Cross the Ocean

by Holly Bush

  Chapter Eleven

  Six weeks on a ship with William Sanders proved trying. The young man had charmed the toughest sailor and succeeded in scaring Gert half to death. Climbing masts in bare feet and charging about the ship as if he was on a grand adventure. Of course the small amount of things he had packed, were ruined the first week. A cabin boy near his age gave him ragged shirts and tight pants. He wore them with pride. His skin had gone from sun red to golden brown. He answered only to Will.

  The captain of the ship had been quite unhappy to discover the stowaway. William, Will now, handed over a diamond stickpin, and the man’s mouth dropped. Typical male, Gert thought, one change of underclothes in his leather bag beside a piece of jewelry Gert was sure would pay his passage three times. She complained to him handing a piece of his inheritance away on a whim.

  “Got it for my last birthday, Miss Finch. I didn’t mean to bring it. Must have been stuck in my bag.” Will grinned. “But I am most happy it was there.”

  “Is there another cabin Will can stay in, Captain?” Gert asked.

  “We’re all full, Miss Finch. He either stays here or with the crew. There’s a spare cot in the hold,” the man said.

  Will’s eyes widened. “With the crew. Yes, sir.” But he sobered quickly enough. “I don’t like the idea of Miss Finch being alone though.”

  The captain turned a stern face. “Are you implying, boy, an unescorted woman is unsafe on my ship?”

  Gert knew Will was unaccustomed to but few telling him what to do or questioning his words. He surprised her with his response.

  “No, I’m not, sir. But I’ll bloody the nose of any man who bothers her. Just want to be clear on that point,” Will said, stretching to his near six-foot.

  The captain’s look was astonishment. He chuckled and slapped Will on the back. “Come on then, son. I’ll show you where to bunk. Now some of the crew are rough men, boy. Best not expect any special treatment. And I would respond with a “yes, sir” or “no, sir” regardless of who asks. You may be a duke’s son in England, but if you’re staying with them the only rank that counts are years on the sea.”

  Will was smiling broadly as he hurried to gather his things.

  Three weeks into their crossing they ran into a terrible storm. Gert looked everywhere for Will, swaying and bumping into walls as the ship pitched. She ran into a soaked worried-looking sailor and asked if he’d seen Will. “Yes,” the man replied. “He’s on deck doing as he’s told.”

  Gert could have fainted. William Sanders, the son of a duke, would have no idea what to do. He could be swept overboard. Gert paced her room and fell asleep before dawn as the sea smoothed. She came awake to a knock. When she pulled the door open, Will stood there. Bedraggled, tired and soaked. Grinning as if he’d just won a horse race. She wrapped her arms around him. “Will, I was so worried. I didn’t know what to think.” He untangled himself from her embrace, and Gert noticed the cabin boy, Bart, standing behind him.

  “I’m fine, Miss Finch. I’m sorry I worried you, but the captain put Bart and me to a task.” Will puffed up mightily. “Every able hand was needed last night.”

  Gert heard the pride in his voice. Her lip trembled as it had been doing more often than not of late, and tears filled her eyes. “If anything would have happened to you, Will, I could have never faced your father,” she said.

  “I’m fine. The captain told us to go below deck and sleep. Bart and I are tired to the bone. I will check on you later,” Will said.

  Gert plopped down wearily and pulled the chamber pot out from under her bunk. With little fanfare she threw up as she had been doing every morning for the last week. She was hardly sea sick, she knew. She had sailed the whole way to England without even a flinch of nausea. And she felt fine otherwise. Gert prayed every night for her monthly to come. It did not. Plenty of time, she consoled herself. Just a touch of illness she’d picked up. That would explain it all. But what would explain the tightening of the skin across her belly. Or her breasts to nearly not fit in her new dresses and be painful to the slightest touch. She was pregnant.

  Gert was sure Will knew something was amiss. He found her on deck, at the rail, tears falling hard and fast. Will touched her arm and looked worried. The same worried expression she’d seen on his father. That had made her cry harder still.

  “What is it, Miss Finch? Pray tell me,” Will asked.

  Before Gert could fathom her words and how silly they sounded, she blurted out the cause of her tears. “That bird just swooped down from nowhere and plucked a fish from the ocean. Just killed it.”

  “Twas just a fish, Miss Finch. The birds have to eat as well.”

  Gert blubbered and ran to her cabin.

  She had become a crying, emotional wreck. One day determined to never allow Blake near her child and by evening, sure she would hurl herself in the ocean if she never saw him again. Gert tried to focus on the ranch. It would be her solace, her retreat and by the end of her trip she knew she must let Will escort her to home. She was so exhausted that evening she had fallen asleep at the captain’s table shortly after soup was served. Some days she barely got out of bed. And she must get Will’s oath to not reveal his connection to Blake to anyone at the ranch. Uncle Fred would question Will when he found out her condition, and surely Will would repeat the tales of her and Blake’s kisses. Uncle Fred would board the next ship, shotgun in hand and shoot Blake through the heart. Gert burst into tears as the scenario played out in her head.

  Gert asked William to come to her cabin one day out of the New York harbor. She paced the room trying to come up with a way to explain it all to a fifteen-year-old boy. Will watched her. “Ah, Will, ah, I’ve decided you should go with me to my Uncle’s ranch.”

  Will jumped from his seat and whirled around. “How grand! A ranch!”

  “Now, William …”

  “Will, please.”

  “There is a reason I need escorted. Otherwise I’d put you on the next boat back to England,” Gert said.

  “What reason, Miss Finch?”

  Gert held her hands at her stomach and willed herself not to itch the tightened skin. “I’ve been feeling poorly.”

  Will’s face sobered, and he ran to the door. “I’ll get the ship’s doctor, right away.”

  “Sit down,” Gert screamed as her mood swung from tears, to near hysteria to unholy, unaccountable wrath. “I’m sorry, Will. I didn’t mean to shout.”

  Will sat. “Do you know what’s the matter?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded. “You remember Lady Burroughs?”

  “Uncle Anthony’s wife? Of course. What about her?”

  “She’s been feeling poorly, too.”

  Will smiled and blushed. “That’s because she’s in a delicate way, Miss Finch.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Will’s head tilted and then his eyes widened. “Are you saying you’re feeling poorly like Aunt Elizabeth?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “But you’re not married, Miss Finch,” Will whispered.

  Gert closed her eyes. To hear it said so baldly undid her. “I know that.”

  Will sat at the small table in the cabin, drumming his fingers. He was nearly bursting with questions, Gert knew. She watched him, so like his father trying to work through to answers. She knew he had figured it all out when he faced her.

  “Father,” Will breathed.

  Gert swallowed. “It is of great importance you do not reveal to my Uncle Fred whom you suspect.”

  Will’s face was a hard mask. “Would he wish to kill the son of a bitch, too?”

  “William, your language!” Gert calmed herself and sat down. “Your father asked me to marry him. I said no.”

  “Why?”

  “Your father doesn’t love me. We’re not suited,” Gert replied.

  “Suited enough, I’d say,” Will said.

  “Be very careful, Will. There are reasons and circumstances you don’t understand. I’ll not have you judge me or
him.”

  “I’ll not judge you. But my father, well,” Will trailed away.

  “In any case, I will need your help. I’m not feeling well enough to make the journey alone. You will promise me not to tell anyone of this.” Will looked at her. “Promise me, Will.”

  “I promise, Miss Finch. And I’ll see you safely home,” Will turned his head. “But I’ll never say I won’t bloody father’s nose when I see him.”

  Will trailed close to Gert from that moment on.

  * * *

  Blake’s trip with Benson across the Atlantic was calm. The seas were still and blue, and McDonald had seen to their every need. Blake could barely drag himself to the cabin every night for watching the sunset and smelling the salt in the air. He had not traveled much as a youth and once married, confined himself to London’s diversions and his country home. Benson insisted on being butler as well as valet and served tea in his cabin every day at three. The wiry man’s pained confession that his much coveted tin of English cakes was near empty set a smile to Blake’s face. Almost seemed silly to sit in the small but well-decorated cabin in the middle of the day to sip tea and crunch stale cookies with Benson standing rigidly near the door.

  “We can forgo afternoon tea, my good man,” Blake said magnanimously.

  “Oh, but Your Grace, I promised Mrs. Wickham and Briggs I would keep everything the same for you,” Benson said. “As you’re accustomed to.”

  “Why’s that?” Blake asked and sat back to stretch his legs.

  “Well, well,” Benson stuttered, “’tis commonly known you dislike change of any sort, sir. This trip alone must be greatly taxing to you as it is.”

  “Don’t like change, Benson? I’m hardly rigid,” Blake said with a smile.

  Benson did not reply.

  “Out with it, man. Why do you say that? I give you leave to speak freely,” Blake said.

  “Well, Your Grace, your shirts have been made to the same specifications at the same tailor for as long as I’ve been with you. Nearly eighteen years now. Cook serves oatmeal every morning, lamb on Thursday, chicken on Wednesday and, well, you know the menu, sir. The duchess wanted to redecorate rooms, but you shook your head that day. The concession being she would order new carpets and settees as long as they were exactly the same pattern and style as the worn ones. When Wilson the old butler took sick you pensioned him off, but insisted he sit by the door if he could. He died there.”

  Blake tapped the table. “Hated the thought of coming home and not seeing his craggy, old face.”

  Benson smiled half-heartedly. “So you see Briggs and Mrs. Wickham insisted I continue the traditions you’re accustomed to.”

  Was he as set in his ways as Benson described? Of course. But then what explained the thrill he felt watching the sails rise? Or pictured a city, a new city, that was his destination. Why did the dread he’d being feeling prior to sailing been replaced with anticipation? Why did the wind on his face make his heart skip as he trilled along merrily to the sailor’s whistling tunes? Maybe it was time. Indeed, it was time to stretch his wings in this way. He was only one and forty. Not too old to shed the cloistering baggage of peerage for the windswept cloak of wanderer. At least for the three months it would take to bring William home.

  “Benson. Have you ever been on a trip like this?” Blake asked.

  “No, sir,” the valet replied.

  “Neither have I. And I have a great desire to enjoy this trip. Even the grave changes we may be forced to endure. I think we should set our caps to see as much as possible, do as much as possible before we lay for home again.” Blake looked at his servant’s shocked face. “Twill be quite a story to tell to your grandchildren, would it not?”

  “I suppose so, sir,” Benson said.

  “Come on then, man.” Blake said as he curled a hand around Benson’s neck. Blake pulled him to the small portal of his cabin. “Let the seas take us to explore.”

  A week later, Benson and Blake departed the ship at the busy New York harbor. There was a massive crush of bodies and the permeating odor of cooked cabbage. Blake had Benson see to the unloading of the trunks while he made his way through the mass of humanity to the shipping office.

  “My good man. I need to inquire about my horses and carriage. They were shipped on board the McDonald ship, Isabelle. They should have arrived a week ago.” Blake said to the harried clerk.

  “The Isabelle ran into a storm at sea. She was damaged and off course. We had word today she docked in South Carolina.”

  “South Carolina?” Blake asked.

  “Yes, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got much to get done.”

  “How do I get word to my groomsman? Will someone see to getting them here properly?” Blake continued.

  “The Isabelle is severely damaged. I imagine they’ll be busy for now. The telegram said they’d arrive here inside the month.”

  “But that’s three weeks!” Blake shouted.

  The clerk lifted his hands and motioned to the man behind Blake to step forward. Blake was jostled aside into the blinding sun. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked for Benson. The valet sat atop one of the trunks watching the coming and goings like a green boy.

  “We’re in a bit of a mess, Benson,” Blake said as he approached.

  The valet hurried to stand. “Why is that, Your Grace?”

  “The ship the carriage and groomsman were on was in a storm and had to dock somewhere called South Carolina.”

  “Where is that, Your Grace?”

  “I confess I haven’t a clue. The shipping agent said it would be three weeks till the boat gets to New York.” Blake shielded his eyes from the sun.

  “What will we do, Your Grace?” Benson asked.

  “Let us get a carriage for hire and find a hotel. I admit I’m famished.”

  Benson hailed a small carriage. The valet turned and walked back to Blake, smiling. “I’ll get the trunks, sir. He’ll take us to the finest hotel in town.”

  Blake clapped Benson on the back. “There, you see, old man! We will solve our problems one thing at a time.”

  Benson heaved a trunk on his shoulder, and Blake picked up his valise. They turned to the carriage only to see two young men climbing in.

  “Hey, there,” Benson shouted. “That carriage is taken.”

  Neither driver nor passengers wasted a glance back. Benson went in search of another carriage while Blake sat down on his trunks and surveyed the dock. Sailors, businessmen, families and loose women all merged together. Men hawked wares to travelers, and mothers wiped children’s runny noses. Dogs ran between legs, gowned women alit from ships while tall, hard-looking men weaved among them, guns slung low on their hips. He recognized Italian and French and heard his mother English spoken with a wide variety of accents. Blake was fascinated with the scene before him. It was as if he had stepped into a canvas portrait mid-stroke, and he wondered what tales each character would tell and what language he would hear their story in. His valet cleared his throat, a sheepish look on his face.

  “Well, Benson. Have you secured a carriage?” Blake asked.

  “In a manner of speaking, sir.”

  “Go on,” Blake said.

  “I’m been having a terrible time getting a driver’s attention. Just as I begin to guide one to where you sit, someone jumps aboard, and they’re gone. But a Mr. Delassandro has graciously agreed to help us.”

  Blake stood up. “Lead on, my good man.”

  Blake and Benson’s six-block trip through the teaming city was of an hour duration. Blake was seated, as befitted his station Benson had assured him, on the bench of the hay wagon between Mr. and Mrs. Delassandro. The short, dark-haired man clucked to his mules while his wife tried ineffectually to keep her five children from tying Benson to his seat. Six children, actually, Blake thought and smiled at the petite, scarfed woman holding an infant. She smiled back as she opened her blouse and pulled out a huge tan breast. The infant sucked and calmed. Blake, however, did not
. He looked everywhere but to his side until he felt the woman shift the child to her shoulder. He glanced to the child, now inches away, as the babe contentedly shoved a fist in his mouth.

  Benson had a wild-eyed look as Blake produced a gold coin for the Delassandro’s troubles in front of the Grand Hotel. A doorman loaded their trunks on a dolly while Benson picked hay from his clothes. Blake approached the front desk after insisting to Benson he could handle the task.

  “I need two rooms, adjoining preferably, for some number of nights,” Blake said.

  “Did you have a reservation, sir?”

  Blake smiled. “No.”

  “Mr. ah …” the desk clerk said then.

  “The Duke of Wexford. Blake Sanders.”

  “Mr. Wexford …”

  “That is my title, young man, not my name.”

  “Mr. Sanders?” the young clerk queried.

  Blake nodded.

  “I have only one room left. With the banking association meeting and Miss Hubley to appear on stage, nearly everything in town is booked up,” the clerk said.

  “Miss Hubley?” Blake asked.

  The clerk leaned forward and smiled. “She is staying here as well. Her shows are sold out. There she comes right now.”

  Blake turned to the tittering in the large, domed lobby. A woman in a black and white striped dress above daggered heels stood in the middle of the throng, a smoking stick in her hand. Her hat was nearly three feet across, only accentuating the ungodly tight fit of her dress. A thin, furry black stole lay over her arms, and she tilted her head becomingly as lights flashed and Blake smelled the aroma of sulfur. A growing crowd was milling about and pushing to get closer. Blake was watching the sway of her hips when he saw Benson caught up in the ever-swelling mob.

  “Your Grace,” Benson cried pitifully.

  Blake turned to the clerk. “We’ll take that room.”

  The desk clerk set the bellboys to his trunks, and Blake made his way through the throng. He nearly had his hand on Benson’s elbow when a great oaf of a man in rough clothes, a look of longing in his eye, lurched forward plunging Benson to within inches of Miss Hubley. The valet straightened to his full five-foot and was eye-level with a massive set of breasts, a hair’s breadth away from his nose. Blake caught Benson’s arm and dragged him back through the crowd. The man was shaking and clutched Blake’s sleeve.