Cross the Ocean (23 page)

* * * *

Gert received a letter from Elizabeth near the end of August. She had felt guilty not writing her cousin as she promised that morning at the docks. But Gert couldn’t bring herself to ask what she wanted to know most. How was Blake? Was he still a pompous ass? Still the handsomest man in London? Who was his newest mistress? Gert turned at the desk in the sitting room and held Elizabeth’s unopened letter. The fine cream-colored stationary held the words she feared or hoped for. Uncle Fred had been thrilled that morning when a neighbor dropped off the mail. He ran as fast as his bowlegs could take him, holding it out to her.

“Here’s a letter, Gert. From your cousin in England,” Fred said and waved it in front of her nose as she stood on the lowest slat of the fence.

“What’s the matter with you, Clem?” Gert shrieked from her post. “You’ve got that pony in a tizzy.”

Fred knew Clem didn’t have the nearly broke horse so riled that he bucked. Just as he’d known yesterday Gert did like blackberry jam, was her favorite in fact, in contrast to what she’d shouted at Cookie. Knew the flowers Clyde had picked weren’t meant for Gert’s grave after a long lingering illness but rather to brighten her day. And knew that Gert’s shouts and balling fits had every horse, dog and man scurrying away from her.

“Come on, Gert. It’s hot out here. Take your letter and go on in the house,” Fred said and held the letter out to his niece.

Gert looked down at the letter. Her lip trembled and she bit it. “I don’t want anything to remind me of that horrible country.”

Uncle Fred stared at her.

“Fine,” Gert cried. “Fine. I’ll go sit and be useless.” She grabbed the letter and marched to the house.

But now, as she sat at Aunt Mavis’ desk, absently scratching her belly, tears rolled off her cheeks and landed on the letter. She was curious, though, of news about who would come for William. She read the first page. Elizabeth’s baby had been born. A girl. Sarah Louise. Everyone was fine except for the husband. Apparently Tony had not laid the child in its cradle since the midwife had handed her to him. Sir Anthony Burroughs had met his match in the form of a tiny baby he could not bear to part from for more than a minute at a time. The thought of that father and his daughter made Gert think of her own child. No father would cuddle him or her or show him off as if he or she were the most precious thing in the world.

They would have a mother, though, that would go to the ends of the earth for her child.

Ann Sanders McDonald had taken Melinda and Donald to Scotland where Melinda had managed to tempt every eligible man for miles. Ann had written Elizabeth that one dark haired chieftain had set Melinda’s thoughts to marriage again. Donald ran constantly with boys his same age, swimming, fishing and growing like a weed. Gert’s lip trembled. She laid the letter in her lap. That was the thing with children, she thought. They grow up. And they leave.

Gert pulled the second page from behind the first and continued. The paper shook wildly in her hand.

Blake Sanders had set sail to America for William, two weeks after she did. Her trembling hand came to her mouth. He was coming here. But why hadn’t he arrived? He was surely coming only to rescue his heir. But where was he? Gert’s thoughts flew a thousand ways. He was dead on the side of the road. His carriage had careened from a mountainside. And it was certainly no less than he deserved. To allow her and his unborn child to sail across an ocean alone. Well, William had been there with her but Blake didn’t know that. He didn’t even know she was pregnant. Although he should have. He did ask her to marry him. But he didn’t love her. Gert had herself in fury of tears, fears and accusations.

“William,” Gert shrieked as she stuck her head out the window. “William!”

Chapter Fourteen

Blake had planned on traveling due west from Cleveland. Somehow he and Benson found themselves in southern Indiana. They had spent their last evening in a barn owned by a very pregnant woman. Mrs.

Fletcher’s husband had died a month prior and the woman was running the small farm alone. To Blake’s regret, the Fletcher child had chosen that night to arrive in this world. Blake had ridden for a neighbor while Benson cooked and straightened the woman’s home. A girl, certainly not much older than his Melinda came running down the porch steps of the home Blake was sent to.

“How close are the pains?” she asked as she waddled quickly to a cart and hitched a mule.

“I don’t know for sure, miss.” Blake looked at the girl, pregnant herself. “Isn’t there someone else who could attend Mrs. Fletcher? Someone with, pray more experience.”

“You and I is it, mister.” The girl shouted yaw to the mule and set off at furious pace.

Blake hurried to his horse and followed. Dear God. Did the chit think he’d be helping with the birth?

While Ann had delivered Melinda and William he was in his study, drinking brandy and choosing his children’s school. He was in London during Donald’s birth. But Tess Williams did not care. She shouted directions to Benson for water and boiled Blake’s knife. She directed Blake to hold Mrs. Fletcher’s back while the woman pushed the child from her body. The crying, shouting and sweating Mrs. Fletcher succeeded near midnight in giving birth. Benson had hurried from the house at the first scream. Tess Williams shoved the infant in Blake’s arms, unceremoniously, while she attended Mrs. Fletcher.

Blake found himself seated in a rocker, slowly moving, watching the child in the moonlight from the bare window. He cooed when she fussed and wrapped the blanket tight around her small body. He could not remember, for his life, his children ever being this small. And poor Mrs. Fletcher, soon alone to raise this child. Blake swallowed. What if it were true? What if his deepest fear and surety was reality? Gertrude could be pregnant. With his son or daughter. Would someone hold her hand as he had done for Mrs.

Fletcher? Would someone murmur reassuring words? Of course, Blake chastised himself. She would have Uncle Fred. But would he hold her and tell her she’d done fine? What if she and William had yet to arrive and were stranded? Who would hold his child in his first moments on earth?

Not too terribly long ago Blake was sure he had lived his life with no regrets. Lately, he wondered if any decision he’d ever made was right. So much he’d missed, so much he let willingly go unseen. He was very near as useless as Tony had described him. The child in his arms slept peacefully. Blake touched the small hand with his finger. The tiny fist opened and closed around it and her veined eyelids fluttered.

Suddenly and with a desperation Blake had never known, he craved his children. Wanted to see Melinda’s sweet, smiling face and hear her laughter. Touch William’s shoulder and tell him how proud he was of his son. Wished he had climbed to see that damn tree house Donald loved. Blake’s vision blurred until the tiny pink bundle in his arms was but a shadow.

And Blake knew without a doubt, at that moment and not before, what Ann, Tony, his servants and Lady Katherine had known all along. What Gertrude had seen in his children the first instant they’d met.

No horse, home or club, no rule or shapely body held a candle to his sons and daughter. What had appeared as gold was not but a cheap imitation compared to the treasure God had foolishly bestowed upon him. He was glad then Ann was their mother. The dear Lord had been merciful indeed. While he roamed haunts, chasing pleasures, his wife had been raising those children. He no longer felt angry or cheated. But indebted rather, to a woman he’d not loved and treated poorly. Pray McDonald will make her happy.

And above all this, knowing all this, one face loomed before him. Unbeknownst to her, Gertrude had changed Blake’s life. He had been lured here because of William’s fascination with her heartfelt tales.

Blake would have gone to his grave never seeing this land’s bounty or the pride and resourcefulness of its people. Melinda would have been married to some young fob planning a life filled with women and titles while Blake’s daughter stayed behind to raise her children. And Donald, he cringed to admit was a stranger.

Sometimes in the past, Blake had revealed something personal to someone. Most times to Tony. But he had no inclination to share his thoughts with his friend at this moment. There was only one person on this earth he’d admit his folly to. The same one he’d wronged and cursed. The tall, green-eyed woman not afraid for an instant of his displeasure. She’d curse him and tell him she’d known all along he was an ass.

Blake smiled at the thought of her censure. They would argue and trade barbs and he would kiss her.

* * * *

“What is it, Miss Finch?” William said as he ran in the house. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

“Your father is coming here to get you. He left England two weeks after us.”

William dropped in a chair. “Where is he then? Shouldn’t he have arrived by now?”

Gert’s lip trembled. “Yes. He should have.”

William’s eyes darted. “I am happy and frightened and angry he is coming.”

Gert stood and wandered about the room. Finally stopping to touch Aunt Mavis’ candlesticks, her back to the door. “I don’t know what to do, William. I don’t want him to know of my condition.”

Gert had as many mixed emotions as William. To see Blake again would ease a pain that lingered. But seeing his face, hearing his voice would be torture, knowing he was not the man for her. She had come to that conclusion painfully. Admitted to herself she’d succumbed to a physical attraction with a man intent on leading a merry life. One of wealth and indulgence and pleasures. A man wholly unable from centuries of tradition, to view a woman as anything but a necessity for heirs and gratification.

Gert had a good life here, on the ranch. One that allowed her views to be listened to, her opinions valued. Esmerelda had written and said the speech Gert composed brought a standing ovation from a crowd who had heard it. She had respect and a place in the order of things. Gert would not have love, not for every star she wished on. It was not meant to be. As she had told countless young women, find yourself, your values and talents and make a good life. Never wait on a man to fulfill your dreams. Much more difficult to live those words than to say them. Gert would never again scoff at a woman believing her prince or knight or pirate would solve all life’s woes.

“When your father finds out I’m expecting his child, I can’t imagine his reaction,” Gert said softly.

“I won’t let him hurt you. In any way, Miss Finch,” William replied.

“Neither will I,” a voice came from the door. Gert spun around to see Uncle Fred and all the hands.

“Don’t you worry none, Gert,” Cookie said.

“No duke is goin’ to bother you,” Clyde said. Clem nodded.

“I won’t let the bastard break your heart again,” Luke whispered.

* * * *

Benson and Blake plodded along north to Chicago. The trees were a magnificent combination of yellows, oranges and scarlet. They passed farms with baled hay heaped in mountains dotting the countryside. By sundown the air had a cool nip and the odor of turned earth and drying leaves. They had fallen into a comfortable routine. Benson tended the horses and started a fire while Blake hunted for their dinner. Some nights they didn’t eat well. The only thing Blake was positive of was that Benson would hand him a steaming cup of tea first thing. That morning they had come upon a small waterfall. The water crashed over rocks and puddled in a lazy pool as clear as the sky. Blake could smell himself and was not passing up the opportunity to bathe. Benson gathered their dirty clothes and stripped to a pair of full-length red drawers and waded into the water to do the laundry. Blake, bare bottom naked, ran at the water full tilt. It was gloriously cold. He stood under the fall of water after scrubbing his body and hair.

Blake stood in the water waist deep and shaved away two days worth of stubble. He caught his reflection in the still water around him. Days back he had found a barber and was glad his collar-length curls were gone. Blake sported a tightly cropped haircut and if the ripples in his mirror didn’t deceive him his skin had mellowed into a tan. There was not an ounce of fat on his chest or arms. The riding and lifting and walking and hunting had pushed the years on his body back to youth. He felt more fit than he had since he was a boy.

Blake peered at the water’s image. Women in London would swoon at his new physique. Trim and now reasonably fast with his Colt. He pulled an imaginary gun from his naked hip in a draw. But London ladies would not appreciate his newly honed body or skill with a six-shooter. Proper English women would find nothing appealing about the tan color of his skin or the roughened calluses of his hands. To them he’d look like a savage or a servant. Maybe Gertrude would think he looked more American.

Blake waited, unsuccessfully, for his longing for Gertrude to lessen. Hoping, on some level, a dance hall girl would arouse his lust. In the past, a tempting view of a breast or a pale ankle would have been enough to drop his eyelids in want, bringing a twitch to his lips and a twinge to his crotch. Not so anymore. Barely clothed bar wenches, even on his lap as had happened in the last town they’d come to, did little for him. But every night, regardless of stones digging into his back while he slept, he awoke rock hard with Gertrude’s face swimming before him. There was no one to discuss this strange change in his body with. He could hardly imagine what he’d say.
I’m limp as a dead daisy while conscious and stiff
as a board while asleep.
And whom would he admit that bit of nonsense to. Not Tony for certain. His best friend would laugh and say he was in love.

Currently the cold water had him shriveled and wrinkled. Benson had strung the cord from his saddlebags and was draping their clean clothes over it for the sun to dry. Blake pulled on clean half drawers and stretched out on a flat rock to dry. His eyes opened to the blue sky as he lay there. He had the strangest feeling he and Benson weren’t alone. Blake peered through trees and wandered around.

Nothing. No one. He still could not shake the feeling. Their clothes dried quickly and soon Benson and he were saddled and riding north. Closer with each step of the horses’ hooves to Gert and his son.