Cross the Ocean

by Holly Bush

  This was indeed the fairy tale ending, complete with grand knights and ladies. Connor and Melinda would disagree, Gert was sure, but the two of them at their young age, already knew the value of compromise. Had Gert herself been less hard-headed, she may have been a wife at this very moment. Gert studied her hands and glanced up as Angus McDonald and Ann, Elizabeth and Anthony and Connor’s parents joined the couple on the dance floor. The orchestra continued to play a waltz while bagpipes accompanied, and Gert was surprised how the two musics blended, much as Connor and Melinda’s lives would. Uncle Fred stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The closer Blake rode to his home the more gripping his want was. He hadn’t realized he could miss it this much. All these years he’d been accustomed to the rich tradition and beauty of his home. It had taken a lengthy absence to make him long for familiar faces. His children, his servants, his favorite chair in the library by the fire. There was something soothing and comforting about coming home, and Blake imagined it did not matter whether that home was a hovel or a castle or a ranch house, south of Chicago. It was where history and family surrounded a person, and assured them whatever happened could be righted. Whatever calamity or tragedy befell them, solace was found there. And Blake badly needed what those walls, fires and faces could give him.

  As Will and Blake neared the edge of the Wexford land, they cast a glance to one another and smiled. They were home. Both leaned close to their weary mounts to gather speed. Blake could see the massive roof come into view from the top of a rise, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. A few more minutes at best. But as they rode up the tree lined drive Will and Blake reined in hard and stared. Carriages, horses and milling servants were everywhere. Even on the front lawn.

  “What could possibly be going on that the grooms would need to leave carriages in the front drive?” Will asked.

  Blake crossed his hands over the horn of the saddle. “Only one thing I can think of.” Will looked at his father. “A wedding.”

  Will looked down at himself and back at Blake. “Look at us, Father. Levi’s and boots and holsters. Stetson’s and trail dust. It looks as though every title in London is here from the seals on barouches.”

  “Probably some Scottish lords as well,” Blake remarked. “Well, I could care less what I look like. My daughter, I assume, is getting married, and I want to meet this husband of hers and dance at the fete.” He pulled his mounts’ head to the house. “Are you coming?”

  Will nodded quickly and followed his father down the drive, dismounted and both strode up the steps. Briggs opened the door, looked them up and down, from over his nose, and told them where the servants’ entrance was located.

  “Good God, man,” Blake said. “You don’t recognize me?”

  A rare smile graced Briggs’ mouth, and Blake saw Mrs. Wickham rushing down the hall, shouting to other servants. Blake grasped Briggs’ shoulders. “It’s me. Sanders. And your dour face is a sight for these sore eyes.”

  “Your Grace! Master William!” Briggs said.

  Mrs. Wickham turned her attention from a young liveried man with a tray of glasses, to the door. “Your Grace,” she called. “You’re home!”

  “Indeed I am, and I could not be happier for the sight of you.” Blake drew Mrs. Wickham into his arms and hugged her.

  The housekeeper’s eyes widened and teared and her lips trembled. “I am so happy you are here,” she said.

  Mrs. Wickham held one hand to her mouth and with the other touched Will’s cheek. She backed up quickly.

  “Give Mrs. Wickham a hug, Will. She changed your nappies from the day you were born. Indulge her.” Blake said. Mrs. Wickham clapped her hands together under her chin as Will wrapped his arms about her.

  “Much I need to tell you two, as I’m sure you have much to say, but for now, I’ll just let you know Benson has married a plump woman with blond ringlets, and is opening a clothing shop in Chicago. Briggs, tomorrow, you and I will have to pack his room and prepare to ship his belongings,” Blake said.

  “A plump blonde?” Briggs asked.

  “Chicago?” Mrs. Wickham gasped.

  “Yes. And he is exceedingly happy. So we must be happy for him as well. Benson and I had quite an adventure together. I will tell you some evening the whole story. But for now, I assume these carriages mean Melinda is to be married.”

  Both servants nodded.

  “Well, than Will. Let us join the festivities,” Blake said.

  “I would be happy to help you change, Your Grace,” Briggs said.

  “No, no. If they don’t like me as I am, than the hell with them,” Blake said. “Right, Will?”

  Will smiled and nodded. Mrs. Wickham and Briggs watched as the two men strode toward the door of the ballroom.

  “Your Grace?” Mrs. Wickham called.

  Blake turned. “Yes?”

  “Miss Finch will be thrilled that you have arrived.”

  Blake skidded to a halt. “Pardon me?”

  Mrs. Wickham smiled softly. “Miss Finch and her uncle are here. She waits by the door most days to see you.”

  Blake’s lip trembled. He could not stop the reaction. Gertrude was here. “But, but she is so close to …to.”

  “Any day now, Your Grace,” Mrs. Wickham said.

  There was but one question dancing in Blake’s mind. He rubbed the two days’ worth of beard on his chin and looked to his son.

  Blake turned slowly and approached the door of the ballroom. Briggs opened the doors wide. The two of them stood in the entrance seeing a magnificent ball in progress. Slowly, heads began to turn, and whispers abounded. Melinda was dancing with a man double her size. Angus and Ann. Elizabeth and Anthony. And an older couple, Blake did not recognize. As the room began to silence, Blake and Will entered. He recognized his peers of the realm among men and women wearing plaids. Blake saw Gertrude sitting in a far corner in a magnificent gold gown, with Fred’s hand on her shoulder.

  The orchestra stumbled to a halt as the dancers turned to stare at the door. Blake heard his name whispered, and saw Anthony’s half smile. A French horn was the last instrument to quiet when a viola bow smacked its player on the head. The only remaining sound in the hushed room was an oblivious bagpiper merrily pumping his pipes. Blake watched Gert struggle to rise with Fred’s help. An expectant hush covered the crowd, other than the Scotsman still bellowing. Blake Sanders had something to say, and, by damn, he wasn’t going to shout over the clatter. He eyed the player, the man’s eyes closed in his music, twenty feet to his right. The other pipers had moved away, leaving the lone man at the mercy of Blake’s glare.

  Blake’s six-shooter was out of his holster in a split second. When the bullet hit the bladder of the bagpipe, its noise was reduced to a fizzle. Guests jumped and stilled as Blake holstered his firearm.

  “The Duke of Wexford,” Briggs announced.

  Blake turned to the still crowd. “I have one question to ask.” Every ear turned his way. Subtle movement brought the crowd closer by inches. The silence was so deep; Blake could hear the beat of his own heart. And that was where the question originated. His heart. “There are two women in this room, in this world, that I love. Are they either or both married?”

  Melinda shrugged out of Connor’s arms and ran to her father. “Father! I wanted you here so badly but was terrified of what you would say. Yes, I am already married.”

  Blake hugged his daughter, patted her back and laid his cheek in her blond curls. “There, there, poppet. Don’t cry. I am home. I want to meet this Scotsman of yours.” A large handsome, young man approached and bowed deeply. It irritated Blake to no end that he had to tilt his head back to see his son-in-law’s face.

  “Your Grace. I am Connor McDougal. I have taken your daughter to wife.”

  Blake looked at Will beside him. His mother was crying and covering him with kisses. “What do you think, Will?” Blake asked.

  “He’s no heathen, Father. Seems pol
ite and well-bred. And not the least bit afraid of you,” Will said over his mother’s shoulders.

  “He’s as big as a bloody tree.” Will shrugged and Blake turned back to his daughter’s husband. “You may not be frightened of me, son. But rest assured, if you do not make my daughter happy, I will track you down and stake you out on a moor till some wildebeest eats you.”

  McDougal’s eyes widened just a hair, and Melinda’s mouth dropped.

  “I will be happy to call you my son if you strive every moment of the day to assure my daughter’s well-being. Are we clear?” Blake asked.

  “We are clear, sir.”

  Blake nodded to Anthony and Elizabeth.

  “You’re looking well, Blake,” Anthony said.

  “Quite the outlaw, I’d say,” Elizabeth commented. “You said there were two women in this room that you loved. I know Melinda is one. Please tell, who’s the other?”

  Melinda and her husband stepped aside as did Will and his mother. There at the end of the corridor of guests stood Gertrude, tears running down her face. She was ethereal in the fading sunlight as it poured through the window. Gertrude was massive, he admitted, but to his thoughts the most strikingly beautiful woman in the room. The connection he felt when they made love was every bit as strong at this moment. He prayed she felt it as well. Blake loved her mind, her heart, and every square inch of her body. She had rescued him from a sure, slow death as a duke to give him life as a man, and happiness with her arguments and laughter.

  Blake willed his feet to stay planted when he asked aloud, “Have you married?”

  * * *

  Her pirate had arrived in cowboy duds and put to shame every other man in the room. Blake stood there, all man, every inch as masculine and wonderful as she remembered. His scruffy beard and Western clothes were a stark contrast to the lofty duke with a clipped British accent she had met not so terribly long ago. But he was perfect to her, for her, she knew. They would argue and fight and love and make-up and raise horse-riding viscounts in Western hats. There would be no mistress between them if Blake’s heated look were any sign.

  Gert took one step forward. “I am not married.”

  Blake took a step closer to her. “I thought you loved that cowboy. The one stupider than the cinch on my saddle.”

  Gert’s legs moved under the mass volume of her dress, inches closer to the man that she loved. “I found out just in time he was dumber than a door nail and that a brilliant, handsome man from London loved me.”

  “That man would wonder if the object of his desire, his very being, feels the same way.”

  “I believe she loved you from the first time she bloodied your nose.”

  Blake strode forward. He dropped to one knee and took her hand. “I have asked this question so often, I’ve lost count. I will ask it, if need be, until the day that I die. Gertrude Finch, will you marry me?”

  Gert smiled down broadly at Blake’s raised face. “Yes, I will marry you.”

  Blake rose and pulled Gertrude into his arms and kissed her. She smiled up at him, shyly and her Uncle tapped his shoulder.

  “I be thinking the ceremony ought to get started right soon.”

  Blake nodded and scanned the room. “Ann? Did you send the minister home yet?”

  His former wife rushed forward tears in her eyes. “He’s still here, I believe, Blake.”

  Anthony dragged a man forward holding a plate of pastries in his hands. “Marry them,” Anthony said.

  The small man looked around the room wildly. “But the banns, Your Grace. They’ve not been posted.”

  Will and Blake pulled their guns in the same instant. “Indeed?” Blake said.

  “Now is not the time to question the Duke of Wexford, sir. Wouldn’t you agree?” Will asked.

  Someone took the heaping plate and shoved a black book in the minister’s hands. His voice shook as he spoke. “No, now is not the time for questions.” He glanced at Gert’s stomach. “Far past the time, one might say.”

  So there in the fragrant ballroom, amidst two hundred finely-dressed guests, Blake took her hand from her uncle. They spoke their vows as if no one in the world existed but them. She was crying, but smiling and Blake grinned. A sharp pain doubled her over and she gasped for breath.

  “The baby,” Gert said.

  “Dear God, there’s no midwife,” Elizabeth said from behind.

  Blake put his hands around Gert’s waist. “Fetch the doctor. I’ll help till he gets here.”

  Anthony’s eyes widened. “Blake, is that wise?”

  Blake looked over his shoulder as he and Fred helped Gert to the door. “I delivered a young woman’s child in a mud hut. I think I can manage with my own.”

  “Thought you just helped the neighbor woman, Sanders,” Fred said.

  Blake glared over Gert’s head. “We’ll be fine till the doctor arrives.”

  * * *

  Gert could hear the soft sounds of an orchestra, minus one bagpipe, as she lay in a bed holding her daughter. Ethel Mavis Sanders. The labor had been quick, Gert was thankful for. The doctor had arrived in the nick of time. He ushered Elizabeth from the room, but her husband had refused to leave. Blake told the old man he had promised to be there when his child was born, and he had no intention of breaking his promise. Blake stared at her and their child with the awe of a man just awakening. He had kissed her, and the soft downy hair of his daughter and bemoaned the day some brawny Scot would carry her off. Gert loved him so much at the moment she could not fathom the depth of her feeling. As she lay in pain in the throes of contractions, he had promised her the stars and the moon. She looked up to his face; filled with love she could see, and shook her head.

  “Everything I ever wanted is right here in this room, Blake. No need to lasso a star.”

  Near Chicago 1876

  Blake and Gert announced they would make a permanent home in the States on Ethel Sanders fifth birthday and Mrs. Wickham had declared then, she must come along. Her son and daughter-in-law had been talking of moving to America, she had told Blake. “They can settle near us or maybe work for Mr. Hastings. And anyway I’ve helped raise three of your children. You’ll not deny me to raise the next. Will you, Your Grace?” she had said.

  Briggs had declared himself indispensable to the next Duke of Wexford and had no interest in living in the wilderness. He would stay in England, thank you very much, and make sure Master William stayed out of trouble.

  So Mrs. Wickham made her home with Blake and Gertrude, her children and grandson Malcolm, nearby. She declared housework and cooking was not beneath her, if it gave her son a chance to do better in the world.

  Donald spent time with his mother and Angus McDonald, with his brother Will, his sister Melinda, her husband and that growing brood, leaving little time to spend with Blake and Gertrude. But he was coming this spring, escorted by Anthony and Elizabeth, and Blake thought the day could not arrive soon enough.

  “This year hasn’t been up to par,” Gertrude said from behind the desk in her Uncle’s home. She and Blake built a large, sprawling home nearby and they had agreed to run the horse business together. She still did the bookwork in Uncle Fred’s red leather chair.

  Five-year-old Ethel Sanders was riding her Great Uncle Fred’s shoulders, wearing his hat low over her eyes all the while shouting “Giddyup.”

  “I need the exter for new corral supplies. I told you last spring we was goin’ build a new one,” Fred Hastings said and grimaced as his grandniece pulled one of the few remaining hairs on his head.

  Her husband sat sprawled in a chair, to her right. He rolled his eyes. “Dear Lord, Gert. We’re not paupers. Fred and I want to get this work done before Anthony and Elizabeth get here. Sign the blasted bank draft,” Blake said.

  Ethel shimmied down her uncle’s back and up her father’s crossed, booted leg. He held her hands and rocked his leg up and down. She laughed and her dark curls whirled around her face. Blake Sanders grinned, crossed his eyes, and stuck his tongu
e out. Ethel laughed harder.

  “And I want to have a grand party for them. With Donald coming to visit, and Anthony and Elizabeth’s girls, too, I want to have something wonderful they’ll never forget.”

  She watched her daughter charm her father into giving her a hard candy he always carried in his pocket. “She’ll spoil her dinner, Blake,” Gert said and sat her foot on the bow of the cradle holding the two-year-old, Geoffrey.

  “We can’t entertain guests and buy lumber in the same year?” Blake asked.

  Gert pulled her mouth to one side and looked down at her open books. “We’re going to have to add on to the house soon, and get Mrs. Wickham some help.”

  “Cripe sakes, Gert. How much bigger a house you need then the one you got. Twice as big as this one, as is. Don’t be puttin’ on airs. I taught you better than that, Missy,” Fred said.

  Blake’s head tilted and his foot stopped swinging bringing a frown to his daughter’s face. “Why, pray tell, would we need more room at the house, Gertrude?”

  She stared at the husband she loved and the uncle she adored. “Well, if you must know we need to add another bedroom. I’m expecting. Again.”

  Fred threw his hat to the floor. “Well, shit a big pile and damn it to hell and back. You know I’m happy as hell for you, but we can’t afford to lose hands from yer screaming and ranting and raving again, Gert. I love you, but pert soon no cowboys goin’ a work here.” His head swiveled to Blake. “You figure out what causes this yet, you dumb Brit?” When no one seemed inclined to answer his question, Fred picked Ethel up, and headed out the door of the office. “Yer goin’ to be eighty fer this one’s out a diapers, Sanders.”