by Joann Simon
Jessica could have said something more—something about using people—but what was the point?
It was close to nine before Jessica first entered the crowded ballroom. There seemed to be people everywhere —in the hallways, in the parlors and study, descending the main staircase. All were beautifully dressed, the men smart in dark, long-tailed evening coats and white breeches, the women in a multitude of elegantly fashioned gowns, the colors and fabrics of which were enough to take one's breath away. The room shimmered with the sparkle of jewels, the glint of crystal in candlelight; the air was scented with a fragrant blend of perfumes, masculine colognes, and fresh pine from the greens hung all about the room. Above the merry laughter and chatter could be heard the strains of a waltz floating out from the musicians' strings. Many couples were dancing, looking gay and graceful as they twirled over the parquet floors. There were more new faces than Jessica could absorb in the moment or two she had to observe; well over one hundred guests in the ballroom alone, making it difficult to pick out familiar faces. As she made her way to the refreshment table to collect the tray of food she would distribute, she saw no sign of the host and hostess, but they were no doubt circulating through the crowd. She did catch a glimpse of Lucas and Elizabeth on the dance floor; apparently Terrence had not yet arrived.
A large silver tray of tiny meat-filled popovers secure in her hands, Jessica stepped out into the throng, offering the tidbits to guests. The girls had divided their areas of responsibility into three equal portions of the ballroom, and Jessica's was the left side.
As she stepped amid the throng, some guests ignored her; others gave a curt wave of the hand as if they resented the interruption to their conversation; but most were pleasant, smiling as they either helped themselves or graciously declined. Some men were especially friendly, widening their eyes appreciatively as they noticed Jessica's face, but she'd expected that. It was not uncommon for certain men of the social set to take an interest in a serving maid and try to lure her off into a secluded corner. It was quite clear from Jessica's behavior that she was not of such loose-moraled inclination.
Jessica divided her time between the ballroom and the kitchen. In her journeys down the hallways she'd seen Terrence Day arrive and enter the ballroom, to be singled out immediately by Elizabeth. They'd talked and danced; but later, quite unexpectedly, Jessica had seen him again in one of the hallways deep in conversation with a pretty, dark-haired young woman. His usual charm was apparent, and the young lady seemed enraptured, intent on his every word. "I had once briefly met your father, the senator, at a gathering in New York ..." Jessica heard him say as she walked past.
She would dearly have liked to pause to hear more, for, often though she and Elizabeth were at odds, this was Elizabeth's young man, and what was he doing charming this young lady?
Later she saw him dancing with Elizabeth, but the look on that young woman's face wasn't all it might have been.
Had that been anger in her expression? Jessica wondered as her view of the couple was blocked by others caught up in the rhythmic flow of dancers on the floor.
Not long after, Lucas stopped Jessica as she was passing about her tray in a crowded corner of the room. His normally easygoing expression was irate—brows down, lips tight.
"You have seen Elizabeth?"
"Briefly, a while ago."
"She was with the honorable Mr. Day . . . running to meet him at the entrance doors."
"I would not quite call it running."
"Yet you catch my point, Jessica. Suddenly I do not exist!"
"Lucas . . ."
"There is no sense in trying to ease the blow, my friend. I have been quite willfully dense these last years, but my eyes are seeing very well tonight. I have had all I can take."
"Lucas, I am sure she will see that Terrence is not worth her effort. She's still young enough that—"
"Not so young any longer that she should not have some wisdom. I have pretended for a long time that what I was seeing could be interpreted differently. But Jessica. . . she is making a fool of me."
"Not a fool—you'd never be a fool. She just doesn't appreciate or understand what she wants. And she needs someone like you, or she would have let you go long since; yet she has an idealized picture of being swept off her feet by a most eligible Prince Charming. Whatever Elizabeth has wanted, she has gotten. She's yet to realize that what she wants is in her hand."
"Jessica, I am sorry to be burdening you with this. Here you are, working yourself to exhaustion, and I come to you with my problems."
"It's all right, Lucas. We're friends; always will be. Who else to go to with your dilemmas? Though I admit it would be nice to be one of the company this evening."
"You should be, Jessica."
"I know. There was a time . . ."
They were interrupted by one of the guests coming over to examine Jessica's trayful of edibles.
"We will talk later." Lucas reached out a hand to touch her shoulder.
"Yes, I hope so."
Jessica moved on after serving the group. There was something in Lucas's touch. What did it mean . . . that tightened grip, that look in his eyes? Almost as though the vision of Elizabeth was no longer standing there between them. She shrugged it from her mind. She was tired, too busy imagining things.
She'd emptied her tray and picked up another to collect empty glasses from the guests and side tables. Leaving the ballroom with the full tray, she came down the main hallway, passing Bertram Beard's study door. Suddenly a figure emerged from the doorway. There was no time for her to move out of the way. He walked directly into her, upsetting the tray. Glasses went spilling in all directions over the carpeted hallway.
"I am so sorry," a man's voice spoke. "Here, let me help you."
Jessica's cheeks reddened. It was bad enough that she had dropped a tray in front of a guest; but to have a guest offer to help . . .
"Thank you, sir. But I will be quite all right."
"No, it was entirely my fault. Instead of looking to see where I was going, I stepped directly into you. I am afraid I had a great deal on my mind . . . business matters. I was speaking with my host, and—" He lifted his hands expressively.
"You see it does not pay to mix business with pleasure." He studied her.
Jessica quickly kneeled to retrieve the glasses. In a moment he kneeled beside her, and helped her set the scattered glassware on the tray.
"Please, sir, I wish you wouldn't. I can take care of this myself. It was only an accident. Enjoy the ball."
"Oh," he said, placing another glass on the tray, "I will enjoy the ball, though this is my most diverting moment yet. No, I do not wish to embarrass you, but I do not often find myself on my knees retrieving glasses with a charming damsel. It is a most pleasant diversion."
"I am Jerome Weitz, by the way," the gentleman added. "I handle Bertram Beard's banking arrangements in New York."
"How do you do." Jessica continued putting glasses back on the tray.
"Might I ask your name?"
"Jessica."
"A lovely name."
The glasses back on their tray, Jessica made to rise.
"I thank you, sir, for all your help, and I apologize for the interruption. I hope I haven't soiled your clothing."
"No, I am left with no scars—even to these damnable knee breeches—the price one pays for these otherwise charming parties."
Weitz stood.
"Thank you again, sir."
"It was my pleasure."
Jessica nodded, then turned to move down the hall.
He stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. "I shall hope we will see each other again tonight. . . not so precipitously, perhaps. You understand I do not mean that as certain other gentlemen might. I speak only in friendship. You see, you remind me very much of my mother—long dead now—but a woman I admired greatly. When I was a child, she supported us by working as a servant, so I know the burdens of your occupation first hand—it is something I will
never forget. And I sense that you, like her, were brought to this profession by some tragedy in life, not by choice."
"You are very perceptive, sir."
"It is not difficult to see your intelligence, and your spirit, despite your efforts at disguising both. Well, enough of this. I see that I am embarrassing you." He smiled. "I only wanted you to understand my motives were honorable."
"I do, Mr. Weitz. You are a gentleman."
"I try to be."
"Good evening, and thank you for your kind words."
He nodded his head, and Jessica moved off toward the kitchen feeling suddenly less wearied. Aside from Molly and Amelia, it was rare indeed that she heard such words of appreciation for the job she was doing.
She noticed Jerome Weitz later, on the far side of the ballroom in the company of a petite and pretty blond woman, but as she concentrated on efficiently serving the increasing number of guests, she had little time to observe him at length.
The musicians played without cessation as the glittering guests moved in a steady flow on and off the dance floor, circulated about the ballroom and through the other rooms of the house. About halfway through the evening, as Jessica was leaving the ballroom with another loaded tray, Elizabeth Beard touched her hand.
"Jessica, you must come with me."
"Elizabeth, I have so much to do."
"I have caught my hem with my heel and it needs mending. Besides which I must talk to you." Jessica was startled to see that the girl's eyes seemed filled with tears.
"Please, Jessica, come now! Mama will understand."
Elizabeth took Jessica's arm and pulled her up the main staircase.
Elizabeth hurried into her room, and Jessica closed the door behind them. The girl was distracted, pacing.
"Show me where your hem is ripped," Jessica said, trying to calm her. "I don't have time to sew it, but we'll see if we can't pin it up."
"Here in the back. My heel caught it."
"Yes, I see. Please stand still. I can't fix it with you moving about." Jessica examined the tear, then reached for some pins on the dressing table. "Yes, I can pin it up to hold for the rest of the evening."
"I do not know what I am going to do, Jessica. This evening has turned out entirely wrong."
"Wrong? In what way."
"Terrence. He is ignoring me!
"But I saw you dancing together."
"Earlier. Then suddenly he seemed to be avoiding me, and I saw him with Serena Payton. Her father is a senator, you know, and the family is wealthy beyond reason. I have met her only once before. I do not know where Terrence made her acquaintance. I do not understand it at all. He was devoting his attention so completely to me . . . I thought. . . was so sure . . ." Her voice broke, and Jessica quickly stepped in.
"Perhaps you are misjudging the situation." She felt she had to give the girl some consolation even if she herself believed Elizabeth was correct in her assumption.
"He was actually rude to me, Jessica. I walked over, and he said, 'Must you follow me about, Elizabeth?' I wanted to die, but before I could ask him what was the matter, he moved off and began talking to some of the gentlemen."
"Elizabeth, I know you would rather not hear this, but do you think you may at last be seeing Terrence's true colors? You've said your parents have been cool all along about your connection with him. Perhaps they saw him for an opportunist. You say this Serena is very wealthy . . . and her father is a senator?"
"Yes . . ."
Jessica was silent, letting Elizabeth draw her own conclusions.
The girl dabbed the corner of her eyes with her handkerchief.
"I realize it is easy for me to say, but there are other men out there far more worthy of your attention, who would like you for what you are. Terrence is very handsome and charming . . . I can understand how you would be swayed. But outward appearance is often the least important characteristic in a person."
"I know . . . I know. Mama's told me the same, but I could not help caring about him."
"Well, the worst thing you can do is to let him see you so upset. Chin up and go back to the dance and have a good time—pretend you are, even if you are not."
"Yes, you are right. And there is Lucas. I will talk to him. He is always there when I need him."
Jessica inwardly cringed that Elizabeth might contemplate once again using her dear friend, but perhaps after this eye-opening experience, Elizabeth might finally begin to see Lucas in a new light. There was no sense worrying about it; she had done all she could.
"I have to go back. You'll be all right?" At the girl's nod, "Come, I'll walk down with you."
Jessica left Elizabeth at the ballroom door and, sighing with weariness, moved toward the refreshment table to prepare a tray. Another few hours and she could put her feet up. She saw Amelia and Bertram Beard near the end of the table involved in a conversation with a tall young woman whose black-haired beauty, accented by a deep-red gown, for a moment left Jessica startled. She couldn't help but overhear some of their conversation, the Beards making friendly inquiries into the woman's background.
"So you are a native New Yorker."
"Yes . . . resided in Washington after my marriage . . . my husband . . . killed in the war."
"So sorry . . ."
"There were many who lost loved ones."
"I understand your father is . . ."
"Do you know him?"
"I had the pleasure briefly . . . on a business trip to New York."
". . . you have business associations with my fiance."
"Quite satisfactory, although we have not had the pleasure of meeting . . . had hoped to earlier this evening. . ."
"Yes, we were delayed in arriving. . . our apologies. Ah, but I see him approaching now. Let us rectify that."
Although sorry to have inadvertently eavesdropped, Jessica thought nothing of the conversation as she turned with her full tray to begin circulating the room. Looking out into the crowd to set her course, she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.
Coming toward her—actually toward the group at her side—was a man in a superbly cut black evening jacket, his dark head standing out above the crowd. His swinging gait moved him with lithe grace, bringing him closer and closer. Those features, that cleft chin, those blue, blue eyes . . . It couldn't be!
She couldn't move. She found it impossible to do anything but stare in disbelief at what she was seeing. It had to be he; no two men could look that much alike!
He was making straight for the Beards and the young woman with them. The black-haired woman was motioning to him. Jessica saw him smile, a flashing-white grin, felt the tray start shaking in her hands. There was hardly any question in her mind now. How was it possible?
He took the woman's outstretched hand. "Ah, Rhea. I have been looking for you."
"I have been having a most pleasant chat with our host and hostess. Christopher, I do not believe you have yet met Amelia and Bertram Beard. Amelia and Bertram, my fiance, Christopher Dunlap."
"A pleasure to make your—" Bertram Beard's words
were cut short by the very audible gasp that had just escaped Jessica's lips. The sound of her tray crashing to the floor silenced the conversation of the Beards' and their guests. They all turned—four pairs of eyes staring at a white-faced and shaking Jessica.
For an instant Christopher's features remained impassive. Then his eyes widened. He shook his head quickly; stared again, the color slowly leaving his face, to be replaced by uncertainty, then shock. He took a step forward; stopped.
They stared at each other. Jessica's lips slightly parted, wanting to speak but unable to. The others watched the strange interchange in confusion. It was happening so quickly and unexpectedly, they had no time to question.
Jessica's mind spun in whirling disorder. Christopher! Her Christopher . . . here . . . now!
He took another step forward; his eyes piercing, probing her every feature: her eyes, her lips, the brown hair nearly hidden by the mob cap
covering it.
"Jessica?" His voice was a barely audible croak.
Beyond speech, she could only nod . . . nod again.
"My God . . . oh, my God!"
People around them in the ballroom were gaping. He was oblivious as he strode forward and stood over her, gazing down with pain and joy warring in his expression. "Tell me . . . tell me it is you!"
"It's me, Christopher."
"Jessica!" It was no more than a whisper, a sigh, as he reached for her hands, gripped them with a strength that almost pained her. She was seeing him through a blur of joyful tears, yet what did that matter—she was seeing him, in the flesh!
They stood with gazes locked, all else in the crowded ballroom nonexistent to them.
"I dare not believe," Jessica whispered at last. "Can you really be here . . . not just a dream?"
"Do you feel my hands? Flesh and blood—no illusion. How long I have searched every face I have seen, praying-yet so sure I had left you behind!"
"I never knew what to think . . . where you'd gone."
"Not far . . . not far at all, it seems." He moaned, then suddenly drew her against him. "To feel you in my arms again! Jessica . . . Jessica . . . my Jessica. . ."he repeated as his arms tightened across her back. Unaware of anything in the world save the woman in his arms, he sought the soft lips that were awaiting him. He pressed home a kiss of passion—almost of disbelief that Jessica was again with him—a kiss too long dreamed of and one he'd thought never possible again.
She swayed tight into the closeness of his arms, melting into his warm strength, returning his kiss with all the intensity in her being. He was here—at last he was here! Nothing else mattered except that they were in each other's arms again—nothing!
CHAPTER `10
"Christopher! What is the meaning of this? Who is this woman?"
Jessica tensed. Christopher, suddenly aware of their surroundings, slowly, reluctantly released her, leaving one arm tight about her waist as he turned to face the accusing voice.
Jessica heard other exclamations from the crowd; saw the Beards' stunned faces. On the black-haired beauty's face, however, there was only cold fury.