Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  "Nor will I forget all you did for me—but Mawson, the friendship is not ending here, only taking a different course. We will expect to see you and Abbey often."

  "And you will come up to see our place?"

  "As soon as you are settled in."

  For a spell of several weeks that summer, New York City broiled: a humid wave of heat hugged the narrow streets like a blanket, with nary a breeze off either river to stir it. The sun beat down day after day on cobbled pavements, sending up shimmering currents of warmth that even the darkness of night wouldn't dispel.

  Jessica drifted listlessly through her days, watching the grass in their small back garden turn brown, the leaves on the maple tree become limp and dusty. The upstairs bedrooms were like infernos even with every window flung wide, making sleep nearly impossible. Everyone in the house grew cranky and short of temper

  —Kit less so, since he could indulge in daily splashings in a water-filled tub in the backyard; but because Jessica did not want Mrs. Hart lugging pails of water upstairs in the heat, Jessica and Christopher made due with a cool evening bath in the tub in the washroom off the kitchen. Yet the evening baths brought only a brief respite.

  Jessica, waking one night from a fitful sleep, looked over to find Christopher lying on his back beside her, awake and staring at the ceiling, his thin covering sheet kicked to the floor.

  "This is terrible." She sighed, tossing her own sheet aside. "I can't sleep at night, and spend all day walking around in a daze."

  "I know." He shifted on the sheets. "Do you think it is any different for me? And I have a business to run. The staff is sluggish, the work is piling up."

  "If only a storm would come through to break this heat. If only for an air-conditioner!"

  "This is not the twentieth century, Jessica."

  "But how I wish it was!"

  He looked at her sharply in the dim light reflected from the street lamps outside. "Are you bemoaning the fact that we are in this time and not your own? I should have thought you would have learned to make do by now."

  "I try, but there are certain conveniences it is difficult to forget. And these terribly hot long skirts, and all the underwear! How much more comfortable to put on a pair of shorts-"

  "You would not seriously consider such an action?"

  She flinched at the sharpness of his tone. "No, yet how much more sensible to dress for comfort than for the conventions of fashion and modesty. . . . Actually, I might consider it, if I was sure none of the neighbors would look in the windows."

  "Jessica," he warned.

  "Christopher, you're leaving tomorrow for Connecticut. Can't you take us with you?"

  "You know I am only going for a few days to see how the building is progressing."

  "But I would like to see it, too. I've seen nothing yet but plans on paper."

  "And there is nothing for you to see now but wall partitions. With all the work going on, it is no place for a woman and a child."

  "We would stay out of the way. Kit and I could go down to the water—it would be heaven! And stop off to see the Beards."

  "I realize you would like to see your old friends, but this is not a pleasure trip."

  "Well, I could forgo visiting Silvercreek, but I do want to see the house, even if it is only partitions—and perhaps I could make some suggestions."

  "Suggestions?"

  "Yes, for convenience's sake. You and the architect have done a wonderful job of duplicating Cavenly, but I noticed in the plans that the kitchen could be updated, and the laundry room, and we could be more inventive in the bathrooms. I realize indoor plumbing is a thing of the future, hot—"

  "Jessica, I am doing all in my power to see that this

  house will be everything it should be! That is my responsibility as a man."

  "I'm not criticizing you, just making suggestions. Shouldn't I have a part in the building of this house? Isn't it going to be my home, too? All along I've felt left out. You never ask my opinions. You've gone along and done exactly as you thought best—it's as though my ideas aren't important. You never used to feel that way, and now you won't even let me share your excitement in seeing the house take shape. You leave me cooped up in this house with no stimulation at all!""You are getting carried away. I have never implied that your ideas are not important." He lifted himself on his elbows. She could see the gleam of perspiration on his forehead. "You will have plenty to do when it comes time to begin decorating. That is a woman's responsibility, and I will gladly turn it over into your hands."

  "Since when are we breaking everything down into man's and woman's responsibilities?"

  He looked at her in exasperation. "Because that is the way it is."

  "Yes, here-—in the nineteenth century!"

  "You also seem to forget that you are pregnant. I have been very lenient thus far, but I am sure the doctor would not approve of your jaunting up to Connecticut."

  "With his old-fashioned ideas, he probably wouldn't! But if you'll remember, while I was carrying Kit I was very active. When we started the horse farm in Connecticut, I was right there beside you, hammering up stall partitions and shoveling hay—even manure. It certainly didn't hurt me. In fact, I was healthier because of it, and so was the baby. I am not some hothouse flower that has to be wrapped in gauze."

  "I did not say you were; but you should remember that things are different here. As you are always so quick to remind me, we do not have available the ultimate in medical skills should anything go wrong. Aside from which, you are beginning to show. I do not want you climbing over the construction site with all the workers goggling at you."

  "Christopher!" She was so stunned by his words, she could only stare at him.

  "I do not know why we are even discussing this. You should know yourself by now what is proper. Women do not behave now as you were used to behaving, and you will have to learn to adjust—just as I had to learn to adjust in your world! No, you and Kit will remain here in the city."

  Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps her disbelief that these words could be coming from the lips of her beloved Christopher, but she burst into tears. Even as the sobs came, she felt a foolish and weak woman, as though she were trying to gain her own ends by resorting to crying tactics.

  Frowing, Christopher sat up. "What is the matter?"

  She shook her head mutely, then forced out a response. "How . . . how can you say such things to me? How?"

  "Jessica." His expression grew worried. He reached for her, drew her against him. "I am sorry. I should not have spoken so sharply. It is this heat. We would not be arguing otherwise, and you would not break down like this. Shhh, stop crying now. Here, let me get you a damp cloth." Releasing her, he slid from the bed to wring out a cloth in the washbasin, and returned in a moment to sit beside her and dab her face. Her tears were subsiding. He continued quietly. "I can understand how this weather would affect you even more than the rest of us. All right, you and Kit may come with me to Connecticut. Tomorrow morning have Mrs. Hart pack your bags. We will be leaving in late morning. Perhaps the trip away from the city will pick up your spirits."

  She nodded, too choked up to speak. She'd gotten what she wanted; she was going to Connecticut. But he'd made the concession for all the wrong reasons. She'd wanted so much for him to see her as he used to; to see her as a partner in all this, to share all of the plans of the house with her, not to shunt her off in a corner, expecting her to be content with

  "women's work." Yet at that point she was too tired and upset to argue further, and knew nothing would be gained by it. "Are you all right now?" Christopher whispered.

  "Yes." Her voice still trembled from her recent outburst.

  "Why don't you lie back now and try to get some sleep? You will feel better in the morning." He gently fluffed the pillow behind her and, as she leaned back upon it, pressed his lips to her brow. She watched him in the dim light as he rose to return the wet cloth to the washstand. His naked body had lost none of its tone or supple g
race. The sight of it, as always, had the power to move her—not, this evening, to physical desire—but she was reminded anew of how much she loved him, and how that deep love made their argument that evening that much more painful to her.

  The mattress sagged under his weight as he returned to his side of the bed. He didn't immediately lie back, but rested his weight on one elbow and studied her silently for a moment. Then he reached out to touch his fingers to her cheek. "Good night, my love. Try to sleep."

  "I will. Good night."

  He rolled to his back and closed his eyes; only some minutes later did she close her own. Her thoughts were still churning, but she was exhausted, and it wasn't long before she fell off into a troubled sleep.

  Yet late the following afternoon, as Christopher drove the rented carriage off the roadway and onto the newly cut drive of their future home, Jessica forgot for the time their argument of the evening before. She absorbed the beauty of the building taking form at the crest of the hill above them. Christopher had done a fine job, and the resemblance of this house to Cavenly, his beloved birthplace and ancestral home in England, was so startling it nearly took her breath away. Yes, this house was of a far smaller scale, yet small by no means; and it stood on a dramatic rise, whereas Cavenly was reached via a long curving drive through lush parkland. Still, the stone structure, rising two and a half stories, its window openings still blank, its roof beams still going up, bore such a resemblance to the elegant simplicity of that magnificent structure, seat of the earls of Westerham for hundreds of years, that Jessica's throat constricted.

  All she could see from their vantage point, Kit squirming on her lap in excitement, was the front of the building. The drive curved up the hillside, then made a semicircle before the imposing front doors, where wide steps would lead down to the drive. To the sides of the steps were the beginnings of the stone pedestals that would hold the entry lanterns. To the back, Jessica knew, three wings stretched out to form the house in the shape of an E, but those wings weren't visible to them as the horses' hooves scrambled over the rocks and dust of the rough drive. To their right, beyond the roughly mowed meadow that would one day be lawn, stretched the length of Long Island Sound, now giving off beautiful impressions of blues and greens and golds as the setting sun dipped over its western edge.

  "Oh, Christopher, I love it!" Jessica's words were spontaneous, coming from her soul. She sat farther forward in the seat, hauling Kit up higher on her lap.

  "Mama," he protested, "I can sit seat."

  "I know, but the drive is bumpy, so let me hold you. Look, Kit—what do you see?"

  "This be our house?"

  "It most certainly will," his father answered. "Do you like it, my son?"

  "Yes . . . ooh, yes."

  They continued up the drive, around to the front of the house, where they were forced to stop before the workman's sawhorse that blocked their way. It was after six, and the workers had left for the day, but the midsummer right would continue until nine; they had plenty of time to explore. Christopher pulled up the horses and, jumping down from his seat, tied them to one of the sturdier workmen's forms—a heavy wooden scaffolding that reached up to the third floor, where the roof timbers were being laid.

  He went back to the side of the carriage, reached up and took his son down, then raised a hand to help Jessica.

  Husband and wife were silent for a moment as they stared at what was before them. Christopher spoke first.

  "You are happy with it?"

  "It's more than I ever dreamed."

  "I am pleased."

  "This reminds me, Christopher, of the day you First brought me to Cavenly. I'll never forget my impressions, any more than I will forget today's. Driving through those huge stone gateposts, down that long, curving drive, I couldn't believe such a lavish place had once been your home. The azaleas were blooming and there were swans on the pond in the front parkland, and mares and foals scampering in the new grass in the pasture behind. And the house itself, with the sun glinting off all its windows—I'd never seen anything so lovely!"

  "Jessica." She saw a suddenly pained expression on his face. "How could I forget that day, or my feelings—

  but the old Cavenly is behind us. The new one is here at hand."

  Through that fall and early winter, as Christmas approached, affairs at the house on Beaver Street fell into a busy but peaceful state. Everything was going smoothly with the new house and Christopher's business, and his lighthearted mood reflected his success. And although the remembrance of Christopher's comments to her on that hot summer night four months before occasionally caused Jessica a pang of disquietude, there were no more arguments between husband and wife. Jessica directed her thoughts to the new house, and the new baby. She did slow her pace a bit. Her pregnancy was making her more awkward, and she was tiring more easily, but although other society women in her state of expectancy would probably at this point have confined themselves to their homes, Jessica would not be confined. There was so much still to be done in preparation for their move, articles to be purchased for the baby, Christmas gifts to be selected for Christopher and Kit and their friends in Eastport. She went out almost daily, rationalizing that her winter cloak substantially hid her condition. She met with no protests— until the afternoon she encountered Rhea Taylor in the dry-goods store. Since they were walking toward each other down a narrow aisle, a face-to-face meeting was impossible to avoid.

  "Well," Rhea smiled, a turn of lips lacking any sincer-

  ity. "If it is not Mrs. Dunlap. I see you have not been idle in the months since we last ran into each other."

  Her eyes in bold appraisal drifted down over Jessica's cloak-enshrouded but obviously pregnant form.

  Jessica ignored as best possible the woman's rude stare. "Good afternoon, Miss Taylor."

  " 'Miss' Taylor again—really! It is Mrs. Taylor. . . or did you not realize I was a widow?"

  "I did not. My husband never informed me." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jessica knew she had erred.

  Rhea quickly caught her up on it with another slow, sly smile. "Did he not? But, then again, I imagine there are a great many things about the two of us that he did not see fit to confide to you."

  "That may be. I was never particularly interested."

  "No? Perhaps you should have been."

  Jessica forced herself not to react to the innuendo in Rhea's voice as she sought for an equally biting response.

  Rhea, however, knowing her thrust had hit its target, gave Jessica no time for response. She coolly began to move past. "I know you will excuse me. I have a thousand things to do. Always a pleasure seeing you." Her languid movement giving the impression of leisured boredom, Rhea turned and moved away, leaving Jessica fuming, aching to call out after the retreating figure. She did not, knowing any such remark would only lower her to Rhea's level. But oh, the woman was impossible? And she had obviously not yet given up her mission of igniting a spark of dissension between husband and wife. Again Jessica determined not to let Rhea's remarks get under her skin; there was nothing about Christopher and Rhea Taylor she needed or wished to know. At least that was what she told herself as she forced herself not to dwell on the encounter. But she could not know what would be said to her at the dinner table that evening.

  Since his arrival home Christopher had seemed to have something on his mind. Now he spoke.

  "I ran across Rhea Taylor this afternoon as I was leaving my office. She told me you saw each other in one of the shops today."

  Jessica looked up sharply. "Yes, I saw her at Parker's. It was not a pleasant meeting."

  He didn't ask why, but continued with his train of thought. "She was quite shocked to see you out."

  "Oh?" Jessica frowned. "Why?"

  "That should be obvious. In your condition, you should not be jaunting about in public. With all that is on my mind, it never occurred to me that you have been going out as frequently as ever. It is an embarrassment."

  "An
embarrassment to whom?"

  "To those who see you . . . and to me. I certainly did not enjoy having Rhea come to me remarking on your behavior."

  "And what business is it of hers what I do?" Jessica felt a knot of anger begin to tighten her stomach. "I am certainly not doing anything unrespectable. Having a child is a natural and beautiful part of life. Why should I hide my condition? Rhea is well aware, I presume, that children are not delivered down the chimney by the stork?"

  "Your sarcasm is not necessary. We have been through all of this before."

  "Well do I recall. But am I to be a hypocrite?"

  "No, I only expect you to do what is proper."

  "Yes—hide myself away behind closed doors as though there were some shame in my pregnancy."

  "Is it so much to ask that you seclude yourself for a while? We will be leaving the city soon.

  Jessica," he pleaded, "I have tried so hard to make life happy for you and Kit here in New York, provide everything you have needed. Is it not enough that we are together again? Should we not be cherishing each day instead of looking for arguments?"

  The response Jessica would have made was prevented by a knock on the dining room door as Mrs. Hart stuck her head in.

  "Excuse me, sir, ma'am, but you have a visitor. Mr. Bayard."

  "Robert!" Christopher called.

  Mrs. Hart swung the door wide to usher in Robert Bayard.

  "You see," Bayard spoke to the woman, "I am interrupting."

  "Do not be silly, Robert." Christopher motioned him for-ward. "We have given instructions that you are always to be shown in when you call." He smiled. "Come, have a seat. Have a glass of wine while we finish, then dessert and coffee with us."

  Bayard came forward as bid, unaware of the touchy discussion he had just interrupted. He gave Jessica a warm greeting, then took the chair Christopher offered. As he and Christopher started chatting about business matters, Jessica sat in silent chagrin, the words that had been about to come off her tongue when Bayard was announced lying frustrated inside her. Why should she seclude herself? What right did Christopher have to ask that of her? More important, why was he listening to his ex-fiancee? Why was he letting that woman's opinions influence him?