Cross the Ocean by Holly Bush

Author:Holly Bush [Bush, Holly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-04-30T18:00:00+00:00

* * *

Blake’s trip with Benson across the Atlantic was calm. The seas were still and blue, and McDonald had seen to their every need. Blake could barely drag himself to the cabin every night for watching the sunset and smelling the salt in the air. He had not traveled much as a youth and once married, confined himself to London’s diversions and his country home. Benson insisted on being butler as well as valet and served tea in his cabin every day at three. The wiry man’s pained confession that his much coveted tin of English cakes was near empty set a smile to Blake’s face. Almost seemed silly to sit in the small but well-decorated cabin in the middle of the day to sip tea and crunch stale cookies with Benson standing rigidly near the door.

“We can forgo afternoon tea, my good man,” Blake said magnanimously.

“Oh, but Your Grace, I promised Mrs. Wickham and Briggs I would keep everything the same for you,” Benson said. “As you’re accustomed to.”

“Why’s that?” Blake asked and sat back to stretch his legs.

“Well, well,” Benson stuttered, “’tis commonly known you dislike change of any sort, sir. This trip alone must be greatly taxing to you as it is.”

“Don’t like change, Benson? I’m hardly rigid,” Blake said with a smile.

Benson did not reply.

“Out with it, man. Why do you say that? I give you leave to speak freely,” Blake said.

“Well, Your Grace, your shirts have been made to the same specifications at the same tailor for as long as I’ve been with you. Nearly eighteen years now. Cook serves oatmeal every morning, lamb on Thursday, chicken on Wednesday and, well, you know the menu, sir. The duchess wanted to redecorate rooms, but you shook your head that day. The concession being she would order new carpets and settees as long as they were exactly the same pattern and style as the worn ones. When Wilson the old butler took sick you pensioned him off, but insisted he sit by the door if he could. He died there.”

Blake tapped the table. “Hated the thought of coming home and not seeing his craggy, old face.”

Benson smiled half-heartedly. “So you see Briggs and Mrs. Wickham insisted I continue the traditions you’re accustomed to.”

Was he as set in his ways as Benson described? Of course. But then what explained the thrill he felt watching the sails rise? Or pictured a city, a new city, that was his destination. Why did the dread he’d being feeling prior to sailing been replaced with anticipation? Why did the wind on his face make his heart skip as he trilled along merrily to the sailor’s whistling tunes? Maybe it was time. Indeed, it was time to stretch his wings in this way. He was only one and forty. Not too old to shed the cloistering baggage of peerage for the windswept cloak of wanderer. At least for the three months it would take to bring William home.

“Benson. Have you ever been on a trip like this?” Blake asked.

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