satisfaction. His father would pay for trying to force him to dance to his tune. He didn’t want to dance to any man’s tune—not his father’s, not anemployer’s. He would make his way on his own terms or know the reason why.
Stoddard drained the last of his glass and rose, looking down almost sternly at Gerard. “I have already spoken to Tippy’s father, and I have his permission to pay my addresses to her. I expect that we will be married before a year passes. Though I hope you will wish me happy, I doubt it. I’ll see you in the morning. See that you don’t turn up drunk at Mrs. Mather’s. She’ll put you out.” Stoddard left with a wave to the proprietor.
Shaken by his
Stoddard grabbed him by the shoulder. “You don’t mean that you are serious about that idea?”
“Yes, of course I’m serious.”
“Why?”
Gerard did not want to reveal the truth to his cousin, buthe always had, so why stop now? “Where can we go and talk in private?”
“Home?”
Gerard shook his head. He couldn’t go home yet. The restlessness that goaded him to seek bawdy humor and drink was roiling up inside. “How about that tavern a few blocks from our boardinghouse?”
Stoddard assented, and after a brisk walk, they entered the one-room tavern. The windows were open to let in the evening breeze, and a few lamps lit the interior. The clientele was mostly men—honest workmen, from all appearances—who stood at a short counter talking to a man in a white apron. The place hummed with quiet conversation. Gerard and his cousin sat at a small, round table and waved to the man.
Soon a woman who seemed to be the barkeep’s wife, a white kerchief tied over her hair, delivered the ale they’d ordered.
“So what do we need to talk about that we couldn’t talk about at our lodgings?” Stoddard asked after his first sip of ale.
Gerard hesitated. “That widow, how does she come to be in your friend Miss Foster’s company? I would think they would move in different circles.”
Stoddard stared at him. “They would have moved in different circles if Blessing hadn’t married Richard Brightman. The marriage was quite the sensation, I’m told—a dashing society bachelor and a pious Quakeress. But why do you care?”
“It’s just odd. How does she move in society? Where does her wealth come from?”
A group of men nearby laughed suddenly. Stoddard waited for quiet before replying, “Her husband left her his fortune: two breweries and much prime real estate.”
“She was married to a brewer?” Gerard couldn’t mask his amusement. “When he died, were there no male relatives to handle the estate? A woman left in control of a fortune—what was her husband thinking?”
Stoddard’s expression closed. “You’ll have to ask Mrs. Brightman. I’m not a gossip.”
At Stoddard’s reproving tone, Gerard decided to come to the point of why he wanted to pursue the racetrack without delay. Hang the troublesome widow. “When I visited my mother, my father said he’d all but chosen my future bride and told me it was time to come into the family business.”
“Oh?” Stoddard raised an eyebrow.
“And if I didn’t, he would cut off my allowance.”
Stoddard considered him, smiling grimly. “So you need a new source of income.”
Gerard was gratified that Stoddard was unsurprised that he hadn’t fallen in with his pompous father’s plans. “Now you see why a racetrack appeals to me?”
Stoddard took his time with another swallow. “I could get you many interviews for good positions here. My future—ah, Mr. Foster is well connected. You’re educated, a gentleman. I don’t see the need to set up a racetrack.”
Gerard felt the old exasperation rise in him. “But none of those positions will spite my father like a racetrack will.” He said the words with a twisted satisfaction. His father would pay for trying to force him to dance to his tune. He didn’t want to dance to any man’s tune—not his father’s, not anemployer’s. He would make his way on his own terms or know the reason why.
Stoddard drained the last of his glass and rose, looking down almost sternly at Gerard. “I have already spoken to Tippy’s father, and I have his permission to pay my addresses to her. I expect that we will be married before a year passes. Though I hope you will wish me happy, I doubt it. I’ll see you in the morning. See that you don’t turn up drunk at Mrs. Mather’s. She’ll put you out.” Stoddard left with a wave to the proprietor.
Shaken by his
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