Cross the Ocean

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Cross the Ocean Page 2

by Holly Bush


  “I loved her in my way,” Blake said staring out the window.

  Anthony harrumphed. “Really? Did you ever tell her?”

  “She’s my wife, damn it, Burroughs,” Blake muttered.

  “Ah, yes, easier to tell your current mistress than your wife,” Anthony replied.

  “What does my having a mistress have to do with anything?”

  Anthony laughed hoarsely. “Only you would pose a question that absurd.”

  “Why did she leave with him though? Why not just …”

  “Just bed a man who is not her husband as many rich, titled women do? Perhaps Ann’s sense of honor wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps she didn’t wish to teach her children such faithlessness. Perhaps she loves him.”

  Although he had no argument to make in defense of himself, Blake was furious at Anthony’s conclusions. “Besides my being an “ass” what do you propose I say about this?” Blake asked. He was tired, so very tired, but this mess, this incident needed thought.

  The two men spent the morning trying in vain to think of a way to cover the affair up. It would not be done. Did someone see Ann as she boarded a ship with her merchant? Would she be seen by peerage traveling abroad? And how does one, even one as powerful as the Duke of Wexford, explain a wife who has suddenly disappeared? They would think he locked her in the attic, or worse yet, Bedlam.

  “Brazen it out, Blake. Tell the truth and dare them to laugh. I see no other way.” Anthony jumped up as the clock chimed the hour. “Is that the time? Dear God. I told Elizabeth I’d be home at twelve.”

  “So what if you’re late? With Elizabeth’s confinement, what’s she to do but lie about? What’s the hurry?” Blake asked, now sulking.

  Anthony turned from the door. “I told Elizabeth I’d be home.”

  Blake dismissed him with a flit of his hand. “At least I won’t be the hen-pecked husband of the neighborhood. You do very well.”

  Anthony stared boldly. “Think what you will. You always do. But I’ve not got a shrew for a wife. Nor did you. I don’t run home because she told me to.” His friend raised his brows to mock. “I run home because I want to be there. I love her. And she me.”

  The door closed softly and Blake was left alone. He was glad for the solitude. Of all the ugliness, the shouting, the accusations, Anthony’s declaration shook him as nothing else did. His throat clogged, and tears sprang to his eyes. Not for love lost but for the truth whirling around in his head. The cold, black stark reality that he would die without ever knowing that love. Ann had loved him all those years ago, and perhaps even in her disgrace she would be the victor. She had loved someone. Him. Her husband. And with an all-consuming passion and clarity that he would never experience. Blake had watched that love wane and fade as time and inattention whittled it away. Did Ann love this merchant? Was she so lucky as to love twice in her life? Would his children love like that? Like Anthony and Elizabeth?

  “Where’s Momma?” a young voice said from the doorway.

  Blake turned to see Donald, all of seven-years-old. “She’s gone away for a while, son.”

  The boy nodded.

  Blake stood and walked to the doorway.

  Donald smiled. “She’ll be back. She told me she might be taking a trip, ‘cept she didn’t know when. That I’d see her at Grandmama’s soon after she left.”

  “That’s right, Donald,” Blake said stiffly.

  Donald turned, hands in his pockets, and ran down the vast hall.

  “Where are you going?” Blake called after him.

  The boy cocked his head. “Same place I do every day, Father. To the pond so Malcolm and I can sail our boats.”

  “Yes, of course,” Blake lied. He watched Donald and Malcolm be enveloped in Mrs. Wickham’s arms. She had a basket packed, and they ran down the hall swinging it between them. The housekeeper faced him.

  “Mrs. Wickham, would you be so good as to gather Briggs and Benson and join me in my study?” Blake said.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied.

  Blake sat down behind his desk. He had best make some explanation or rumors would abound. The three servants he trusted entered the room. They stood expectantly. Blake cleared his throat.

  “The Duchess has … the Duchess has …” Blake’s mouth was dry and he searched for the right words.

  “The Duchess is away,” Briggs said.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Wickham said, “the Duchess is away and … and we need to make sure that everything runs smoothly in her absence.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace,” Benson said. “We have no intentions of allowing any mischief or talk until things are as they were.”

  Now Blake could not speak. They had spoken for him and would not let him humiliate himself. He managed to blurt out, “The children …” but he could not continue.

  “Don’t worry yourself, sir. Not a soul will sully those children without answering to us,” Benson said.

  All was silent.

  “Is that all, Your Grace?” Mrs. Wickham asked.

  Blake nodded, staring out the window.

  Chapter Two

  Soul-searching had never been Blake’s strong suit, but the weeks following Ann’s leaving left naught much else to do. He begrudgingly allowed the children to spend a week at Lady Katherine’s while their mother was there. William and Melinda, armed with Donald’s innocent pleas and Blake’s reluctance to explain much to the seven-year-old, saw the children into the family carriage for the trip to their grandmother’s. He had spent little time away from home, not yet ready for the questions of society. The house was devilishly quiet with the children gone. Blake ambled around, rechecked accounts, read a bit, and was generally bored to tears.

  Blake received a letter from his current mistress, Helena. “I miss you. I die a bit each day in your absence.” She certainly didn’t love him. Loved the diamonds and the evenings at the theatre, but she didn’t love him. What kind of ridicule had Ann been subject to while he paraded Helena to a private box for a play or to a dinner party? He cringed at the thought of the last trip to the theatre he and his mistress had gone to. Helena had drunk a bit too much champagne and was amorous. Amorous was a benign accounting of Helena that night. Although wildly exciting, when Helena opened her dress as she pulled the curtain of their box in the last act of the play, there could have been no doubt what was taking place. Sofas rocked and fabric swung as Helena shouted her bliss.

  All the peerage had mistresses, Blake thought to himself. When one is married at a young age to someone one barely knows and could easily be as ugly as sin, what did one expect? What did Ann expect? He laughed without humor at himself or perhaps at the flimsy justification for his own excuse. Ann was gorgeous. Petite, polite, blond, impeccable lineage. Could he have loved her? Can one will themselves to love? The sex had no spark. Was that his fault or hers? Could she have given more of herself? Could he have? Now she was rolling around with some merchant. Blake could hardly say he was jealous. Maybe angry that someone else had his wife in their bed much like being outbid at an auction. Not jealous for the woman, just angry he hadn’t won.

  Three days after the children had left, he would’ve given his home for someone, anyone, to address him by something other than “Your Grace.” Benson, Briggs and Mrs. Wickham closed ranks about him, and while he understood their good intentions, Blake felt as if there wasn’t enough air to draw breath. He went to the stables, had his horse saddled, and rode to Anthony’s estate. Maybe Elizabeth will ask me to stay for dinner, he thought. Then she’ll go to bed, and Anthony and I can drink a bottle of brandy and get stewed. He could stay there if he couldn’t ride home. A room was kept ready for him with a fresh change of clothes. Blake smiled and felt better than he had in days.

  As the butler escorted Blake down the hall of Anthony’s home to the drawing room, he heard a loud but feminine … snort and Elizabeth’s trill laughter in reply. Damn. He remembered now. A cousin of Elizabeth’s from America, sent as an escort to another cousin, wa
s staying with them. Anthony had described and dreaded the arrival of cousin Gertrude with horror. A spinster remotely connected to Elizabeth’s father’s side, she was big, bold and here for a month. Her arrival had curtailed Anthony’s visits.

  Blake stopped and hissed at the butler. “Think I’ve changed my mind, Jenkins. I don’t want to disturb their company.”

  “Quite the coward are we, Your Grace? Leave your life-long friend alone with this Amazon from America.” Jenkins stared as he spoke. “In any case they saw you ride up the drive.”

  Jenkins spoke his mind to all including Anthony and Elizabeth. There’d be no expecting servile behavior for him. “I’m sure you did not miss the opportunity to point out my arrival,” Blake said.

  “Of course not, Your Grace.” The butler opened the drawing room doors with a flourish. “The Duke of Wexford.”

  “Blake,” Anthony said and jumped to pump Blake’s hand. “I am so very happy you are here.”

  Blake watched the woman sitting beside Elizabeth stand, and walk across the room to him. She was every inch as tall as he, and Anthony made the introductions. She held out her hand. Blake grasped it and bent to place a kiss there and was surprised when she began to shake it, hitting him squarely in the nose. Blake covered his face with his hand.

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Gertrude Finch exclaimed. She threw a look at her cousin Elizabeth.

  “No harm done,” Blake said. He moved to Elizabeth and kissed her cheek. “You look lovely, my dear. Blossoming very nicely.”

  Miss Finch tilted her head. “Does that mean pregnant? I like the sound of that. Blossoming.”

  Pregnant was a word never uttered before in Blake’s presence. He looked to Anthony. His friend was red-faced and stoic. Elizabeth nodded to her cousin.

  “Please sit down, Wexford. Staying for dinner, aren’t you? I’ll ring for another place,” Elizabeth said.

  Blake’s well-laid plans were for naught. The cousin continued a conversation apparently started before he arrived. American women were campaigning for the right to vote. Too bad women didn’t vote during the “revolution”, he thought. A Union Jack would fly in Washington. Blake concealed his humor and horror, listening politely. Miss Finch wasn’t ugly, he observed. Just large and loud. Not fat, but tall and very well endowed. Her eyes were lively and intelligent. The oddest green color Blake had ever seen. She had thick black hair, curled over and around her shoulders and back. Quite decadent. May hap he needed to visit Helena.

  “What do you think, Mr. Sanders, Your Lordship? Whatever do I call him, Elizabeth?” the American asked.

  “Well, I, ah, I …” Blake stuttered.

  “Wool gathering, were you?” she smiled at his blank stare. “I’m not offended. Used to it by now. People often nod off when I’m on my podium.”

  * * *

  Gertrude knew Sanders had no reply. It was silly when she got the notion in her head to preach to men. She didn’t really care what they thought, but it would be nice to meet one who would listen. Last night Elizabeth elbowed Sir Anthony, and to his horror his head fell off his hand, where he had been napping. And here she’d done it again. For whatever reason Gert had hoped this one had been listening. Handsome as sin, Elizabeth had said about him, and had been right. Tall and well-muscled, Sanders would do fine on Uncle Fred’s ranch. She giggled and covered her mouth as she envisioned him riding a bronco and yelling “Tally ho.”

  “Something humorous, madam?” the Duke asked.

  Gert shook her head. She had best be civil. This man was, after all, Anthony’s closest friend. “I understand you have three children,” she inquired.

  “Melinda is the oldest and will make her come-out this spring. William is fifteen. The heir. And Donald is seven,” Sanders replied.

  “Melinda is beautiful and will set society on its heels. And the boys will break hearts all over London, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth said smiling.

  “How wonderful,” Gert said. “You and your wife must be awfully proud.” Gert didn’t know what she had said, but clearly something was wrong. Everyone froze. “I’m sorry. Is your wife ill?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am” he replied.

  Gert did not consider herself shy, but still she hesitated with such a personal question. The silence in the room, however, was screaming with unanswered questions. “Did she die?” she asked finally.

  “The Duchess of Wexford is well. Thank you,” the Duke said.

  That certainly did not explain anything at all. Gert lifted her brows and eyed him.

  “She is currently residing elsewhere,” he added.

  “She’s taken a trip?” Gert asked. “Is that all? The way everyone was acting you’d of thought the poor woman had some horrible illness. Some disfiguring thing.” Gert sat back in her chair and rolled her eyes. These English are a strange bunch, she thought. Never content to call a male cow a bull.

  “The Duchess is not on holiday, madam,” Blake Sanders replied.

  Gert stared at him. The wife isn’t sick or dead or visiting. Unfortunately, Gert’s thoughts spewed from her mouth before she could stop them. “Where is she then?”

  “She’s at her family’s home, currently.” Sanders sat up straight and shot his cuffs. “She no longer resides with me.”

  It was clear the admission cost the man. “I’m thinking this wasn’t your idea.”

  Blake Sanders smiled tight-lipped and replied. “No, it was not, Miss Finch.”

  Gert sat back in her chair and tapped her forefinger on her lip. “Dumped you, huh? The heave ho. Left you holding the bag. Seems unusual for your kind.” She turned her head to Elizabeth. “From your letters, the way you made everyone so in a fuss about being proper, this is a whopper, wouldn’t you say?”

  Elizabeth nodded quickly. “I’ve known the Duchess for years, and I will say I was shocked. She’s always adhered strictly to society’s rules. Truth be told, Cousin, I’ve never in all my years heard of anyone of her station leaving a husband.”

  Gert turned around in her chair to face Elizabeth. “What do you imagine happened?” She tilted her head to him and whispered. “Did he beat her?”

  “I did not beat my wife,” Sanders said sharply as he stood. “And I would greatly appreciate it if you two would not chatter as if I’m not in the room.”

  “Well, maybe we wouldn’t if you’d say more than two words at a time. How are Elizabeth and I to figure this out or help you get her back if you don’t tell us the details,” Gert said.

  “You mistake my meaning and overstep your boundary. I have no intention of trying to drag the Duchess home, nor would I ask your advice if I did,” he bellowed.

  Gert looked around the room. Elizabeth fixed her skirts, and her husband stared away blankly. The Duke, however, was pacing, red-faced and angry. Maybe she had mistaken the man. Maybe he loved this Ann so passionately he wanted her to be happy. Even without him.

  “You love her that much, then?” Gert whispered. The Duke spun around to face her.

  “Love her? Love has nothing to do with it. She’s blackened the Wexford name. Tarnished it. I would not accept her back now if she crawled through the streets of London.”

  Gert stared wide-eyed at the man pacing in front of her. He would not look at her. From the look on his face, he may have been regretting his harsh words. Regardless, he did not need or deserve her sympathy. “Sounds as though she’s better off. I hope she meets a nice man and forgets all about you,” Gert said.

  “She’s already met one,” Elizabeth said.

  “Elizabeth! Gossip is not called for,” Anthony said.

  “Hardly gossip, dear,” Elizabeth replied. “You told me the children’s letters said she left with a merchant.”

  “Oh, dear, your children. This must be very upsetting,” Gert said, just now remembering the three.

  “The Wexford heirs have no need of your sympathies,” Sanders said.

  “You refer to your own children as the Wexford heirs. How would you know how they feel?” Ge
rt asked.

  “I’m their father,” he boomed.

  “The only thing you’re worried about is your family name. Somehow I can’t picture you patiently answering their questions,” Gert countered.

  “Anthony said Melinda was near hysterical, and William looked stricken,” Elizabeth added.

  “I did not come here to be skewered by two females. Making me somehow to be the devil. Ann left me. This subject is closed,” Sanders shouted.

  * * *

  Dinner was a tense affair with the Duke saying little. Elizabeth sat on Gert’s bed in her nightclothes. She noticed her cousin’s hand went often, mostly unaware Gert was sure, to her rounded stomach. But this evening’s discussion would not focus on Elizabeth’s child.

  Gert had made the trip across the Atlantic with worry to stay a month with a distant cousin she had never met. Cousin Annabelle deposited safely with her family, Gert made the journey alone to Anthony and Elizabeth’s estate.

  All of her fears were for nothing. Gert knew she made Anthony uncomfortable, but still, all in all, he was generous to her with his time and his home. Elizabeth and she, however, were on their way to becoming best friends. They had corresponded prior to Gert’s trip, and Elizabeth seemed formal and stuffy in her letters. But she was not. Elizabeth was kind, smart and her husband fell over himself to please her.

  Gert sighed. To have a man gush and worry was something she had never experienced. At her home, near Chicago, Uncle Fred and the hands at the ranch were good to her, disagreeing with her politics, but defending her to the last. She was an oddity to them, but they loved her still, she knew. But not like Anthony and Elizabeth. Their eyes met often, knowing smiles exchanged as he clasped her hand or kissed her cheek. Gert had long ago weaned herself of fairy stories of dashing heroes, but before her eyes were the real Prince Charming and his lady.

  “Blake was terribly disagreeable this evening, Cousin,” Elizabeth said.

  “Not to himself, Elizabeth. I’ve never met anyone so full of himself in all my days,” Gert replied. “And I suppose I was too forward having just met him.”

 

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