“We can forgo afternoon tea, my good man,” Blake said magnanimously.
“Oh, but, Your Grace, I promised Mrs. Wickham and Briggs I would keep every thing 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 the city, a new city that was his destination. Why did the dread he’d been 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 not even 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.
“No, sir,” the valet replied.
“Neither have I. And I have a great desire to enjoy this trip. Even the difficult changes we may be forced to endure. I think we should set our caps to see as much as possible, do as much as possible before we lay for home again.” Blake looked at his servant’s shocked face. “Twill be quite a story to tell to your grandchildren, would it not?”
“I suppose so, sir,” Benson said.
“Come on then, man,” Blake said as he curled a hand around Benson’s neck. Blake pulled him to the small portal of his cabin. “Let the seas take us to explore.”
* * * *
“My good man. I need to inquire about my horses and carriage. They were shipped on board the McDonald ship, Isabelle. They should have arrived a week ago,” Blake said to the harried clerk.
“The Isabelle ran into a storm at sea. She was damaged and off course. We had word today she docked in South Carolina.”
“South Carolina?” Blake asked.
“Yes, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got much to get done.”
“How do I get word to my groomsman? Will someone see to getting them here properly?” Blake continued.
“The Isabelle is severely damaged. I imagine they’ll be busy for now. The telegram said they’d arrive here inside the month.”
“But that’s three weeks!” Blake shouted.
The clerk lifted his hands and motioned to the man behind Blake to step forward. Blake was jostled aside into the blinding sun. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked for Benson. The valet sat atop one of the trunks watching the coming and goings like a green boy.
“We’re in a bit of a mess, Benson,” Blake said as he approached.
The valet looked at Blake, startled, and then hurried to stand. “Why is that, Your Grace?”
“The Isabella was caught in a storm. The carriage and the groomsmen are in some town called South Carolina.”
“Where is that, Your Grace?”
“I confess I haven’t a clue. The shipping agent said it would be three weeks till the boat gets to New York.” Blake shielded his eyes from the sun.
“What will we do, Your Grace?” Benson asked.
“Let us get a carriage for hire and find a hotel. I admit I’m famished.”
Benson hailed a small carriage. The driver and he talked. The valet turned and walked back to Blake smiling. “I’ll get the trunks, sir. He’ll take us to the finest hotel in town.”
Blake clapped Benson on the back. “There you see, old man. We will solve our problems one thing at a time.”
Benson heaved a trunk on his shoulder and Blake picked up his valise. They turned to the carriage only to see two young men climbing in.
“Hey, there,” Benson shouted. “That carriage is taken.”
Neither driver nor passengers wasted a glance back. Benson went in search of another carriage while Blake sat down on his trunks and surveyed the dock. Sailors, businessmen, families and loose women all merged together. Men hawked wares to travelers and mother’s wiped children’s runny noses. Dogs ran between legs, gowned women alit from ships while tall, hard looking men weaved among them, guns slung low on their hips. He recognized Italian and French and heard his mother English spoken with a wide variety of accents. Blake was fascinated with the scene before him. It was as if he had stepped into a canvas portrait mid-stroke and he wondered what tales each character would tell and what language he would hear their story in. His valet cleared his throat, a sheepish look on his face.
“Well, Benson. Have you secured a carriage?” Blake asked.
“In a manner of speaking, Your Grace.”
“Go on,” Blake said.
“I’ve been having a terrible time getting a driver’s attention. Just as I begin to guide one to where you sit, someone jumps aboard and they’re gone. But a Mr. Delassandro has graciously agreed to help us.”
Blake stood up. “Lead on, my good man.”
Blake and Benson’s six-block trip through the teeming city was of an hour duration. Blake was seated, as befitted his station Benson had assured him, on the bench of the hay wagon between Mr. and Mrs.
Delassandro. The short, dark haired man clucked to his mules while his wife tried ineffectually to keep her five children from tying poor Benson to his seat. Six children, actually, Blake thought and smiled at the petite scarfed woman holding an infant. She smiled back as she opened her blouse and pulled out a huge tan breast. The infant sucked and calmed. Blake however did not. He looked everywhere but to his side until he felt the woman shift the child to her shoulder. He glanced to the child, now inches away, as the babe contentedly shoved a fist in his mouth.
Benson had a wild-eyed look as Blake produced a gold coin for the Delassandro’s troubles in front of the Astor Hotel. A doorman loaded their trunks on a dolly while Benson picked hay from his clothes.
Blake approached the front desk after insisting to Benson he could handle the task.
“I’ll be needing two rooms, adjoining preferably for a few nights,” Blake said.
“Did you have a reservation, sir?”
Blake smiled. “No.”
“Mr. ah….” the desk clerk said then.
“Blake Sanders. The Duke of Wexford,” Blake said.
“Mr. Wexford….”
“That is my title, young man, not my name.”
“Mr. Sanders?” the young clerk queried.
Blake nodded.
“Mr. Sanders, I have only one room left. With the banking association meeting and Miss Hubley to appear on stage nearly everything in town is booked up,” the clerk said.
“Miss Hubley?” Blake asked.
The clerk leaned forward and smiled. “She is staying here as well. Her shows are sold out. There she comes right now.”
Blake turned to the tittering in the large, domed lobby. A woman in a black and white striped dress above daggered heels stood in the middle of the throng, a smoking stick in her hand. Her hat was nearly three feet across only accentuating the ungodly tight fit of her dress. A thin, furry black stole lay over her arms and she tilted her head becomingly as lights flashed and Blake smelled the aroma of sulfur. A growing crowd was milling about and pushing to get closer. Blake was watching the sway of her hips when he saw Benson caught up in the ever-swelling mob.
“Your Grace,” Benson cried pitifully.
Blake turned to the clerk. “We’ll take that room.”
The desk clerk set the bellboys to his trunks and Blake made his way through the throng. He nearly had his hand on Benson’s elbow when a great oaf of a man in rough clothes, a look of longing in his eye, lurched forward, plunging Benson to within inches of Miss Hubley. The valet straightened to his full five foot and was eye level with a massive set of breasts, a hair’s breadth away from his nose. Blake caught Benson’s arm and dragged him back through the crowd. The man was shaking and clutched Blake’s sleeves.
“Dear God, sir,” Benson said as he clung to Blake’s sleeve.
“I’ve secured us a room, Benson. They’ve already taken our trunks. Let’s get out of this mayhem,”
Blake said and guided his valet toward the stairs.
Blake rang for dinner for Benson as the valet wrung his hands. There was but one bed in the small room.
“I’ll ask for extra blankets and sleep on the floor, Your Grace.”
“Eat your dinner and lie down, Benson. I’m going to the dining rooms. We’ll worry about the sleeping arrangements later,” Blake said, surprised at his own words. The man sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and jumped with a start when a waiter knocked with his tray. Blake worried his valet would never leave the room after the day’s events.
Blake was seated at the one small table still available near the entrance of the dining rooms. A far cry from his reserved private space at his club in London. But it did allow him to see and take in all around in the vast room. Blake watched a short, well-dressed man rise to leave. The man’s companion was tall and large-built, exuding confidence. The tall man’s tie was a black string affair with a large silver medallion holding it closed at his neck. He placed a black hat, not unlike the one Gertrude had worn at the Morgan’s country estate, on his head. As they passed Blake’s table, he heard the short man remark to the other, “You already own the largest spread in Montana. With our help you’ll be its first governor.”
The wealthy and powerful mingled in this room. No defining lines as to style. A political position such as governor to a territory apparently in the grasp of a man who wore a bit of string around his neck.
Blake watched the maitre d’ fill the table as quickly as the linen was replaced. Blake had ordered the house specialty on the waiter’s recommendation. He was enjoying a rare steak, duchess potatoes and stewed tomatoes when quiet humming and nods from the rest of the patrons to some activity at the door drew his attention.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Hubley. Had I known you were dining with us this evening, I would have….”
the maitre d’ said miserably.
“I had no idea I’d be dining now. Don’t concern yourself. I’ll have supper in my suite.”
Miss Hubley wore a burgundy velvet dress that reminded Blake of a wine decanter she’d been poured into. Curvaceous and brimming to overflow. Not a man in the dining room was paying attention to anything but this sleek woman. Blake rose.
“I’ll be finishing soon. Miss Hubley can take my table,” Blake offered.
The stunning brunette turned her head Blake’s way. “An Englishman. No one can fault your manners or that intriguing accent of yours. But I couldn’t interrupt, sir. Thank you.”
Blake summoned the charm that many a conquest had taught him. “But I insist. Please join me,” Blake said with a sweep of his arm.
Miss Hubley tilted her head and smiled. She turned to her entourage and spoke. Blake assisted her into the seat across from him and waiters hurried to do her bidding.
“Thank you … ah,” Miss Hubley inquired.
“Blake Sanders, madam. The Duke of Wexford at your service.”
Miss Hubley pursed her lips coquettishly. “I imagine there are many women in England at your service, Mr. Sanders. Women there, I’m sure, scurry to any request you might have.”
“Hardly. But I’m sure men in the States, or any you meet I dare say, would be thrilled to fulfill yours,”
Blake said with a practiced grin.
She laughed softly and then raised penciled brows. “But none I’d care to see more than once.”
Blake smiled. “That explains the ‘Miss’ I suppose.”
Miss Hubley nodded in response as her dinner was served.
“No husband then to handle your business affairs?” Blake asked.
“I’ve no need of a husband to handle my business affairs. I employ some of the best attorneys to explain the finer nuances of contracts but I’ve built my own empire and have no intentions of turning its direction over to a man,” Miss Hubley answered.
The woman seated across from Blake was breathtaking. Oddly, he felt no need to figure a way into her bed. But she was another American curiosity, so like Gertrude and he was interested all the same.
“Do all American women feel as you?” Blake asked.
“I’m very lucky. Financially I’ve no need of a man. Not all American women are so fortunate. But if my mother and sisters are any testament, we all have a stubborn streak a mile wide,” Miss Hubley said.
“What brings you to the States, Mr. Sanders? A stubborn American woman?”
Blake’s face colored. “Hardly, Miss Hubley. Proper English gentleman don’t chase woman across an ocean. My son, William, though, decided to do some exploring without my permission and stowed away on a ship bound for here.”