Cross the Ocean Read Free Page A

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, Blake.” 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 Blake as nothing else did. His throat clogged.
    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.
    Perhaps even in her disgrace she would be the victor. She had loved someone. Him. Her husband. 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 awhile, 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 Grand mama’s soon after she left.”
    “That’s right, Donald,” Blake said stiffly.
    Donald turned, hands in his pockets, down the vast hall.
    “Where are you going?” Blake shouted.
    The boy cocked his head. “Same place I do everyday, father. To the pond so Mrs. Wickham’s grandson, 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 clearly.
    “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 back to normal.”
    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 the Duke of Wexford could not continue.
    “Don’t worry yourself, Your Grace. 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.

Chapter Two
    Soul searching had never been Blake’s strong suit, but the weeks following Ann’s leaving left naught much else to do. He begrudgingly allowed the children to spend a week at Lady Katherine’s while their mother was there. Allow would be to strong a word, he admitted to himself. William and Melinda armed with Donald’s innocent pleas and Blake’s reluctance to explain much to the seven-year-old saw the trio to the family carriage. He had spent little time away from home, not yet ready for the questions of society.
    The house was devilishly quiet with the children gone. Blake ambled around, rechecked accounts, read a bit and was generally bored to tears.
    Blake received a letter from his