Cross the Ocean (22 page)

The farmer eyed Blake. “You a duke, huh?”

“Yes, I am,” Blake said and smiled.

The man pulled a worn felt hat from his head and scratched behind his ear. “Sposin’ you can read, then?”

Benson smiled thinly as he responded for Blake. “Generally graduates of Oxford and peers of the realm can indeed read.”

The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Tom Biddle. My Nell is fixing stew and biscuits for dinner. Don’t spose you’d want to join me?”

Blake smiled broadly. “As you can see, I have no fixed engagements. Benson and I would love to join you and your wife.”

As they approached the small cabin, a woman stepped out of the door. She was pregnant, far along, with a small child balanced on her hip. A curl of smoke rose from a chimney and a plot of ground held a variety of plants, not a weed marring their straight rows. Clothes hung from a rope, flapping and drying in the breeze.

“We got company, Nell,” Tom Biddle said as he kissed his wife’s cheek. “I told you, I’d help with the wash. Getting to be too much for you.”

The woman nodded shyly to Blake and he followed the pair into the dim, cool dampness of the cabin.

The aroma of food nearly fell him where he stood. Blake and Benson followed Tom as he motioned back outside. The farmer dumped the water he carried from the creek into a metal bowl. He wet his hands and face and reached to a ledge for soap. A thin rag hung on a nail and Tom wiped himself dry.

“Go on ahead, fellas. Clean up. I’ll meet ya inside at the table.”

Benson insisted Blake wash first and then stared grimly at the cloth he was to use to dry with. “Your scullery maids have finer rags than this, sir,” Benson said and dabbed his face lightly.

“I imagine they do, Benson. But I’ll eat that damned rag if I don’t soon get inside to Mrs. Biddle’s table.”

Once all were seated, Tom and Nell Biddle dropped their head in prayer. Blake wanted to scream Amen. The wife ladled large portions of stew into chipped bowls and uncovered a platter heaped with steaming biscuits. A crock of butter and a jar of jam were the only other things on the table. No concoction his chef had ever graced the table with smelled as wonderful as the meal in front of him. Blake waited until his host began to eat and then concentrated intently on cleaning his bowl to reveal a pattern of roses in the crockery. One of Mrs. Biddle’s biscuits sopped the gravy from the bottom and Blake licked his fingers clean, not knowing what to do without a starched napkin.

“My dear, that meal was delicious. I hope we didn’t inconvenience you with our arrival,” Blake said.

“I’m glad you liked it. We don’t git many visitors. Tom and I are right happy for the company,” Nell Biddle said shyly. She shoveled mashed potato from the stew into the infants’ open mouth.

“I’d like to compensate you, regardless.” Blake reached through the slit of his money belt and pulled out a bill. “Will this do?”

Tom Biddle scowled. “Them that I ask to eat at my table don’t pay.”

“But I insist, my good man. Certainly this money could be used to buy your wife some trinket or seed for your farm. I am amply able to share. As you have so kindly done,” Blake said.

“Got me some of the finest farmland in Maryland. We do just fine here,” Biddle said with a hitch to his shoulders.

Benson squinted. “Maryland, you say. Is that a town close by?”

“No. The state of Maryland. Closest town is Cumberland. Tried to tell you boys, Somerset was in Pennsylvania,” Tom Biddle said and leaned back to rub his stomach.

Blake pulled the map from his pocket and spread it out on the table. His head shook as his finger found Cumberland. “I believe I’ve taken us quite out of our way, Benson. Terribly sorry.”

“No apology necessary, Your Grace. You are still becoming adjusted to your new role. We will have small mishaps, I’m sure,” Benson said smiling. “And another English name. After the Duke of Cumberland would be my guess.”

Blake stared at his map and tried to decide where exactly they were in relationship to the city of Cumberland. Tom Biddle stood and pulled a stone from the wall. He lifted a worn leather case from within.

“Here’s the map of my land from the surveyor,” he said and spread out a large paper.

Blake pored over the two maps when he realized Tom Biddle stood expectantly to his side. The farmer held papers in his hand.

“I was wondering since you can read and all if you’d take a look at these?”

Blake nodded and took the papers. He studied them, wishing he had his quizzing glasses from his library.

“This looks like a proposal to buy part of your property,” Blake said.

“Water rights,” Tom Biddle said. “My ciphering isn’t too good and I wanted to make sure before I make my mark that I know what it all says.”

Blake studied the papers and the maps laid out before him. “I believe this is a bill of sale for the creek and the property on both sides.”

Tom Biddle’s face went white. His wife came to his side. “Thank God I didn’t sign this yet,” he said.

“Glad to help, Mr. Biddle,” Blake said. “I’d take this to a barrister. Let him make sure you get paid fairly each year for these water rights.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders. I can’t see how my dinner measures up to what you’ve done for us but you’re welcome to stay til supper. Hardly seems payment enough though,” Nell Biddle said.

Blake smiled. “Thank you but I wish to arrive in Cumberland by nightfall. We need to purchase supplies.”

Nell Biddle packed a bag with beef jerky and biscuits while her husband brushed their horses. Benson and Blake mounted and tipped their hats.

“Sanders,” Biddle called. “I’d see about trading for different horses in Cumberland. If’n your journey’s as long as you say these aren’t suited.”

“Really,” Blake said and patted the neck of his horse. “How so?”

“They’re bred for speed. You need something for the long haul just in case ya get off course again.”

Blake nodded and set out at a steady trot. The most amazing thing had just happened to the fifteenth Duke of Wexford. He had been paid for services rendered. Granted, not gold or notes, but he had received payment all the same. Beef stew and biscuits. Blake could not stop himself from preening. It was a heady feeling indeed to provide what someone else needed and be paid for those skills.

Cumberland, Maryland proved to be interesting. Not as sophisticated or glib as New York or Philadelphia. Fewer men in business suits, more in farm clothes and many with outfits similar to Benson.

Most of the latter, less garish, Blake reflected as he leaned against the brass rail of a tavern called Madam Tilly’s. Men were gathered around tables, playing cards, others stood and conversed with the man next to them. Benson was off, scouting stables. Blake was convinced Tom Biddle was right. He had purchased their horses with an eye for horseflesh only considerate of the landscape of the next hunt.

These rocky hills and rolling acres needed stamina from both horse and rider.

Blake had spent most of the day in a cluttered shop called Green’s General Store. What he had failed to consider at the beginning of the excursion was that America was vastly different than England. It was enormous. And there were few Inns to rely on at sunset. Granted when they’d stayed on the main roads, they passed taverns with rooms to rent, but so far Blake had been unable to confine himself to the wide dirt paths through the countryside.

Blake succumbed to the comfort of denim pants such as Benson wore, purchased from Mr. Green. The shopkeeper had advised him to take the pants to the Chinese laundry before he wore them. Blake’s three, new, white, cotton shirts were sturdy and collarless. An unlined jacket made of softened suede in camel completed his ensemble. A flat rimmed, low felt hat made by someone named Stetson was adorned with black braiding. But the
piece de resistance
was the gun belt that hung below his waistband.

A Mr. Colt provided two six shooters, the shopkeeper had explained. Nothing like his hunting rifles back home. Blake supposed he’d best do some target practice. He and Benson may have to shoot their supper, although he was quite unsure what he would do if he actually hit something. Mr. Green insisted he buy a lethal looking knife with a leather scabbard. Blake’s concern wavered from cutting off his thumb to actually having to peel skin from a dead animal as Mr. Green had described. A very pregnant Mrs.

Green had showed him how to roll his new blankets to fit behind his saddle. Blake filled one entire pocket of his saddlebag with matches.

All in all Blake felt more comfortable. His skin had tanned on his face and his behind was finally growing accustomed to the saddle. The fingers of black leather gloves spilled from his pocket. He had clung firmly to his low-heeled English boots, refusing to squash his toes into points. Blake did not stand out in the tavern he surveyed. He was dressed much the same as many of the men there. Blake sipped his drink and shuddered. He had yet to find a decent scotch whiskey.

The trip to the bathhouse had proved most interesting after Benson and he had purchased their new mounts. A large gray haired woman smoking a pipe wandered about the row of tubs handing out thin towels. Benson cowered and insisted the woman turn her head while he dried. For himself, Blake sat in the steaming water and wondered what Gertrude was doing. What would she think of his new clothes?

What would she think of his decision to ride on horseback for the trip? He admitted to himself that William in all his youth was wiser. His son knew the world held more than London and society. And if that boy, right or wrong hadn’t snuck on Gertrude’s ship, Blake would have never seen the beauty of this wild country. Never have understood the appeal of this land and its people. Let alone feast his eyes on Gertrude Finch once more. He was indeed indebted to his heir.

* * * *

“So, Will. When do you suppose someone will be here to fetch you? Been nearly two months,” Uncle Fred said as he helped the boy handle a new colt.

“Can’t say, sir.” William turned to Fred, stricken. “If you think it’s best that I go, I shall do so.”

“No, boy,” Uncle Fred said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

William rubbed the horse’s coat with a rag. “I’ve been thinking of going anyway. I miss my mother and sister and brother.”

“Spect you do, son. How bout your father? Miss him too?” Fred asked as he checked the hooves of the horse. Fred looked up from the corner of his eye to watch Will. “Maybe you argued with your father over this trip, Will, but that’s no reason to keep your feathers ruffled this long. You got to see your ranch in the end,” Fred continued as if unaware of the angry tilt of Will’s mouth. “I’m sure your father is a fine man and won’t be angry anymore. He’ll be wanting to see his eldest son ....”

“He is not a fine man.” Will brushed the colt as if hoping to leave it bald.

“Easy son,” Fred said as he laid his hand on Will’s, stilling the brush. “Why would you say your father’s not a fine man? Everything about you points otherwise.”

Will met Fred’s eyes. “There are things I am unable to divulge without breaking a confidence. I’m sure, though, my mother prays I’m nothing like my father.”

“Gert thinks the sun rises and sets on you, boy. She’s as good a judge of character as I know,” Fred said.

Will’s eyes dropped and his cheeks thinned. “Miss Finch is a fine woman. I hold her in high regard. But she is capable of making errors in judgment. Of that I’m quite sure.”

Fred nodded and left the corral. It was just as he suspected. William’s father was also the father of Gert’s baby. As much as he admired the boy he would find great satisfaction in beating the tar out of his pa.

* * * *

“I imagine you’re right, Benson,” Blake said. “I can’t fathom how I got so far off of track. I fear Sir Anthony and Lady Anne were right. I have no idea how to do anything but be a duke.”

“Oh, but you’re quite mistaken, sir. The rabbit we roasted last night was a triumph. A delicacy.”

Blake raised his brows. He had shot the poor thing seven times before killing it. He gagged at the thought even now. Something much different about shooting a bird in the sky for the hounds to retrieve than killing a rabbit and taking the skin off while the animal was still warm. Thankfully Benson flirted in his youth with the old cook and had a vague recollection of how it was to be done.

“Let us to Cleveland to find a bed and a bath,” Blake said.

Blake lay on the worn bed in the small hotel. They watched their money prodigiously now. Blake could have gone to a bank and gotten a transfer of funds but he wasn’t fond of the idea of carrying large amounts of cash. Two nights ago they’d come dangerously close to being killed. Ugly, filthy men had crept in to their camp in the dead of night and bound them back-to-back against a tree. Benson was convinced they were to die there in the wilderness. Blake consoled himself and kept fear at bay by envisioning Gertrude’s face when he kissed her. Her shock under the tree by the lake. Her own innocent brand of sensuality on display that day in the foyer. And anticipation, Blake was sure, when he kissed her on the steps in his London home. There was some solace in knowing Gert was the last one he had kissed and made love to, if indeed these outlaws meant to end his life.

But to their good fortune, the men had drunk prodigious amounts of alcohol and fallen asleep around the campfire. Blake was able to reach his knife and cut the rope tying him and Benson together. Blake gathered their horses and belongings and slapped the rumps of the outlaws’ mounts. He smiled as he recalled hissing to Benson to hurry. Blake asked Benson later what he’d been doing.

“Twenty years as a valet proved helpful in stealing those commoners boots as they snored. I threw them into the ravine we just passed,” Benson said haughtily.

Blake looked at his valet. “How many times have you removed my boots without my knowledge, Benson?”

“A good valet, sir, never reveals private matters concerning his employer,” Benson responded.

Blake’s laughter rang out in the cool night.