Cross the Ocean (21 page)

Blake was in his hotel stretched out on the bed when he heard rattling from the adjoining room. He knocked.

“Benson. Whatever took you so long?” Blake said as Benson opened the door. A stack of brown paper wrapped packages lay on the bed. “I’d like to go purchase some mounts before sunset.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Terribly sorry. I’ll be changed in a thrice.”

To Blake’s shock the valet slammed the door in his face in a hurry. Blake’s new clothes arrived and he changed while waiting for Benson. The black cutaway coat would be perfect for riding, Blake thought.

He struggled to tie his red silk tie in a four in hand as the tailor had shown him. No cravat. The matching pants were rich fabric and heavy enough to take days in a saddle.

The man who emerged from his valet’s room was unlike any Blake had ever seen. Black boots with lethal pointy toes and heels covered his feet. Navy blue pants met a wildly plaid shirt with a black leather vest atop it. On Benson’s head, Blake was sure he recognized him now; the valet wore a tall white hat with a large crown. A white stovepipe without the flat top. A shoestring tie hung around his neck. Blake bit his cheeks.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Your Grace. Had a terrible time with these pants. Levi’s they’re called.”

“Set for riding, are we, Benson?” Blake asked with a wry smile.

“Yes, Your Grace. The man at Woolworth’s assured me this is just the thing for a trip of this nature.”

“As I’ve said before, you have an uncanny eye for fashion,” Blake added.

* * * *

“Who do you think your father will send for you, William?” Gert asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe his man of business from London.”

“Could be soon. It’s been six weeks since we got here.” She felt William’s shrug. “Seems like you’ve been enjoying yourself here.”

“I have been having a grand time,” William said quietly.

“But?”

“I miss home, Miss Finch. I miss my mother and sister and brother.”

“I would have been surprised if you didn’t, William. For all the formality, I think your family is very close,” Gert said. “I’m sure they miss you as well. All of them.”

They sat in companionable silence and Gert was nearly ready to get her weary bones in bed when William spoke.

“I don’t know what to make of things, Miss Finch.”

Gert settled back on the cold stone. “What do you mean, William?”

“Father had mistresses, all of my friends’ fathers have mistresses. But now I wonder.” William paused.

“Any of those women could have been Melinda. I hate to think about that. But they may not have been from good families, I suppose. Maybe don’t know any better or like what they do.” William was silent sorting out his thoughts. “And then there’s you, Miss Finch. You do come from a fine family. Mr. Billings and all the hands are honorable men.”

Gert sighed. “Ah, William. I don’t know how to explain all of this to you. Many of those women, mistresses, have no other way to support themselves. Some I imagine want to do it. Although I find it hard to understand. But yet there are circumstances beyond the control of women that drive them to do things they may not want. I pray Melinda would never face those decisions. And although I may be drawing a fine line, I would never, even in my current predicament call myself a mistress.”

“It’s father’s fault. I know that,” William said.

Gert stared up at the stars. “I can not find it in myself to find fault with what happened, William. I may have been weak but not guilty.”

“What do you mean weak, Miss Finch? You are a very strong person. You stood up to father on many occasions. And all the men here think you are generous and kind,” William said. “Those are not weaknesses, are they?”

“I’ve been stewing over all of this since I came home, William. And the only explanation I can give is that there is a pull beyond what I understand between your father and I. Something past my ability to sort out and name. But for all that, I won’t deny its existence. Unfortunately, he has his own obligations and I for the most part can’t bear to be in the same room with him.”

“What does father say?” William asked.

“He asked me to marry him, William. Your father was honorable to the end. But he doesn’t love me and I could not bear ending up like well, like....” Gert trailed away.

“Like my mother,” William finished.

Gert nodded in the darkness. “Nor could I give up my home here.”

“And father would never leave England.”

“So, all in all, I will raise a child, maybe even marry Luke Matson.”

“I heard the men talking. He wants to marry you, I think,” William said.

“I’ve made no decision just yet.”

William rose to leave and turned to Gert. “I’ll escort you to the house, Miss Finch.”

Gert smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Although she would miss William desperately, one part of her could hardly wait till he left. He reminded her so much of his father. His voice, although cracking on occasion was settling in to a baritone so like Blake. His manners were fine and he was well liked by the men. She knew the hands had taken William to the Golden Slipper. She heard their whispers and knew they were in no need of supplies as Slim had said. So William had of course seen the dancing girls and a fight. Sipped a sarsaparilla while Clem lost a week’s wages at a poker table. Gert purposefully rang the bell at daybreak, through the window of the bunkhouse the next morning. She remained deaf to their moans.

Gert received a letter from Esmerelda Bunchley, one of her traveling companions for the cause. The woman wondered when and where she would rejoin her sisters. They needed her voice. Needed her savvy. The cause would benefit greatly by Gert’s quick return.

Gert blew a wry breath, as she sat in the parlor that morning and read the letter. They would not need her ballooning stomach to teach young woman independence. Gert calculated she was almost three months gone and her dresses didn’t fit any longer. Her feet swelled and ached in the humid summer air.

She alternately cried and screamed and knew she was driving Uncle Fred and the rest near crazy. But then Clem and Clyde built a cradle and Cookie’s sister sent a crate of infant’s clothes. And William, God bless him, stayed silent but insisted she hold his arm on the walk from the porch to the corral.

Gert railed against God at her troubles for one brief shining moment of joy. Then fell to her knees and thanked the same God for the wisps of movement in her belly. She sat back, pen in hand from writing Esmerelda, to let her mind conjure up the face of Blake Sanders. Her son or daughter would be the child of a titled family and the most rigid, unbending man in that kingdom. Would he be broad shouldered like William or a lovely girl like Melinda? They would be neither. This child would grow up on a ranch in the States and learn to love this raw land. She would not imagine and plan a life as Blake had done, but allow this child the freedom to choose. Gert would stand at the dock with this nameless faceless child when he or she was eighteen. She would pack him off on a ship to England to find his or her other family. And Gert would cry and be alone till she died.

Gert wrote Esmerelda that she would continue writing some of their literature and speeches as she had done before her travels to England. But she would no longer be able to travel. Physically, she would be unable to do it, but she also found her heart was not in it. Her own problems and fears seemed to overshadow any other concerns she might feel. Raising this child alone would be enough. She sanded the letter, addressed it and propped it against the oil lamp.

Gert still considered Luke Matson. She would need do no more than tell Uncle Fred and Luke would take her hand. But her heart was not ready. One thing at time, Gert, she said to herself. Have this child, start contributing to the ranch and to the cause again and maybe, just maybe she would be ready to consider marrying Luke Matson. Maybe not.

Blake followed his map as they left Philadelphia but soon found himself wandering through hills to see the view from the other side. Adjusting to a western saddle was more difficult than Blake had imagined. After two nights spent under a tree, Blake knew they’d made the trip unprepared. His box of matches from the hotel had run out without ever having a proper fire. Although Benson had managed to set a small dead tree aflame. The valet beat it out with Blake’s new coat. Blake’s shirt was dirty and he had only one more in that unique leather contraption that sat across the rump of his horse. The July sun beat down on them as they rode and his face was burnt and itched as much as it hurt. What he would have done for a good English fog. Their dinner that night had consisted of chocolate bars Benson had purchased. And water from a canteen. That had run dry when Benson tried to wash Blake’s shirt. He had stood bare-chested and starved while Benson had scrubbed his white lawn shirt with pilfered hotel soap and the last of their water.

Benson’s clothing purchases seemed more suited. His face was still white as the cliffs of Dover under his hat and his unsightly, yellow gloves kept his hands unmarked. The blisters on Blake’s hands were breaking and filled with dirt. The wool pants, Blake had admired so when he first wore them were hot, itchy and giving him a rash of unheralded proportions. He was without question more physically miserable than he’d ever been in his life. But each ache from his rump or rub on the tender skin of his hands and bottom was reduced to a nuisance as he viewed a vista from the top of mountain. Or a vast valley blooming with wildflowers as deer scampered by. The sky’s brilliant blue in the morning or deep reds and oranges at twilight made Blake forget his discomfort. The air was clean and warm in the morning, sultry by mid-day and held no stale stench of smoke or packed bodies. He refused to give into the wish that loomed in his heart at the crest of each new vision this land held. The fervent wish that Gertrude were beside him.

A farm came into view and Blake praised God above. They were out of all but tealeaves. A man pushing a plow behind oxen stood straight as they came into view. The man tipped back his hat and raised a shotgun level with Blake’s chest.

Blake raised his hands. “No need for that, sir. My companion and I need to buy supplies. I was wondering how close we are to a town called Somerset and if you would be so kind as to allow us water.”

“Where you from?” the farmer asked.

“London,” Benson replied regally. He turned to Blake. “Somerset, you say, Your Grace. I have family in Somerset.”

Blake shook his head. “Not the same. But I’ve found many towns on this map with names of English villages or Lords.”

“Really, Your Grace. Quite the thing.” Benson smiled and sat up straighter. “These folk must be more British than we thought. Not withstanding their odd manner of dress.”

“I find it interesting as well, Benson.” Blake replied as he unfolded the map. The sound of a voice clearing brought Blake’s head around. “Terribly sorry, chap. We’ve been lost in our own conversation.

Do you have a well of sorts, that we might have a drink?”

The farmer looked from the one to the other and shook his head. “There’s a creek right beyond them trees where we fetch our water.” He looked up at the two men and unhitched himself from his harness.

“Come on. I’ll show you. Nearing time for the noonday meal.”

Benson slapped his lips and Blake’s stomach growled. They followed the man walking.

The farmer stopped them as they began across the field. “If’n ya don’t mind, I just plowed this for fall crops. Walk your horses between the rows.”

Blake looked around at the freshly turned soil. “Right. Yes, of course. We’ll follow this row and meet you there.” The farmer nodded, shook his head and lifted a booted foot over plowed ground.

Benson and Blake trotted along at a straight line and turned their mounts to the man disappearing through a line of trees. They emerged to a sparkling creek, running crisp over rocks. Blake heard birds chirping and saw the sun glinting off of a damp moss covered ledge. It was a spectacular sight. No one had forced this flow of water to one field or another. The water was so clear; Blake could see fish swimming in schools. He lifted his head and saw the headwater creeping between the hills, bumping and flowing to where he stood and beyond. He realized then they had been riding parallel to the creek for most of the morning. Blake bent to scoop water with his hand.

“Not there, fella. The cows drink there and leave their waste. Up here.” The farmer motioned for them to join him and Blake turned to Benson as the valet lifted his pointy boot from a steaming pile.

They let the horses drink their fill and walked to the man now scooping water into a wooden bucket.

“Go on. Get your drink here. I’m filling a bucket for us to wash in before Nell puts the food on the table.”

Benson lifted his brows to Blake wondering as he was whether or not they’d receive an invitation to dine. “How many miles do you imagine lies between us and Somerset?” Blake asked.

“If you two were aiming for Somerset, well I don’t rightly understand it. Somerset’s in Pennsylvania, if my memory serves me,” the farmer said and stood.

“Yes, it is in Pennsylvania.” Blake turned and eyed the unkempt farmer. He hated to correct the man as to the location of his own home so settled on introducing himself. “Blake Sanders, sir,” he said and bowed. “This is my valet, my … my….” Blake stuttered as the farmer looked at him curiously. “This is Benson.”

The farmer raised one brow. “One name. Kind a like an outlaw or gunslinger, huh?”

Benson bent at the waist. “Geoffrey Edmund Benson. Valet to the Duke of Wexford.”

The farmer sat down the bucket and raised his hands to his hips. “Where’s this Duke fellow? Hiding in the hills or something?”

“No, no, my good man. The Duke of Wexford and Blake Sanders are one and the same,” Benson laughed cheerily.