Cross the Ocean (12 page)

Blake was sickened with the recounting. “It’s all I know.”

“And there in lies the rub, old man,” Tony said. “Although I will admit when you and Miss Finch are together you seem ... different.”

Blake’s head snapped up. “I suppose so. I can’t recall ever kissing a woman in front of servants and my children before. Nearly a stranger.”

Tony stared at his glass. “Exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘exactly’?” Blake shouted.

William opened the door to the study. “Father. Supper is to be served shortly. The ladies want you and Uncle Tony to escort them.”

“I thought you meant to join us, William,” Anthony said. “Too young for brandy but you’re old enough to sit with the men before dinner.”

William’s eyes widened. “Sorry, Uncle Tony. I meant to, but Miss Finch was telling me about the States.

I didn’t realize the time.”

“What was she telling you?” Anthony asked.

William nearly ran to a chair to sit down. “About everything. The mountains and the cities and the wide-open places. I’d like to see it all. Her uncle’s ranch and fur trappers from Canada and the Indians that live nearby.”

“Enough,” Blake growled. “Enough of the States. The next Duke of Wexford has no need to visit America. Don’t you know the first immigrants there were mostly convicts and religious fanatics? They’re all descended from that mix.”

William’s face fell. “Miss Finch was telling me about the Conestoga wagon trains going west. Their leaders sound courageous to me.”

“No need to tamp the boy’s enthusiasm, Blake,” Anthony said. “We used to dream about far away places when we were his age.”

Blake turned away and William regaled Tony with Gertrude’s stories. He half-listened and followed them to the sitting room where the ladies awaited. Once seated in the dining room William begged Gertrude to continue.

“I don’t think everyone wants to hear my tales, William,” she said with a laugh.

“I want to hear,” Melinda said. “Do go on.”

“The Pony Express, you were telling me about the Pony Express,” William said and leaned forward.

Gertrude described the country in great detail, from rivers to deserts and the men and women she had met and heard of that settled there. Of danger, tragedy, triumph and bravery and breathtaking sunsets.

Streets filled with the wealthy, the poor, merchant and farmer alike. All at the table seemed mesmerized, except Blake.

“I’ve monopolized the conversation too long,” Gertrude said to protests.

Blake watched his children and even Elizabeth and Anthony hang on her every word. “Miss Finch would like to eat her dinner. She can continue another time.”

Preferably when he wasn’t in the room. It was hard to watch the woman talk about something she so obviously loved and missed. Blake could think of few things in his life that held the same emotion for him.

Conversation ceased. Certainly he could find a subject that was near and dear to him. His children.

“Melinda, my dear. What do you think of the young Crawford viscount? Rumor is he may make an offer for you. Fine match. I’m very proud,” Blake said with a nod and a lift of his glass.

“He is nice, I suppose,” Melinda sighed.

“Let’s hope you think he is more than nice, Melinda,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “If you’re to marry him.”

“After all, he will inherit his father’s estate. First son, you know. Fine old family. Other than the one uncle. What mischief did he get himself into, Tony?” Blake asked.

“I don’t recall,” Anthony said.

“If neither of us remember it mustn’t have been too much of a scandal,” Blake said and chuckled. He looked up to the other diners’ stares. “Probably nothing of consequence anyway. Don’t worry, Melinda.

It won’t come back to you.”

Melinda shook her head and rolled her eyes. “As if anyone cares but you.”

Blake lay down his silver. “Of course, I care. I wouldn’t have allowed his pursuit if I hadn’t thought him entirely eligible for you. Including long passed relatives linked to well … whatever he did.”

Melinda stared straight ahead. “I’m not marrying him.”

“Maybe this is a discussion for another time,” Elizabeth said.

Melinda took a deep breath. “No. Everyone is here that I care about. Except mother.”

“What is wrong with the viscount?” Blake asked.

“Nothing,” Melinda replied.

“Then why do you say you won’t marry...?” Blake began.

Melinda turned to him. “I’m not marrying anyone right now. I’ve … I’ve decided to further my education”

“What else could you possibly need to know about running a household that your mother has not taught you?” Blake asked.

“Is that all you think me capable of?” Melinda asked.

Blake rolled his eyes as he took a deep breath. “What is it you wish to study? Music? Your needlework?”

“I … I don’t know,” Melinda replied in a low voice.

“Enough of this nonsense. You will marry the viscount,” Blake said and signaled the footman for dessert.

Melinda stared ahead red-faced, angry and embarrassed.

“You have not chosen a field of study, then?” Gertrude asked.

She shook her head. “No, I haven’t. But I shall.”

“My daughter does not need your encouragement, Miss Finch,” Blake said.

“She needs someone’s support,” Gertrude said.

“I will support her to the ends of the earth,” he replied.

“As long as she marries this viscount you’ve chosen,” she countered.

Blake’s hand flew in the air. “Well, of course. It’s what she’s meant to do. What she and William and Donald are born to do. The aristocracy of England won’t survive if the next generation doesn’t fulfill its obligations.”

Gertrude rose from her chair and turned to Blake. “What if it’s not what she wants to do? Did that ever occur to you? What if she doesn’t give a mule’s behind about the next generation of English aristocracy?”

“That, Miss Finch, is unacceptable. Be seated at once,” Sanders growled.

“No.”

Blake stood slowly, hands on the table in front of him. “Sit down, Miss Finch. This conversation is over and as a guest, one should comply with their host’s wishes.”

Gertrude shook her head around till her hair flew around her face. “No. Maybe I’ll strut around your dining room and flap my arms like a rooster.” She pushed her chair away from the table.

Blake came around the table in a huff. “Absolutely not.”

She pulled her hands under her arms and lifted her elbows. “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”

“I forbid it. Sit down and enough of this foolishness,” he shouted.

Gertrude threw back her head. “Cock-a-doodle-do.”

William giggled and his father flashed him a frown. “Sit down, I say. I won’t have a lunatic prancing around my dining room, spouting nonsense,” he shouted.

She dropped her arms. “Really, Sanders. It’s what you subject us to night after night.” Gertrude nodded to Melinda. “Come to my room later. We’ll discuss your education.”

Blake sputtered and shouted empty threats as Miss Finch sailed out the door. He turned to those left at the table. Elizabeth’s hand covered her mouth. William and Melinda would not look at him.

Anthony stared. “Well done, Blake.”

“She’s a madwoman run wild, I say.” Everyone stood to leave. “She … she tries to make me the fool,”

he said to their backs.

Anthony turned. “No, Blake. You do that very well on your own.”

* * * *

“It’s not me. It’s your daughter,” she replied.

“Melinda?” Blake peeked around Gertrude’s shoulder.

“Go away. She needs to cry this out.”

Blake bristled. “I will not. She’s my daughter.”

“Go away,” Melinda said. Gertrude closed the door.

“Melinda? Can you hear me? Open the door please.” Blake waited and the door parted a crack. “Why are you crying?” Melinda walked away from the open door and sat down on the bed beside Gertrude.

Gertrude pushed the blonde hair out of the girl’s eyes. “Your father’s talking to you. Isn’t that what you want?”

“He thinks I’m capable of nothing more than organizing sheets and tea service. And giving him grandchildren.” Melinda replied and stared out the window.

Blake shook his head. His daughter’s words wilted him. “No, that’s not true.”

Melinda nodded her head, spilling tears down her cheeks. “Yes, it is. William’s the heir to carry your title. Donald’s the baby, so you don’t care about him yet. And I’m … I’m the one to be obedient and useless.”

“Why would you think that, Melinda? You are my beautiful, golden girl. I adore you,” Blake said, a knot in his throat.

Melinda looked at Gertrude. “I told you. Has nothing to do with what I think or feel. Only what I look like and whose son I can snare.”

“Did you put these abominable ideas in her head, Miss Finch?” Blake asked.

Melinda jumped up. Her lips trembled. “You don’t even think I can form my own thoughts. Miss Finch has nothing to do with this. She said you love me.”

“Of course I love you,” Blake said, hands splayed.

Melinda shouted and cried, “Then why don’t you know anything about me? About what I want?

Because you’ve had it all planned since my birth. I tell you I won’t marry right now. I may never marry.”

Melinda dissolved into Gertrude’s arms.

Blake was afraid, truly afraid. Had he never given Melinda her due? Did she think so little of herself and her place in his life? The picture of Melinda at six running to him and smearing his face with wet kisses came into his head. Where had that little girl gone? How could she question his love? Was she lost to him, like Ann, because of his preoccupation with his horses and mistresses and society?

“I know more about you than you think. I know you like hot cocoa first thing in the morning. And prefer violets even though you always told your mother her roses were better.” Melinda looked up to him. “I know you’re smart enough to outwit William at his war games. Although you often let him win. And you read silly books about knights and ladies waiting in castles.” The girl smiled softly and looked away.

Blake looked down at his hands and back slowly to Melinda’s face. “Even if I don’t say it often, I think you are clever and witty and far more capable than I ever was at your age. If you feel you should wait awhile before marriage, I’m sure you have good reason.”

“Do you mean it, Father?” Melinda’s tears ran down her face in sheets.

Blake nodded.

“Oh, Daddy.” Melinda threw herself into his arms. “I love you so much.”

“There, there, poppet.” Blake squeezed her tight. “I love you, too.”

“I want to talk to Lady Elizabeth, Father,” Melinda said and kissed his cheek.

Melinda hurried from the room with a light step. Leaving Blake and Gertrude facing each other.

“What I would have given to have my father talk to me as you just did with Melinda,” Gertrude said.

Blake clasped his hands together behind his back. “Obviously I’ve not done it enough.”

“Trust me. She’ll cherish this talk forever.”

Blake looked at Gertrude. She had forced him to do what needed to be done years ago. He had loosened the tight fist of English tradition and its hold on his family. He had yet to decide whether this freedom he granted Melinda frightened, or exhilarated him. “Come with us this weekend to the house party at Morgan’s,” he said to Gertrude.

She nodded and smiled. “Alright.”

The intimate gathering at the home of Jane and Stewart Morgan was not as Gert imagined. At least fifty guests, including Cameron Fawcett, were lodged in the sprawling mansion. A ride was planned the first morning and Gert had dug through her trunk for her split riding skirt. She donned it now over her calf colored boots. She buttoned a crisp white shirt and placed her flat-rimmed hat on her head. The loose string tie hung at her neck. What ever had prompted Gert to bring the outfit, she didn’t know but she was determined to enjoy riding one of the beautiful horses from the Morgan stable. And this was how it was done in America, she said to herself and tilted her head at the reflection in the mirror.

Elizabeth and Melinda flew into her room. “We could hardly decide which room was yours in this labyrinth of hallways,” Elizabeth said. Her words trailed away as she looked at Gertrude.

“I feared we nearly opened the door of our host’s room and saw him in his drawers,” Melinda said with a muffled giggle. “What an interesting outfit, Miss Finch. Is this what you ride in at home?”

Gert nodded. “Will I embarrass you two?”

Elizabeth circled her, examining the skirt. “It’s saucy to be sure. Blake will be beside himself.”

“I wish I had one just like it,” Melinda said. “Look at this silly little hat of mine compared to yours.”

Gert looked at Melinda’s blue velvet riding habit. The short jacket fit snugly over a full skirt with a matching hat. The feathers dipped attractively over the girl’s face. A froth of white lace was exposed at her neck. She was like a picture from a book.

“Your outfit is beautiful, Melinda. But I don’t ride sidesaddle. Aren’t you riding Elizabeth?” Gert asked as she pulled on her calf gloves.

Elizabeth shrugged. “Tony won’t let me. Afraid I’ll fall. Truth be told I’m glad. I hate horses.”

Gert laughed. “Well I can hardly wait. Let’s go pick our mounts, Melinda.”

They walked down the steps arm in arm with Elizabeth trailing behind. At least twenty guests stood in the entranceway of the Morgan home, all talking softly, and dressed for riding. The men in dark cut away jackets, riding crops in their hands and tall hats on their heads. The women were a rainbow of velvet colors in full skirts that swished of crinoline as they moved. Conversation ceased. Every eye was on Gert.

Cameron Fawcett stepped forward.

“What do Americans call these outfits? Duds, that’s it. You look spectacular, Miss Finch,” Cameron said and offered his arm. The rest of the crowd murmured but followed close behind to the stables.