by Joann Simon
"Jessica," he whispered in a moment, "I know what is wrong, but you have to stop grieving for Mary.
She is gone."
"Don't you feel any of the pain of her death!" Her anguished voice was still muffled by the front of his jacket.
"I do, I do, but we cannot bring her back."
"She wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for this horrid, backward world."
"My love, we cannot change that either. Pull yourself together. There is a future. We have Kit. . . and there can be more children."
"Yes . . . more children. I'm pregnant now."
It took a moment for her words to register. He felt himself tense, then relax. This was the answer to Jessica's problems—a new child to fill the void. He buried his lips in her hair, rubbed his cheek against it.
"But Jessica, what wonderful news!"
"So we can have another child die."
"Don't talk like that!" Her words had brought his head up straight. "Because one died, it does not mean our next will. It was a freakish illness! Our next will be fine. Kit is fine—is not he an example?"
"He was born in the twentieth century."
"With no complications—and no medical man even interfered in the birth. You did it yourself. Can that not happen again? And he has not been ill, despite living in this
world for three years, since the age of one month. Is that not evidence enough to you?"
"I couldn't stand to have another child die—I couldn't!"
Her reaction was utterly the opposite of what Christopher had expected. He'd thought—prayed—that the anticipation of a new baby would be just what she needed to help her get over Mary's death. That apparently wasn't the case. But perhaps it was too soon? Perhaps the reality of her pregnancy hadn't settled in. Perhaps when she felt the first stirrings of life . . .
For now, he knew he had to get her out of that room and away from the reminders of their lost child. He would have Clara come and clear away the bonnet and the envelope after they were gone. He took Jessica's shoulders and forced her sobbing face away from his chest, then wrapped his arm about her waist.
"You are coming downstairs with me to my study for a brandy."
"I don't want one."
"However, you will have one. Come." He led her toward the door, forcibly. "We will talk."
"There is nothing to say."
"There is a great deal to say, if only you would let me hear the wor-ds you are holding inside you. But whether you will talk or not, we are going downstairs."
He led her through the door, out into the hall. Was her acquiescence a result of her numbness of soul? Or was the reason in her mind finally listening to him? He didn't know. He was only thankful that she was following.
She accepted the brandy he made her drink, and it did calm her—but only so that she withdrew into herself again. Christopher did not know how to pull from her the words and feelings that would release her inner anxiety. He did his best, holding her, talking soothingly to her.
"Jessica, I know it is early yet, but you will see—this new child will make the difference. I am so very happy with your news, and there is nothing to fear, my love. Our next child will be fine and healthy. There will be no more tragedy." Silently he prayed, "Please, Jessica, please be yourself again."
For all Christopher's prayers, Jessica's state of mind did not improve as her pregnancy progressed. Now it was not only her past grief that consumed her, but also her anxiety over her own health and that of the child she was carrying. She must get enough exercise, she must get enough rest; in lieu of vitamins, she must eat all the foods that would give the baby and herself the nutrients they needed. She didn't pause to think that while she had carried Mary she had taken more than adequately good care of herself without being obsessive, and the child's death had in no way been caused by her negligence.
As hard as he tried through comforting words and understanding, Christopher could not reach her. To escape his growing feeling of helplessness, he devoted more and more hours to his business, traveling frequently that summer to New York. After a journey of several days in early August, he was particularly anxious to be home; could barely wait to pull into their drive and view the handsome house on the hillside.
At the first sign of the carriage coming up the drive, Kit came bounding out the front door and down the stairs. He waited at the edge of the drive until Christopher pulled the team to a halt, then scrambled up into the seat beside his father to bestow a mighty hug.
"Daddy, Daddy, I missed you!"
"And I missed you, too." Laughing, Christopher held his son in one arm as he jumped down and secured the horses' reins to the hitching post. Automatically he looked toward the broad sweep of front steps, half expecting to find his wife standing there, eagerly awaiting him as she used to do. He forced down his disappointment at finding the stairs empty.
"Come, Kit." He placed his son on the ground. "I think we might find something in the back of the carriage for you."
"Present, Daddy?" The boy started doing an excited jig.
"Just a little something. Close your eyes." As his son complied, he reached into the boot of the carriage and withdrew a small package of sweetmeats which he placed in his son's hands. He knew Jessica wouldn't approve, but
the candy was a special treat for the boy, and as Kit opened his eyes and saw what rested in his palms, his pleasure was evident.
"Thank you, Daddy! Not have candy since Christmas."
"I know, so do not go and eat it all this afternoon and get a bellyache."
Christopher also removed another small parcel from the boot, a gift for Jessica. It was a newly published history of New York, and Christopher's effort at trying to waken his wife's mind. Once she had read voraciously, particularly books of history; now she rarely touched one.
With Kit's hand in his, he climbed the stairs. "How is your mother, Kit?"
"She sad a lot. Why she so sad, Daddy?"
"She still misses your sister, Mary."
"But new baby coming. Mama tell me."
"Yes, and let us hope that will help make her happy again."
As they entered the front hall, Jessica came out of the drawing room toward them. She presented her cheek for Christopher's kiss. .
"Welcome home. You had a good trip?" Her smile was perfunctory; it didn't reach her eyes, which, Christopher noticed to his deep dismay, were still listless and empty. He reached for her and squeezed her about the waist, hoping to evoke a response.
"The trip was excellent, my love, but I have missed you both."
Jessica said nothing.
He cleared his throat. "I brought something for you."
"Oh?"
"Yes. Knowing how you always enjoy history, I found this new publication about the history of New York." He handed the volume to her.
She flipped it open and briefly examined the title page and contents. "That's very sweet of you, Christopher. Thank you. I haven't been reading much lately."
"I had noticed." He smiled. "I hope this will change that."
"I'll try." She lifted her eyes to his face.
He waited for a bright smile, a hug—some expression similar to what she would have done in the past to let him know she was touched.
Her weak smile was distracted as she dropped her eyes again. "Well, you must be tired. I've told Clara to bring tea into your study. I'll join you there a little later, after I speak to the cook about dinner." She glanced down at her son. "Kit, isn't it time for your nap?"
"But Daddy just get home!" he protested.
"Yes, all right, I suppose for today you can skip it." She started to move off across the hall in the direction of the kitchens, paused and looked back over her shoulder as if in afterthought. "And thank you again for the book, Christopher." She turned her head and was off, leaving her husband and son standing alone.
At least there was no warmth lacking in Christopher's greeting from his son, who was now tugging on his father's coattails.
"Have lots to tell
you, Daddy."
Christopher looked down, some of the sad disappointment leaving his eyes as he saw the bright face gazing up at him. "Do you indeed? Shall I give you a piggyback ride into the study so you can tell me everything?"
"Yes!"
As Christopher knelt, Kit quickly climbed up onto his shoulders, laughing merrily as his father rose, jounced Kit playfully, and jogged down the hall.
CHAPTER 15
It was late summer when he ran into Rhea Taylor again at a dinner party in New York. They had not seen each other since Christopher and Jessica had moved from the city, and Christopher experienced a strange discomfort now as he looked across the room and saw the woman, as beautiful as ever, standing and chatting with some of the other guests. If she saw him, she gave him no indication, and at dinner they were seated at opposite ends of the table. Later, however, in the drawing room, she approached him. He felt uneasy as he saw her walking in his direction, not sure what to expect. But her smile seemed unaffected as she paused by his side.
"Hello, Christopher. It has been some time, has it not? "It has indeed. Good evening, Rhea." "I sense some hesitancy in your tone," she said. "Justified on my part, would you not say?" Her eyes studied him.
"Yes. We have given each other reason to be wary in the past. That is why I stopped to speak to you tonight. I believe you must know how hurt and angry I was when our engagement was severed so shockingly. I wanted nothing more than to get back at you for the pain and embarrassment you had caused me." She paused, bit her lip. "It has taken me time to realize that I reacted too harshly . . . certain of my actions were unjustified, and I would like to apologize to you. I am sorry."
He stared at her, amazed. This was not like Rhea—to offer an apology? "I think if you owe anyone an apology, Rhea, it is my wife. She was the innocent party, who could have suffered the most as a result of your actions."
"I understand that and was going to ask you to convey these sentiments of mine to her."
He was silent, thoughtful. He could not see that Rhea had anything to gain by trying to placate him now. She must be sincere. Still, he was cautious. "Very well, I will relay your apology to Jessica."
"Thank you." She sighed. "It will soothe my conscience greatly to know that you would be willing to let bygones be bygones."
"It is not for me alone to forgive. Though, for myself, I have no desire to nurture old bitterness—as long as there is no repeat of previous occurrences."
"There would not be. My anger has long since been spent. I have come to understand that it was never your deliberate intention to hurt me."
"No, it was not."
Her smile was tentative. "Then might we begin again —as friends? We did have a pleasant friendship once."
"If you are sincere in what you have just said, I am agreeable."
"You have taken a burden off my mind, Christopher. Thank you."
He nodded. "And I appreciate your apology."
"You are in New York on business?"
"Yes."
"I understand from the talk about town that you are doing very well."
"I certainly have nothing to complain about in that respect. The purpose of my trip, as a matter of fact, is to lease some additional warehouse space."
"My congratulations." Her fingers toyed with her ivory-boned fan. "And how is Connecticut? You must have a new addition to your family by now."
Christopher's brow creased in pain. It was a moment before he answered in a tight voice. "Our daughter died this spring . . . of pneumonia."
Rhea's eyes widened in startlement; it was clear she had not heard the news. She lightly touched his arm.
"Oh, I am so sorry. I had not heard."
"It has been difficult."
"I can imagine. . . . And your wife?"
"She has taken it hard."
"Understandable. You will give her my sympathy?"
"I shall."
"Well, I will not keep you. I know there are others here with whom you wish to speak. But I am glad we had this opportunity to talk . . . and very happy to have those past difficulties settled between us." Again she touched his arm. "I am terribly sorry about your daughter. Should you ever need anyone to talk to in New York, you know where to find me." And she was gone, gliding across the crowded drawing room.
He stared after her, not knowing fully how to gauge his reaction. He was pleased, he supposed, that Rhea was at last willing to bury the axe, although now, after all this time, that hardly seemed important. Far more important to him at the moment was his wife's continuing depression and his desperate wish to pull her back into the life stream.
He went home from New York with that objective in mind. He cherished no great expectations for the morrow, only a hope that from day to day, in little ways, Jessica would come alive again.
As the summer days drifted behind and fall colored the landscape, there were moments when he thought his prayers were being answered. One warm Indian summer afternoon he looked out the windows of the house to see his wife and son on the front lawns scrambling through the newly fallen leaves. Jessica was laughing—
actually laughing. He could barely believe his eyes, but a warm surge of thankfulness rushed through him. He longed to hurry from the house, down to the lawns to join them, but knew that such a response might break the spell. He contented himself with watching as his wife and son gathered up a huge pile of leaves, and Jessica picked up Kit in her arms and tossed him gently into the pile. He came scrambling out, giggling, begging for more, and they continued the game, Christopher lovingly watching the two of them at play until a half an hour later, when they both came into the house.
But Christopher knew only deep despair when, a few nights later, he reached for Jessica in their bed.
He'd been very careful and considerate about their lovemaking, never forcing or pressuring her, but it had been days and days since he had made love to her, and that night he particularly needed her warmth and closeness. She was half asleep as he pulled her close and gently began to caress her. She seemed responsive, lying relaxed in his arms, sighing sleepily, and his own desire rose to a burning passion. He rolled over her, his lips tracing a course up her neck to her lips. Suddenly he felt her tense.
"No, Christopher, no! The baby!"
"Jessica, my love, I will be gentle. Our loving will not hurt the child."
"I can't! Stop!" Her hands pushed at his chest.
He rolled away; he had no choice. Her body was steely and resistant beneath him. To have forced himself on her would have been tantamount to rape.
As he took a deep breath and lay there trying to control the ache in his heart, he thought he heard a whispered, "I'm sorry, Christopher." But it was so soft, so barely discernible, it could just as easily have been his imagination hearing the words he wanted to hear. When he turned his head to look at her, her face was turned slightly away, her eyes closed. In the darkness he didn't notice the tears that dampened her long eyelashes.
Soon afterward he saw Rhea Taylor again in New York. It wasn't surprising that their paths crossed since they attended so many of the same functions. Rhea made no advances; she behaved in a purely friendly manner, and he found that her witty conversation and solicitousness were a salve to his loneliness. She understood him perfectly and went out of her way to entertain him and lighten his worries. Although she said nothing to him, he sensed she knew there was a rift in his marital life, but he was careful to divulge nothing that would confirm this to her.
Throughout the balance of the fall and through the winter, they encountered each other many times when
Christopher traveled to New York, and since the relationship seemed no more than casual friendship, Christopher felt no qualms. Jessica was always in the forefront of his mind, and for the rest, he drifted with the tide.
Their daughter, Jennifer, was born that March of 1818. The birth was uncomplicated, both Christopher and a doctor in attendance, and the child was the picture of good health.
Christopher
breathed a sigh of relief as Jessica held the baby in her arms and, for the first time in many months, a genuine, unforced smile sprang to his wife's lips. His relief was short lived, however. Although Jessica lavished love on her new offspring, she made no attempt to heal the breach between herself and her husband, and seemed not to realize that anything was wrong. All her energies now were channeled into protecting their new child. Visitors were screened so that no unsuspected diseases were brought into the house. She saw personally to most of Jennifer's needs, exhausting herself with the child's care, leaving Mrs.
Bloom only Kit to look after. If Jessica had gained a new awareness of her surroundings, of her husband's needs, of life bubbling in her veins, Christopher could not detect it in the overtired woman who ran his household and stumbled into bed each night. Even then there was no closeness between them; she immediately dropped off into exhausted sleep, only to be wakened a few hours later by the baby in the cradle by her bedside, hungry for her next feeding.
And when the child outgrew her need for night feedings, Jessica did not relax her hawklike vigilance, keeping the cradle in their bedroom, rebuffing Christopher's advances with the excuse they might wake the child.
Not until Jennifer was three months old did Christopher's temper finally boil over.
"Jessica, this has got to stop!" They'd just sat down at the dinner table, the only hour of the day when they were entirely alone. But Jessica sat as usual, distracted and withdrawn, her thoughts preoccupied with her child. "For over a year now I have lived with a shadow. First you could think of nothing but your own grief. I could understand that; I suffered, too. But now when you have another child to comfort you, still I see no smiles. Jennifer is a healthy child. There is no need for you to hover over her as though she cannot take a breath without your being at her side! Give a thought to the rest of us in this house!"
"I do."
"How? When? Certainly not while I am here to witness it. Lately Kit sees more of Mrs. Bloom than he does of you, and if not for him, I do not think my absence would even be noted in this house. When I talk to you, you seem not to hear me, and otherwise answer in monosyllables. And do you realize it has been two months—two months— since you allowed me to make love to you? My patience is at an end, Jessica!'