Excerpt of Cross the Ocean by Holly Bush

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.