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Hope you enjoy the first chapter of my newest Historical Romance, Cross the Ocean. I'm happy to be here with so many great authors. It's going to be a fun party!
Holly Bush
Chapter
One
London 1871
“Pardon me?”
The starch in Mrs.
Wickham’s black dress seemed to wilt as she quivered. The soft folds of her
jowls shook. “The Duchess is not coming down, Your Grace,” she repeated.
The Duke of
Wexford stood stock-still. The guests were to descend on his ancestral home in
a matter of moments. The candles lit, the buffet laid, the flowers had bloomed
on cue. The last remaining detail was the receiving line.
“Mrs. Wickham.
There is a small matter of greeting two hundred and fifty guests arriving
momentarily. The Duchess needs to attend them,” Blake Sanders, the Eighth Duke
of Wexford, said sternly to his housekeeper.
When the woman had
announced his wife would not be joining him, Sanders was certain he had not
heard correctly. The Duchess knew her duties, as did he. He turned abruptly to the staircase and
stopped as a shiver trailed down his arms. He turned back. The rotund woman had
not moved other than the flitting of small hairs peeking out of her
mobcap. After twenty-five years of
service to his family, he supposed she stood rooted for good reason.
The Duke spoke
quietly. “Is there a problem conveying this message, Mrs. Wickham?”
The woman
swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace. There is.”
“What
is it, Mrs. Wickham?” he asked.
It was then he noticed
a folded piece of paper in the woman’s hand. As with most lifetime retainers,
he had seen worry, seen anger and joy in her face. But never fear. And it was
fear indeed that hung in the air, widened her eyes and had the missive shaking
in pudgy fingers.
A lifetime later, in his memory, he would
envision the slow transfer of this note as it made its way from her hand to
his. The moments stretched out when life was sure
before he
read it. With the reading, life changed, flopped perversely like some great
beached sea turtle. So memory or God or mind’s protection lengthened the
seconds until he read.
In the present, he
snatched the note, unfolded it and recognized his wife’s script. He dared not
glance at the still-present servant.
Blake Sanders read to the final line, folded the paper neatly and met
Mrs. Wickham’s eyes. Had he been six, he may have hurled himself in the great
black comfort of her skirts. But he was not a boy.
“The contents of
this note, I gather, you read?” he asked.
The mobcap nodded.
“Twas open and lying on Your Grace’s pillow.”
“Very well,” he
replied and stared at the ornate wall sconce and the shadows the candles threw.
The butler’s distant voice broke through his emotional haze. He knew he must
ready himself for the onslaught of guests but not before he made clear his
wishes with Mrs. Wickham.
“We must be
certain the Duchess is left alone with such a malady.” His eyes met hers with a
dark intensity. “You will be the only one in her attendance tonight.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The housekeeper nodded to leave and turned back with tears in her great gray eyes.
“The children, Your Grace? What if . . .?”
“I will handle the
children tonight, Mrs. Wickham,” he answered.
She nodded and
hurried away.
The composure he
had been born with, cultivated, and that now ruled his life, wavered as he
slowly made his way down the staircase to his butler. Briggs stood sentry near
the newel post as he had done for as long as anyone could remember.
“The guests are
arriving, sir,” the butler said.
“The Duchess is
unwell, Briggs. Lady Melinda will stand attendance beside me.” “Very good, Your
Grace,” Briggs replied.
Somehow Blake
found himself between his children in the receiving line. On his left stood his
seventeen-year old daughter, Melinda. Fifteen-year-old, William, the heir to
the title, was to his right. Donald, the youngest, was certainly fighting his
nursemaid to escape and peek through the balustrade at the splendor of the
upcoming ball.
“Where is Mama?” Melinda asked softly.
“Terrible
headache, sweetheart. She needs to stay abed,” he said and made yet another
crisp bow. Melinda would make her come-out in a few short months, but she had
not as of yet. Blake had made the decision to have her play hostess in an
instant, not knowing what else to do.
“You are doing beautifully in her absence.”
Between greeting
the next guests Melinda whispered to her father, “I’ll go to her as soon as I
can. You know how . . .”
“No,” he shouted,
startling guests in line and his daughter. Her look of shame and surprise shook
him. His menacing gaze softened as he turned to her. “I didn’t mean to snap, my
dear.”
Melinda’s lip
trembled until an aging matron shouted in her ear. She turned a practiced,
polite face the dowager’s way.
Moments in every
life indelibly etch in the mind. The birth of a child. A father’s grudging
respect seen in a wrinkled face. The first time love is visible in a woman’s
eye. But that evening and all its details were a blurry mass of glad tidings
and lies. Conversations muted amongst his thoughts leaving his mind only
capable of a nod or the shake of his head. One stark moment glared. Blake’s longtime
friend and neighbor, Anthony Burroughs, looked at him quizzically as he
repeated his wife’s excuse. The man’s eyes bored into his, and Blake nearly
spilled the details of his dilemma in the midst of the glowing ballroom. He
shuttered his feelings quickly, but he knew Anthony was not fooled.
William and Melinda were so exhausted by night’s end
that he had no trouble convincing them to wait to the following morning to
regale their mother with the evening’s excitement. For himself, he could have
cried for joy when the last guest left at nearly four in the morning. He sent
his valet to bed, untied his neck cloth and slumped into the dark green damask
chair in front of a wilting fire.
He would be a laughingstock. The Wexfords took their
pride seriously today in 1871 the same as they had in 1471. The current Duke of
Wexford had spent his entire life guarding against any impropriety that might
sully that pride or good name. Married at twenty-four by decree of his father
to Lady Ann Murrow, and a beautiful fair child, Melinda, was born nine months
to the day from the date of his wedding. The heir, William, two years later
with the spare, Donald, arriving seven years ago.
Blake did not over indulge at the game tables or
with drink. He kept a trim figure, and while not vain, was never seen without
proper attire. His estates were in order; he treated his servants fairly and
generously and reaped the profits hence.
My life has been a model to the English
aristocracy, Blake thought. Until
now. He withdrew the letter from his
pocket and read again, that which his eyes saw but what his mind refused to
believe. “I’m leaving you ...” What in his life had he done or not done
to deserve such treatment, especially from his wife, the mother of his
children? The Duchess of Wexford for God’s sake, he railed silently. He
continued reading. “He’s a well-to-do merchant...” Not even a peer of
the realm.
Would Ann stop at
nothing to humiliate him? How would he show his face in town? The English
peerage took delight and excruciating pains to reveal or revel in another’s
debacle or misfortune. They tittered about the smallest transgression – a loss
at the game table, a stolen kiss exposed before the banns were posted. He would
be branded, bandied about, laughed at behind his back until his last breath and
beyond.
Blake wondered that
when the Earl of Wendover heard this story, he would withdraw the arrangement
for Melinda to marry his son. Blake had not told Melinda of the agreement
because he had wanted her to enjoy her come-out without a cradle betrothal to
dampen her spirit. Let her dance and meet young people and then tell her about
the long ago made plans. But Blake admitted to himself there may be no
triumphant union of two of England’s oldest families after the Duchess’s
betrayal became public.
The sun was peaking over rolling hills he saw as he
gazed idly out the window of his bedchamber. How would he tell his children?
When their nursemaid had died, he had gone off to town rather than deal with
their tears. Let their mother handle these things. But there was no mother. The
scheming wench had gone off and left her own children without a word.
There was a horse
at Tattersall’s he’d been eyeing. Blake wondered if he should go now before
everyone knew of this scandal and he’d be forced to deal with the ton’s
whispers and stares. I’ll deal with the children first. I must. It’s my
duty. He rang for his valet and wondered if Mrs. Wickham would be the
better person to explain things. The housekeeper was a soft soul, and the
children adored her.
Benson helped him
bathe and dress, and he sat down bleary-eyed at the breakfast table. His
morning regimen was placed in front of him as he was seated with a footman’s
help. Blake was suddenly so angry, so horrified, at the situation he found
himself in, he merely stared at his oatmeal. Tea was being poured on his right.
The morning paper carefully folded to the business section on his left. All
seemed the same, should be the same. But it wasn’t. Ann would not glide down
the stairs this morning. She would not inquire politely how he had slept. She
would not explain her plans with the dressmaker or morning calls. As if he’d
cared. But even still . . . it wouldn’t be the same. He would not kiss her
cheek and tell her she looked lovely with his dismissal.
He was stirring
his oatmeal when he noticed Melinda at the door of the dining room. His
daughter’s face was pale.
“Good morning,
Melinda,” he said as he stood. “Come sit down.”
There was a letter
in her hand.
“You . . . you
knew,” she said from the doorway.
“Come in. Sit
down,” he said. Blake eyed the servants. “Leave us.”
Melinda sat and
unfolded the paper in her hand. “Mother’s gone, and you knew.”
Blake raised his
brows and dipped into his now cold gruel. “I found out just as the guests began
to arrive. There was no opportunity to tell you.”
Melinda’s lip
quivered. “Why not?” she asked.
Blake tilted his
head. “Was I to announce this . . . this incident in front of two-hundred and
fifty guests?”
“Incident? Is that
what you call this?” Melinda whispered. “An incident?”
Blake was
surprised at her harsh tone. But considering all, her age, this unfortunate,
well, yes, he thought, incident, he would overlook her glare.
“It is of the
utmost importance that we conceal this as long as possible. From the servants,
friends, whomever. I will contrive to make a conceivable explanation, but you
must ready yourself.” Blake paused. “There will be gossip.” Tears poured from
Melinda’s eyes. He stood, went to his daughter and picked her hand up from her
lap, patting it as he did. “Now, now, my dear. You are the oldest. You must
face this head on and set an example to your brothers. Cry it out now, dear.
There’s no on here but me.”
Melinda wrenched
from his grasp. “As if I care who hears? Our mother’s gone. Why didn’t you send
them all home?” She melted into the chair, her hands covering her face.
Blake hated
emotional scenes. Hated the tears. Hated Ann for leaving him in this mess. He
noticed William in the doorway.
“Can’t have him
saying, ‘Go on home now. The duchess ran off with a clerk.’ Think Melinda.
Father did the right thing,” William explained.
Blake saw his heir
held a letter as well. “Come in, William.”
The next Duke of
Wexford went to a chair. Fifteen years old, nearly six-feet-tall, and all long
thin arms and legs. His blond hair, like his sister’s, was wet combed, and his
face as usual was blotched red. Fair complexion his wife had explained when he
inquired why his son always looked as if someone had punched him about the
cheeks and nose.
“It will fade when his beard comes in. My
brother’s did.” Blake could hear Ann’s voice in his head. Always calm.
Serene. The thought hit him like a carriage had run him over. I will miss
her. I didn’t love her, was
unnecessary . . . but I will miss her. Did he take for granted her
small ways, her quiet voice, her very existence? Not prone to regrets, he
hadn’t had any thus far; Blake awoke to his children’s sharp words.
“Mother must have had her reasons,” Melinda shouted.
William stood at
the table, angry, his face red-mottled. “What reasons, sis? What could make her
do this?” His face crumbled and he sat again, now toying with a spoon. “She
doesn’t want us.”
The streaks of
emotion frightened Blake nearly as much as the ton’s censure. He watched his
children’s faces ebb from sadness to anger in an instant. Blake’s head snapped
up with Melinda’s next words.
“That’s not true.
I’m sure. We’ll ask her all of this when we see her in two weeks.” Melinda
moved to her brother’s side. “Don’t judge . . .”
“You’ll do no such thing, young lady,” Blake
roared. “Your mother has made her choice. You’ll have nothing to do with her.”
“Nothing to do
with my mother?” she asked in a whisper.
“She’ll be staying
at Grandmama’s then,” William said.
Blake could not
believe his ears. He would not believe. “The dowager will never allow it.
She’ll insist her daughter has died rather than face the scandal.”
Melinda lifted her
letter and faced her father reading. “My
mother, your grandmother, knows of my plans. She does not agree but is
rectified with it. I know your father will never keep you from her.”
Melinda faltered. “Not that their love
for you would hold sway, but certainly with the dowry my father set aside for
you, Melinda, he will not cross her. As you know, turning down the Haswood gems
would make your father positively ill.”
Blake blanched.
The Haswood jewels were worth a fortune in value and prestige. Bequeathed from
the king two generations ago. The topic had been discussed on many occasions.
Blake often wondered if that was part of the reason for Wendover’s pursuit of
Melinda for his son. But to hear his wife’s sharp words as if the only thing of
importance to Blake were a string of baubles. Exquisite baubles, granted, but
certainly worth less than his self-respect. He would not acquiesce.
“You’ve no need of
the Haswood jewels,” Blake said.
Melinda’s eyes
opened and narrowed. “Father, if I didn’t know better, I would think those
jewels meant nothing to you. But in this case, it’s not the necklace you covet.
It’s your pride.”
“Hardly the thing
to be saying to Father. Mother’s left him. Have some pity,” William stammered.
“I need no one’s sympathy, thank you.” Blake
shouted at his son and turned to stare out the window. “This . . . this incident will be blamed on
the Duchess’s conniving, duplicitous ways. To leave me, leave her duty, with no
thought to the consequences. Pitiful, thoughtless baggage.” Blake turned back
to see his son standing before him, the young man’s fists clenched.
“Whatever she has
done, no one, no one speaks of my mother, like that.”
William’s voice
cracked as he spoke. Fierce anger, hurt and pride warred in Blake’s head. He
remembered the first time he had stood up to his own father. The scene flashed
through his mind. My son is becoming a man. Where have I been? The door
to the dining room opened.
“Sir Anthony
Burroughs,” Briggs announced.
Blake did not look
at his best friend. “Another time, Burroughs. Family business,” he said
abruptly.
Melinda turned.
“You’ll not tell him? Your closest friend? William’s godfather? Do you intend
to explain her absence to anyone?”
Anthony stood,
quiet grace, in the doorway. He smiled at Briggs and pulled the man’s hand from
the doorknob. “Won’t be needing anything right now, Briggs.” Anthony turned to
the assembled before him. Melinda’s tear-stained face. William’s anger and
confusion. And wild unholy wrath on the face of Blake Sanders.
“Whose absence?”
Anthony asked.
Blake ran his hand
through his hair, unwilling or unable to speak. The room was quiet while
Anthony poured himself a cup of tea. Blake could not begin, could not voice, would
not mutter the explanation. His embarrassment was overwhelming. Melinda finally
gave way in a flurry of tears, running to Anthony.
“Uncle Anthony!
Mother’s left us,” Melinda cried and crumbled into his arms.
“There, there,
puss,” he crooned. Anthony sat Melinda down and poured her a cup of tea. “Cry
it out.”
Melinda blubbered
as Blake stood ashen at the window, and William swallowed time and again as the
story and their letters were retold.
Anthony’s eyes
were wide, faraway and his voice soft when he spoke. “I wouldn’t believe this
if it hadn’t been you telling the tale. Ann’s left us.”
“Left us?” Blake
exploded. “She left me. Me. She left me.”
Anthony took
Melinda by the hand and jerked his head to William. “Your father and I need a
chat. Dry your tears. Hurry along now until we decide what’s to be done.”
As calm as Blake
had always strived to be, Anthony was the opposite. Wild youth, horrible
temper, impetuous ways all rolled into one tall, loyal friend. His marriage,
two years prior was the only reason he still lived, Blake was convinced.
Elizabeth Burroughs ruled him with a beautiful face and a strong will. Blake
had never seen a man and wife so besotted. He was surprised when Anthony calmly
told him to sit down.
Anthony smiled then,
and his pleasant tone belied his sharp words. “Wexford, you are acting like a
spoiled, unfeeling, pompous ass.”
Blake’s mouth fell
open, and he sputtered, “Ann was the one to. . .”
Anthony’s eyes
closed and one finger came to his lips. “Do not besmirch her name in front of
me or your children, regardless of what you may be feeling. She was wrong as
some of us are on occasion. Present company excluded of course.”
Blake’s mouth
closed, and Anthony continued. “You are an adult. You’ve been an adult since we
were five-years-old. Your children need you, now more than ever. Don’t hold
onto this hurt jealously as if you are the only one involved.” Anthony sat back
in his chair. “There are others in much more pain simply because they loved
her. An emotion you are fortunate to not have to deal with.”
“I loved her in my
way,” Blake said staring out the window.
Anthony
harrumphed. “Really? Did you ever tell her?”
“She’s my wife,
damn it, Burroughs,” Blake muttered.
“Ah, yes, easier
to tell your current mistress than your wife,” Anthony replied.
“What does my
having a mistress have to do with anything?”
Anthony laughed
hoarsely. “Only you would pose a question that absurd.”
“Why did she leave
with him though? Why not just . . .”
“Just bed a man
who is not her husband as many rich, titled women do? Perhaps Ann’s sense of
honor wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps she didn’t wish to teach her children such
faithlessness. Perhaps she loves him.”
Although he had no
argument to make in defense of himself, Blake was furious at Anthony’s conclusions.
“Besides my being an “ass” what do you propose I say about this?” Blake asked.
He was tired, so very tired, but this mess, this incident needed thought.
The two men spent
the morning trying in vain to think of a way to cover the affair up. It would
not be done. Did someone see Ann as she boarded a ship with her merchant? Would
she be seen by peerage traveling abroad? And how does one, even one as powerful
as the Duke of Wexford, explain a wife who has suddenly disappeared? They would
think he locked her in the attic, or worse yet, Bedlam.
“Brazen it out, Blake.
Tell the truth and dare them to laugh. I see no other way.” Anthony jumped up
as the clock chimed the hour. “Is that the time? Dear God. I told Elizabeth I’d
be home at twelve.”
“So what if you’re
late? With Elizabeth’s confinement, what’s she to do but lie about? What’s the
hurry?” Blake asked, now sulking.
Anthony turned
from the door. “I told Elizabeth I’d be home.”
Blake dismissed
him with a flit of his hand. “At least I won’t be the hen-pecked husband of the
neighborhood. You do very well.”
Anthony stared
boldly. “Think what you will. You always do. But I’ve not got a shrew for a
wife. Nor did you. I don’t run home because she told me to.” His friend raised
his brows to mock. “I run home because I want to be there. I love her. And she
me.”
The door closed
softly and Blake was left alone. He was glad for the solitude. Of all the
ugliness, the shouting, the accusations, Anthony’s declaration shook him as
nothing else did. His throat clogged, and tears sprang to his eyes. Not for
love lost but for the truth whirling around in his head. The cold, black stark
reality that he would die without ever knowing that love. Ann had loved him all
those years ago, and perhaps even in her disgrace she would be the victor. She had loved someone. Him. Her husband. And
with an all-consuming passion and clarity that he would never experience. Blake
had watched that love wane and fade as time and inattention whittled it away.
Did Ann love this merchant? Was she so lucky as to love twice in her life?
Would his children love like that? Like Anthony and Elizabeth?
“Where’s Momma?” a
young voice said from the doorway.
Blake turned to
see Donald, all of seven-years-old. “She’s gone away for a while, son.”
The boy nodded.
Blake stood and
walked to the doorway.
Donald smiled.
“She’ll be back. She told me she might be taking a trip, ‘cept she didn’t know
when. That I’d see her at Grandmama’s soon after she left.”
“That’s right,
Donald,” Blake said stiffly.
Donald turned,
hands in his pockets, and ran down the vast hall.
“Where are you
going?” Blake called after him.
The boy cocked his
head. “Same place I do every day, Father. To the pond so Malcolm and I can sail
our boats.”
“Yes, of course,”
Blake lied. He watched Donald and Malcolm be enveloped in Mrs. Wickham’s arms.
She had a basket packed, and they ran down the hall swinging it between them.
The housekeeper faced him.
“Mrs. Wickham,
would you be so good as to gather Briggs and Benson and join me in my study?”
Blake said.
“Yes, Your Grace,”
she replied.
Blake sat down
behind his desk. He had best make some explanation or rumors would abound. The
three servants he trusted entered the room. They stood expectantly. Blake
cleared his throat.
“The Duchess has .
. . the Duchess has . . .” Blake’s mouth was dry and he searched for the right
words.
“The Duchess is
away,” Briggs said.
“Yes, Your Grace,”
Mrs. Wickham said, “the Duchess is away and . . . and we need to make sure that
everything runs smoothly in her absence.”
“Certainly, Your Grace,”
Benson said. “We have no intentions of allowing any mischief or talk until
things are as they were.”
Now Blake could
not speak. They had spoken for him and would not let him humiliate himself. He
managed to blurt out, “The children . . .” but he could not continue.
“Don’t worry
yourself, sir. Not a soul will sully those children without answering to us,”
Benson said.
All was silent.
“Is that all, Your
Grace?” Mrs. Wickham asked.
Blake nodded,
staring out the window.
THE WRONG MAN
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