Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  "Passable."

  "You left in such a rush that morning."

  "I did not want to wake you."

  "I see."

  In the next seconds' silence, he sensed she was waiting for something—some comment from him about their argument? Now when he was feeling such pangs of remorse, realizing how much he still loved her, should have been the time to try to talk to her. But he was afraid to talk; afraid he would give himself away. If only she would bring up their recent argument. Was that what was on her mind as she looked at him so levelly?

  The silence seemed to drag on. Finally, Jessica spoke. "Well, I must bring Jennifer to Miss Bloom for her nap. I will see you at dinner?"

  "Yes."

  She hesitated, her eyes still on his face. "Welcome home." Then she turned toward the children's room, across the hall, and disappeared through the door.

  Jessica waited during those first days of his return for some sign from him that he was ready to make amends; that he'd thought over their last harsh words to each other and regretted what he'd said; that they could talk again, this time with patience and understanding. But she saw no sign, and felt too timid to broach the subject herself. She tried on several occasions to talk to him of relatively casual matters, hoping the conversation might lead in the direction of their recent argument. As they were finishing dinner a few evenings later, she spoke mildly.

  "I received a letter from Abbey today."

  "Oh? And how are she and Willis?"

  "Very well. They hope to come up and visit us a few days this summer."

  "Excellent."

  "She said they haven't seen all that much of you in New York . . . you've been very busy, I guess."

  His throat tightened. "Yes, I have." Had Mawson and Abbey, like Bayard, heard of his renewed friendship with Rhea? Had Abbey mentioned it in the letter to Jessica? . . . No, had that been the case, they would have said something to him when he last saw them. Still, the mere thought of Jessica's finding him out put him in a cold panic.

  He said as little to her as possible, adding to the barriers he had already put up to hide his guilt, keeping all soft feelings from her.

  "What week shall I tell them to come?" Jessica questioned.

  "It makes no difference. Whatever you wish." He found he couldn't concentrate.

  "But I want to work it around your travel plans." She gave a small smile. "I don't want them to be h&re and you in New York."

  "Could we talk of this another time? I am very tired, Jessica." And he was tired. The worry on his mind, compounded by the weariness of a full day's work, left him exhausted.

  But his words closed Jessica off. "Very well," she said tightly.

  "I am going to my study for a few minutes, Jessica. I will be up to bed early."

  "You don't want your coffee?"

  "Not this evening, thank you," he said with all the politeness of a perfect stranger.

  By the time Christopher went upstairs that night, he was feeling remorse for his shortness to her at dinner. He wanted to make amends.

  He came to stand behind her as she sat at the dressing table brushing her hair. "Jessica, I have been thinking about Willis and Abbey. Why not tell them to come the last week in July?"

  "All right." Her tone was short, now. She'd spent the last two hours nursing a feeling of hurt and rejection; she couldn't suddenly smile and push her anger away. "I'll write to Abbey tomorrow."

  Christopher stood there indecisively a few seconds longer. He wanted to step over and place comforting hands on her shoulders, hold her, but Jessica was staring rigidly into the mirror on the dressing table, giving him no encouragement. Finally he shrugged, turned, and went to prepare himself for bed.

  The situation between them went from bad to worse, and it was not long before Christopher began to wonder why he should be feeling any guilt at all. Once again he began longing for an escape back to New York, away from the stifling tension in the house.

  He did not deliberately seek out Rhea; it happened more by chance, although he made no effort to avoid situations where he might run across her—as he soon did, at the theater. It was so much easier this second time to persuade himself that he was being wronged at home and needed the outlet of her companionship; so much easier to let one thing slide into the next and again share her bed. Still easier was it the morning after to rationalize that he was only behaving as would any other man of his day and stature in enjoying a small liaison outside his marriage when his needs were not met by his wife at home.

  Unfortunately, he could not deceive himself completely, and in the back of his mind he knew the wrong of his actions; yet he allowed the situation to continue. Much as when he'd first met Rhea, he let himself be pulled along. His trips to New York again grew more frequent. Rhea and he shared their secret hours, but he was exhausted by the double life he was leading. At times he found himself wishing to forever dissolve the illicit relationship.

  But Rhea, now that she had him trapped so firmly, had no intention of letting him go. Realizing Christopher was troubled, and fearing he would decide to end the affair, she let slip a thinly veiled threat to the effect that should he decide to leave her, she would have no qualms about seeing that word of what had been going on got back to his wife's ears.Christopher could not bear to have Jessica suffer the pain of discovering his infidelity. He was truly caught in a trap; damned if he did, and damned if he did not. It was precisely what Rhea had planned from the start. Christopher was in her grip again, and would remain there.

  CHAPTER 16

  The sunlight flooded the bedroom, slanting across Jessica's face and coaxing her eyes open. Instinctively she reached across the bed to where Christopher lay, only to find what was becoming more the rule than the exception, an empty space. She remembered he was off again on a business trip to New York and would not return until tomorrow.

  Then, as her mind lazily came awake, she recalled the shattering event that had occurred the afternoon before.

  She'd been at a tea in Eastport, sitting with Mary Wel-don, the two of them chatting about their respective families and other local news, when during a lull in their conversation, the would-be-hushed comments of two elderly matrons seated behind them had reached their ears.

  "Such a pity," said the first woman in what emerged from her lips as a stage whisper. "On top of all the tragedy poor Jessica Dunlap has experienced."

  "Yes," said her equally hard-of-hearing companion. "Bad enough a man is unfaithful—but to take up with his former mistress!"

  "I was at that ball at the Beards' two years ago. A more brazen-faced woman than that Taylor creature I have never met. . . always thought she would make a move to get him back."

  "Indeed a pity . . ."

  The cup had begun shaking in Jessica's hand. She was forced to rest it on her lap so others wouldn't notice. It seemed impossible to believe. Christopher was seeing Rhea again. All those trips to New York—yes, it made sense.

  Why hadn't she considered the possibility before? She'd felt a knot of cold anger and pain closing her throat; had wanted to get up and rush from the room, scream out her anguish. Only Mary Weldon, who had also heard the comments and was looking over anxiously at her friend's white face, had forestalled Jessica's flight. Mary had remained silent, giving her unspoken sympathy, as Jessica had fought for control and composed her features.

  And Jessica had remained in shocked control. It was not until late that night, when she'd climbed into bed, alone again, that the sobs had come—racking cries as she'd flung herself against her pillows and wondered how, why, things had come to this.

  She'd literally cried herself to sleep, and now, as she touched her eyelids, she felt their puffiness. She rose quickly from the bed and went to her dressing table mirror. She stood before it and stared coolly and objectively at the image of the woman reflected there—at the red eyes, the disheveled hair, the shapeless sack of a cotton nightgown—good heavens! left oyer from her servant days—the chapped and unmanicured hand that was
pressed to her pale cheek. It was her hands, perhaps, that made the most startling sight. She used to have such beautiful hands; long, smooth, slender fingers tipped by immaculately kept almond-shaped nails.

  How could she have let herself go like this? And her hair! She'd always washed and brushed her hair frequently and arranged it so that it shone in artfully placed curls atop her head. Now it was pulled sharply back, a few straggling ends fallen unkempt across her cheeks. The red-rimmed eyes were only a temporary result of her crying the night before—but where was the life in them? A listlessness and lack of interest were apparent, too, in the set of the well-shaped mouth that, once, had more often been poised at the edge of a smile. And again, that washed-out gown with its high, prim neck: it was not just her old maid's gown; it was an old-maid gown.

  No! How could she have let this happen? Had her despondency really been so deep that she could have neglected herself to this extent? It had been months, a year, since she had given a thought to her appearance or the impression she was making on other people. She'd been too immersed in her inner self to think of the outer one.Suddenly she was seeing herself with a clarity that had been lacking since her daughter's death, and she certainly wasn't happy with what she saw.

  She went to the washstand and splashed cold water on her face, easing the soreness of her swollen eyes; then she went to the wardrobe and flung open the doors. Her hands flew as she flipped through hanger after hanger of gowns, most of them worn and out of fashion; not a new one added since her shopping spree in New York right after her reunion with Christopher. My God, she thought to herself, and I have walked around in this dreary fare day in and day out! I am only thirty-four years old, not some faded matron. What have I been thinking of ?

  She ran to the bell-pull and tugged it urgently to bring Clara upstairs. When the maid arrived, Jessica was already in her undergarments, at the dressing table vigorously brushing her hair.

  "Clara, I will want breakfast up here this morning-something light—as soon as possible, and tell Jim to get the carriage ready. As soon as I have eaten I will be going into Eastport. I will be gone for several hours, perhaps more. While I am gone, go through my wardrobe. Any gown that is darned or the least bit worn, get rid of. Take them for yourself and the other staff, but I do not want to see them again in this closet."

  Clara was staring at Jessica with wide eyes. Not in well over a year had she seen such force and purpose in her mistress. She could barely believe her ears and eyes, but she nodded vigorously. About time the mistress got rid of some of those old things!

  "And I'll want to see Mrs. Bloom before I leave," Jessica continued without pause. "Tell her to come now if it is convenient."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "That is all." Jessica was still wielding the brush with a vengeance on her long locks. "And quickly, Clara."

  "Yes, ma'am!"

  An hour later Jessica was seated in the back of the carriage, Jim at the reins. She was wearing the best-preserved dress in her wardrobe, one of only four she'd found that she did not want to discard immediately. Under the small, feathered hat on her head, her shining red-brown hair was softly waved and pinned. Her cheeks glowed from an application of cream and the vigorous pinching she'd given them and her eyes flashed like greenish jewels in their bed of dark lashes. She folded her glove-covered hands in her lap and sighed; thought back over this miraculous morning.

  What truly had caused her to awaken? Was it the shock of discovering the news of Christopher and Rhea? Or was it the shock of looking at herself clearly for the first time and seeing what she had let herself become? She was remembering, too, the woman she'd been before she'd met Christopher, and then on through all their days together in the twentieth century, when she'd not been afraid to stand up and fight life's battles.

  A cold fury boiled inside her at the thought of Christopher's infidelity; yet the fury sparked her forward. She knew she was much to blame for his going elsewhere; she saw now how her introversion and despondency since Mary's death had turned him away—but could he not have persevered a little longer, given her more understanding and more time to recover? She thought of all she had gone through and yet remained true to him—living and surviving in a century that was not hers with nothing but her own wits to stand her aid; providing for Kit; waiting for two long years, never knowing what had become of the man she loved; coping with Christopher's increasing dominance; then, worst of all by far, their daughter's death. Yes, he, too, had gone through much, and she would be the first to admit it—but he had had no more to endure than she—certainly not enough to justify his running to his former mistress's arms.

  Then the terrible thought struck her: did he love Rhea? No, she wouldn't allow herself to think that.

  Rhea was not going to have him! As angry as Jessica waa, as hurt, she loved Christopher and intended to get him back. If it meant swallowing a little pride, so be it. She had no intention of telling him of her discovery; but she would see to it he started looking at her with new eyes— and toward doing that, her first step was restoring her appearance. Her immediate destination in Eastport was the dressmaker's. Then she would visit the hat maker, then the chemist to replenish her dwindled supply of beauty aids. Before the week was out, there would be a new and revitalized Jessica confronting her husband.

  In the days and weeks following, the transformation in her was amazing. Suddenly she took every means to see to her husband's happiness—dressing herself with care so that her physical beauty shone forth, seeing that his favorite dinners were prepared, inviting in neighbors for evening entertainments to lighten the previously gloomy atmosphere of the house. She listened to her husband now—to his every word.

  One evening when he arrived home late from his East-port office, instead of letting Clara bring his dinner tray into his study, she brought it herself. He glanced up in surprise when he saw his wife carrying the tray. She looked lovely in a flowered gown, her hair softly shining in a new style. Not blind to the change in his wife, he was very curious indeed to know the whys and wherefores of it. Yet because of the inner turmoil that held him in a viselike grip, none of this showed in his manner.

  "Why did you not let Clara do that?" he said.

  "Because I wanted some time with you. I barely see you anymore."

  "I have been busy at the offices."

  She placed the tray on the tea table beside his chair. "I know. You're having some problems?"

  "Not problems, precisely, but the business is expanding, and I need to keep my eye on it."

  "Yes, it seems you've been doing a great deal of traveling to New York."

  Here was a subject he wanted to avoid at all costs. "The trips are necessary," he said shortly. He took the rolled napkin from the tray and reached for the fork.

  "Kit misses you." The soft tone of her voice and the look in her eyes told him that she did, too.

  In a spasm of self-loathing, he dropped his own gaze to his plate. This was a sentiment he'd been longing to see in her for over a year, and now he found it impossible to respond with the warmth she deserved. "I hope to be able to eliminate some of the New York trips in the near future."

  Although Jessica had known when she'd instigated the conversation what his reactions might be, she still felt a sinking sensation in her stomach to have her worst fears confirmed.

  From his withdrawn attitude, she realized it was pointless to try to carry the conversation further. She rose. "Well, I will let you finish your dinner. I have to go up and put the children to bed."

  He nodded quickly.

  As she moved away toward the door, she didn't see the painfully torn expression that creased his handsome features, nor did she see him return his fork to his plate and push the tray away, his appetite destroyed.

  Despite the crushing hurt inside, Jessica was willing to be patient; it would take more than a day or two to repair a breach of over a year's duration. But from now on she was not going to let him slip away to enjoy his affair as easily as she had in the pa
st.

  Not long after that came the words Jessica had been awaiting.

  "I shall be going into New York for a few days, Jessica," he informed her mildly when he returned home from work one evening. "Have Clara pack the usual things I will need."

  "I was wondering if I might come along with you this trip? It has been so long since I have been away, and I do miss the excitement of the city. Jennifer is old enough now that I can leave her for a few days."

  He glanced up at her, unable to disguise the panic in his eyes. "It will be a business trip, Jessica. I will not have the time to take you about town. Surely you would be bored."

  "I do not need you to accompany me everywhere, and I do need to do some shopping."

  She could see he was searching for some further excuse, but she gave him no time to find it. "Please, Christopher.

  My coming cannot interfere with your business meetings, and it will be a little holiday for me. I can easily be ready by morning." She paused a moment, looked at him seriously. "You have complained of my listlessness. Give me this chance to get out in the world again."

  There was nothing he could say to contest the point, but he did not look directly at her. "Very well. If you really wish it. You are sure the children will be all right?"

  "In Mrs. Bloom's efficient care they will not even miss me."

  "Then pack for four days."

  Jessica nodded. When he was gone from the room, she smiled grimly to herself. She imagined Christopher had some thinking to do that evening, wondering how he was to manage with his wife and mistress in the same town. Let him stew, Jessica thought. It was the least punishment he deserved.

  They took rooms at the City Hotel. Jessica was truly delighted to be back in New York. She realized now how much she missed the excitement and bustle of the city after the quiet of her days in Eastport. Their first afternoon iii the city, Christopher checked in at his offices, and Jessica took a hired carriage uptown to pay a short visit to Mawson and Abbey. In the evening, Christopher had at first wanted dinner sent up to their rooms, but she would have none of it, and coaxed him downstairs to the hotel dining room. As she'd expected, they saw many of their old acquaintances at tables about the room, people who'd extended hospitality to them two years before but many of whom Jessica had not seen since. She saw Christopher's eyes scanning the room—looking for one particular face, she was sure. Jessica also glanced about, but saw that Mrs. Taylor was not present.