“It's her, it's her all right, Yer Grace! ‘Tis the Orient Lady! She's comin' in!” He finally remembered to open the door and drop the steps. Too anxious, James leaped onto the pier from the carriage, motioning Lorena to remain inside.
“Ah, yes, I can read the name on her bow from here. It’s her—finally.”
It took some time for the large vessel to settle and tie up to her mooring. Sailors clung to her masts, rolling and securing canvas. Orders were shouted from first and second mates. Men scrambled about on deck and in the rigging. But finally, the Orient Lady was lashed firmly alongside the quay. A gangplank had been spread between her teak deck and the timbered dock.
“Stay in the carriage, Lorena,” James warned. “I’m going on board alone.”
He strode toward the ship and started up the gangplank when a harsh voice stopped him. “Ahoy, there! Hold on! Who are ye, sir, wantin' to come aboard?” James scowled up at the weathered visage of a sailor he assumed to be the first mate.
“I’m James Thorndyke, Duke of Weston. I have business aboard this ship. I’ve come to claim my son, Joshua Thorndyke.”
“Oh, have ye, now. Well, ye needs to see the Cap'n bout that. Wait here, if'n ye please. I'll fetch 'im for ye.”
In a rush to see Joshua, James ignored the mate's surliness. He continued up the plank and paced the deck impatiently. But it was worth the wait. He heard a young boy’s shout, “Poppa, Poppa!” and spun around to face his son. Joshua came running across the deck and flew into James’s open arms. Tears welled in the duke’s eyes. He hugged his son fiercely, repeating his son’s name over and over. “Joshua, Joshua. Oh, Josh, my boy, thank God!” James’s top hat slithered to the teak deck when it was knocked off his head by the force of the boy’s exuberant embrace.
Bewhiskered and weather-beaten, a nearby ruddy countenance was topped by a peaked cap. The man’s several missing teeth spread in a grin reaching from ear-to-ear. The captain had followed the boy and stooped to retrieve James's top hat. “'Twould appear this young rascal belongs to you, Yer Grace. Least ways, that’s what he told me.”
James wrapped an arm around Joshua, extending the other outstretched hand to Captain Smythe. “I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble, Captain. I’m James Thorndyke, Duke of Weston.”
“Not a bit, Yer Grace. S'matter of fact, Joshua there, is a very hard worker. He can sign on to my ship anytime. Wish I had more like him.” The captain cackled with laughter. “Kept him as my cabin boy until he finally convinced us of his rightful identity. Made no matter to him even then. Kept right on bein' my cabin boy. Worked his way home, he did, all right and proper.”
“We want to hear the whole story, Captain Smythe, but…well, not right now. I must take Joshua to his mother. She’s waiting on the wharf.” James’s quick glance indicated the ducal carriage. “I don’t dare keep him from her any longer. Here is my card and direction. Please call on us at Weston House tomorrow, Captain. Will you do that?”
“Happy to oblige, Yer Grace. I’ll be there on the morrow.”
As James turned to leave the ship, Lorena was starting up the gangplank. She’d disobeyed and hadn’t waited in the carriage as she was told. James put Joshua down and released his hold on him.
“Go to your mother, Josh.”
The boy ran down the steep plank shouting, “Momma, Momma! I'm home!” He dove into her outstretched arms. As Lorena gathered him to her with a teary and thankful hug, she wept against the boy’s cheek for joy.
* * * *
What the duke and duchess didn’t learn from Joshua that evening, Captain Smythe filled in during his visit the following day.
All three Thorndykes—Lorena, James, and Joshua—greeted the ship’s captain when he arrived in Weston House with a bundle of Joshua’s belongings—souvenirs of his trip to India and back.
Joshua was dressed in proper attire of a young English marquess, which he was, instead of cut-off canvas britches and a loose top that been his working clothes while aboard the Orient Lady.
The captain's reception at the town house was a warm one. James asked him to have a seat, offered him a brandy then asked to hear the story of Joshua's subsequent rescue.
“We spotted the boat adrift, Yer Grace, but didn't pay it much mind until my conder saw somethin' movin' inside it. By then, we was close enough to see ‘twas a body. Surprised the bejeezus…” He paused, recalling his manners and ducked his head. “Pardon, my lady.”
Then he continued, “Well, he scared the eyes outta us, I can tell ye. We was sailing near the coast of Scotland. Anyways, we rousted young Joshua…er, my lord, Joshua…outta that there skiff and brung him on board. He was a bit out o' of it, but, he came 'round by mornin'. B’ that time, we was past Dublin and headin' for the Atlantic. Weren't no turnin' back, Yer Grace,” Captain Smythe continued.
“Took the lad a while to get his bearins'. Guess he was a mite distrustful of us. Finally, he told us he was from Kent, not Scotland, where we'd thought he’d come from. Tried to convince us he were nobility, but I'm feared we didn't believe him until much later.”
“Joshua told us you treated him well, Captain. For that we’re very thankful.”
“Have a couple young’uns o' me own, Yer Grace. They're full grown now. ‘Twouldn't mistreat a young laddie, no siree, not me. Though there be others that might use the cat now and again to instill ready obedience.
“Anyways, Joshua kept on with his story and pestered me till I took him to the Company's offices when we made it to Calcutta. Just so happened one of the officials remembered reading about the sailing accident in the London Times. Was old news by then, but when we arrived, 'twas still fresh in his mind.
“Yer boy didn't rightly know what happened to ye, Yer Grace. Whether ye was safe or not.” He glanced from James to Lorena. “Didn't want to let on to ‘im what was writ in the paper, so we thought ‘twas best fer him to post a letter hopin’ there'd be someone to receive it and come to get him. Glad it worked out for ye like it did.”
The captain grinned at his former cabin boy. “I'll be missin' ye, my lord, Joshua. Have to find m'self another willin’ young rascal like ye.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Cap’n,” the young boy replied. “But if you're still sailing when I finish school, you may see me again. One day, I'll have a fleet of ships of my own. You just wait and see,” he vowed. “And I'll have you to thank for what I've learned.”
“Bless ye, my lord.”
Captain Smythe took his leave, a little heavier in the pocket than when he arrived.
The following day, the duke's coach again set out for the Kent countryside and Westhaven Hall. Inside it, well and happy, were the Dowager Duchess, Duke and Duchess of Weston, and the young Marquess Henley. The family was back together… and finally going home.
Epilogue
The hills to the east were in silhouette as streaks of light from the dawning sun peeked between them. It was still early. Two riders wearing wide brimmed, flat crowned hats, dark jackets and leather breeches sat relaxed astride tall Thoroughbreds. A thin trickle of water wound through a stream crossing the area below them like a huge snake. The valley was coming alive as the riders watched a small herd of horses—a band of mares with foals at their sides running free on the level expanse and moving slowly away from the riders. The sky would brighten soon, becoming another sunny day, which was usual in the sandy hills of Andalucia. Already the sun’s heat was warming the cool night air.
Touching their heels to their mounts, the riders began to descend the gentle slope side-by-side until they reached the valley floor.
“Ready?”
“Si, chica! Today is my turn!”
The horses were off in a burst of speed. The long legs of the powerful racers stretched out across the sandy loam next to one another. The larger of the riders sat on a dark bay. The more diminutive rider on the black leaned forward on her horse’s neck, freeing the massive hind legs to even greater propulsion. The horses ran together for about a mile, the
hardworking muscles of both animals rippling beneath their glossy coats. Almost imperceptibly, the black Thoroughbred edged in front and was soon away by half a length. The straining animals held that burning pace for another half mile. The frontrunner threw a quick grin over her shoulder at her husband. Then she slowly brought the big horse down to a relaxed canter and then a trot, gradually easing him into a walk.
The dark-haired man on the bay reined up alongside her, his scowling face feigning anger. Both horses were snorting and blowing after their wild race across the valley.
“At this rate you’ll own the entire mare band, all my stallions, and the shirt off my back,” Antonio complained. “What must I forfeit this time?”
Caroline’s teasing smile was full of love for her handsome Spaniard. “Hmm…let’s see? What shall it be this time?” She spoke more to herself than to him. “I have all the horses I could ever want. Then there’s my lovely hacienda located on my estancia…
“Your estancia!”
“My estancia,” she continued, smiling. “Ah, I love it. It’s such a beautiful home, and even my husband is quite suitable…”
“Suitable!”
“Suitable.” Her grin grew wider, “When he learns to tame his hot Spanish temper.” She chuckled, teasing him some more. “I’ll have to think on what your penalty should be for losing again today, Senor.”
“Oh no, querida, you can’t put it off that easily, or you won’t earn anything from me this time. You must propose something right this moment.”
The two winded horses were pulling on the reins, stretching their necks to nibble on the sparse grass struggling to grow stronger on Andalucia’s arid plains. The riders had halted in the shade thrown by the ridge of hills further east as the sun fought to surmount them.
Caroline leaned both gloved hands on Demon’s glossy neck and vaulted gracefully from the saddle. Antonio dismounted after her. They entwined fingers, leaving the horses to graze while they strolled toward some large, flat rocks at the base of the hills. Reaching them, Caroline turned and pushed her hat off her head, letting it fall down her back from a leather thong around her neck. Her heavy, reddish brown hair lay snug against her nape in a chignon. Feeling her cheeks flushed with excitement after winning this morning’s race, she wiped away the wispy strands that had loosened from their fast gallop and curled around her ears. Leaning back against the cool shadow of a large stone, she rested her hands upon her husband’s broad shoulders, and faced him. He drew closer and encircled her tiny waist, standing between her thighs.
An English bride in a strange country, Caroline had come to love this hot, dry land almost as much as she loved her half-Spanish husband. It was wonderful to be welcomed into the loving center of such a close family. Both Antonio’s parents were enthralled with his choice of a mate, agreeing they couldn’t have chosen one more suitable for their son.
Within two years, Antonio and Caroline had their own hacienda built on a spot close to the Thorndykes and de las Torres—land given to them by Antonio’s Spanish grandfather and his English father. The newlyweds’ breeding program was moving in the right direction with the addition of both Irish and English Thoroughbred blood infused with that of pure Andalusians. It would take many years before the cross could be proven, but Antonio was in no hurry.
Their marriage, too, successfully matched the right female with the correct male genes it seemed. Antonio’s prediction came true. Almost eleven months to the day they were wed, Caroline presented her husband with a beautiful, golden-skinned, dark-eyed son.
They had considered traveling to England so their son could meet the rest of his family. The aging Lady Elizabeth and her granddaughter, Briella, had been living at Stanton House after Antonio and Caroline left England to relocate to Spain, but many things had changed since then.
“I thought of something else,” Caroline said, her green-hazel eyes fixed on Antonio’s chocolate ones.
“And what is that, mi esposa? It’d better be reasonable,” he grumbled, a bit put out that he and his horse, Challenger, had been bested once again by Caroline and Demon.
“Eh, muchacho,” she spouted at him with a growling tone while tweaking his aristocratic nose. “I’m never unreasonable.”
“Hah!” he said, grabbing her fingers and bringing them to his lips. “What is it you want this time?”
“Well…” She paused, her voice wheedling for a favor. “I thought perhaps…later today, during siesta…”
“Si, si. Go on.”
“Well, we might work on another project. After all, Joseph…”
“Jose.” His reply was firm.
“Joseph,” she repeated with a lift of eyebrows, her answer equally determined. “He’s a year old now and needs a playmate. It’s not like England, my husband. Here in the middle of the desert we’ll need to populate our own little village.”
Antonio’s eyes glistened, dark, deep pools in which she often found herself drowning. His talented fingers thrummed up and down her body like chords on his guitar, plucking and stroking her with a touch that never ceased to excite her. Whispering love words in Spanish, he leaned into her now, his hips pressing hard, his heat capturing her against the wall of smooth rock where she had rested her backside. Between her legs, she felt the hot ridge of his erection growing. His roguish smile teased as he bent and licked the tiny mole above the corner of her mouth before moving to devour her waiting lips.
“If that’s to be my penalty for losing,” he intoned, nuzzling her cheek, “I’ll make it my business to lose regularly, corazon.”
Caroline’s lips stretched into a smile as wicked as his.
The End
About the Author:
Blaise was born in New Jersey, and lives in a semi-rural county in the "Garden State" with three four-footed companions: a retired thoroughbred mare, a half-Siamese cat, and "a rather large" Rottweiler.
She earned her BS in Fine Art Education with the intention to teach but found she’d rather "do" than teach. Blaise was employed for a number of years by a series of New York advertising agencies. Later, she wrote catalog and PR copy for a private label, sales marketing firm and drapery/bedspread manufacturer. Additionally, she earned a NJ Real Estate Broker's license and sold real estate. She now writes romantic fiction, paints, and markets her watercolors.
Blaise is also published elsewhere with Historical and Contemporary Romances under the name of Joan M. Fox.
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