Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  "My wife-"

  "You need say no more. I understand."

  She moved closer to him, her arm about his waist. "Surely you can get away tonight for an hour or two.

  Father is out . . ."

  "I do not think so."

  "Please." She slipped into his arms, as comfortably as though she'd been there many times before. "Tell her you must meet with some business friends. She will not suspect. I have missed you."

  "Rhea . . ."

  She lifted her head, her lips pressing to his as if she owned him. "Mmmm. It is so wonderful to be with you."

  From Jessica's vantage point, she could not see Christopher's response. All she saw was that this other woman was in his arms, and he was not pushing her away!

  The pain, the humiliation, the anger that coursed through her made her dizzy. She had to get away—

  somewhere. She couldn't watch for one more moment; her pride couldn't bear it. And she couldn't bear even the thought of seeing him later; couldn't bear to be forced to listen to the intricate excuses he might make, when she knew they would all be lies.

  She spun on her heel, still undetected, and rushed blindly out into the hall. At the end of the corridor she paused for a moment to pull herself together. What was she to do? She could not let the others know her state of mind. She must say good night to her host and hostess; plead a headache. Back at the hotel room she would pack and leave immediately for Eastport; pray there was a late packet running from the city to the coastal towns. . . . Perhaps she should have confronted Christopher when she first learned of Rhea—had it out then and there. But hindsight did her no good now—and would it have made a difference? Would he have stopped seeing the other woman? He certainly hadn't been deterred from meeting with her tonight, even with his wife present!

  It took Jessica all her willpower to get through her farewells to host and hostess without giving herself away.

  As she hurried from the room to collect her wrap, she paid no heed to those watching her rushed departure; to Jerome Weitz, whose eyes were following her every move. Nor did she see that he came to stand in the drawing room doorway, then followed her down the hall as she went to the front door and requested the footman to wave down a hack for her; nor that Jerome, too, collected his hat and left the party for his own carriage, which he signaled to follow hers in its direction toward the City Hotel.

  Although Weitz had remained silent on the issue, he'd known for a while of Dunlap's return to Rhea Taylor's favors.

  His discovery had been accidental. He'd been passing the Wilson mansion one evening as he found his carriage stalled in traffic. Glancing out the window in boredom at the delay, he'd seen Dunlap slipping down the walk toward the side door of the house. There was no mistaking the man for another—the street lamp had clearly illuminated his features. Was the fellow a fool? If not a fool, then a total cad? There could be no question of Dunlap's mission: had he been paying a purely social call, he would not be making his entrance by sneaking down a side alley. Weitz had been furious at the discovery, not because of his own onetime involvement with Rhea Taylor—that had been of short duration once he had realized that Rhea was only using him to get over her anger at Dunlap. Most of the contempt he felt stemmed from his respect for Jessica Dunlap. She deserved better than this.

  Since his first meeting with Jessica, he had admired her. She might have been working as a serving maid, but it was apparent that she was a woman out of the norm. Then, so quickly, had come the startling news that she was Dunlap's long-missing wife. From the start, Weitz had sensed something not quite right, yet in their later meetings Jessica had seemed happy with her state. Jerome had thought no more of it . . . until he'd seen Dunlap making his surreptitious entrance into the Wilson mansion. When he'd first seen Jessica that evening, he'd been surprised by her air of relaxed happiness. Was it possible she knew nothing of her husband's activities?

  Either that or she was a supreme actress! But then as the evening had progressed he'd noticed the interplay between husband and wife, husband and mistress; saw the increasing tension, although he had to give Dunlap credit for his comparative coolness under the circumstances. Still, Weitz had no doubts that some kind of confrontation was in the offing. As he saw Jessica rushing alone from the party, he knew his fears were realized; knew he had to follow the woman.

  Jessica's carriage stopped before the City Hotel. As Jerome watched, Jessica rushed in through the great front doors. Some instinct told him to wait. After seeing her expression as she'd fled the Fish residence, he feared she might do something rash, and this was not a city in which a woman was safe alone.

  His instincts proved correct. Not thirty minutes later, Jessica reappeared through the hotel doors, a porter at her heels carrying luggage. The doorman waved her a hack-she was leaving. But for where, at this hour? Was she going to a friend's to take refuge? She wouldn't attempt to leave the city tonight for Connecticut! But then again, with her spirit, she might. . .

  Again he told his driver to follow as Jessica's hack set off down the Broad Way, turning off onto side streets leading in the direction of the South Street wharves. She was going to try to get home; incredible. But the woman had pride, and he should have expected no less of her. At least he was there to watch over her, be her guardian angel in disguise if need be.

  Her carriage pulled up at the packet berth. Her driver jumped down from his seat and disappeared inside. There were other pedestrians milling about the wharf.

  In a moment the driver emerged and opened the door for her. Then he removed her luggage from the rack and carried it to wharfside. She paid the man, then disappeared into the ticket office.

  How Weitz longed to get out of his carriage and go to her aid; but unless it came to the worst, he knew he could and should do nothing. He sat anxiously waiting instead, watching her board as a crewman loaded her luggage. He waited until the last passenger was aboard, the lines cast off and the ship slipping out with the tide.

  There was nothing he could do for her now but to pray that she would arrive home safely.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jessica left New York in such haste and fury, she'd thought no further ahead than getting away from the city, as if in running away she could block out the image in her mind of her husband and Rhea. . . the two of them in a hot embrace. In her anger she hadn't considered the dangers of traveling alone at night; of arriving in Eastport without transportation to the house.

  She would haye walked if she'd had to, but was fortunate enough at the Eastport docks to find an elderly farmer of her acquaintance who had been on the same packet and, asking no questions, gave her a ride in his wagon to her door.

  There she stormed upstairs to her room. Her long-term plan of action had not been formulated until she'd stood at the packet railing and finally let her seething thoughts settle. She'd been so sure she would succeed in winning back her husband's interest. In truth, she'd never dreamed —never allowed herself to believe—his affair with Rhea had progressed so far. Now that she'd been forced to remove all the blinds from her eyes, her shock and pain were even greater than when she'd first overheard the gossip about them. She didn't know how to deal with what was facing her; whether she could forgive him; whether if she offered forgiveness, he would want it. All she did know was that she was not ready to face him.

  He would come looking for her; that was certain. She'd left no message for him at the hotel or the party, but of course, when he found her gone, his search would lead him first to Eastport. She didn't want to be worn down by excuses, swayed by reassurances that would mean nothing in the long run. It was time she considered her own needs and where the future was leading her . . . and whether that future would include him.Her decision had come with a surety that equaled its suddenness: she would take the children and leave temporarily; stay away until she could put all her confused thoughts in order.

  Reaching her room, she set about packing the clothing she would need in addition to the two already packed bags she
'd left below stairs. Then she stepped across the hall to wake Mrs. Bloom. She did not want the rest of the staff alerted to her plans, but she would need this woman's assistance in getting the children out of the house.

  The nanny woke quickly at Jessica's soft call, sat up abruptly. "Mistress—you're back! Something is amiss?"

  "Shhh. Do not wake the children. Yes, you might say something is amiss. I will need your help." Briefly Jessica described the events of the evening, her problems of the last months, her decision to be away for a while with the children.

  Sympathetic though Mrs. Bloom felt toward the troubled—justly troubled—young woman, she felt it her duty to point out what a drastic measure the mistress was contemplating.

  "To leave with the children like this . . . it is a sometimes cruel world out there. Would it not be wiser first to try to sort this out with your husband?"

  "I know, Mrs. Bloom," Jessica said quietly. "I have considered all that, but I feel I have no other choice. All I ask of you is that you help me prepare the children and their things. I have a destination in mind where we will be safe. You may tell my husband what you wish when he returns; tell him I spirited the children out without waking you. I'll leave him a note, and I will be returning, once I have had time to sort all this—"

  Mrs. Bloom interrupted her. "I cannot in conscience let you go alone. If your mind is made up, I will come with you."

  "I don't want you to involve yourself so deeply in my problems."

  "But I am already involved," the woman pointed out kindly. "Your husband will never believe I slept while you took the children and their belongings. He'd turn me out on my heel for not stopping you."

  "Yes, you are right, I suppose. Very well, come along— but we must hurry. We must be gone before the rest of the staff are up."

  By the time dawn was beginning to streak the sky, the women and two children were out of the drive, heading down the road toward Eastport, Jessica at the reins of the carriage.

  The destination Jessica had in mind as they turned west onto the Post Road was a quiet and respectable country inn two towns away. She'd seen it during a drive with Mary Weldon; it would serve well as a safe hiding place until she'd come to a decision about what to do.

  Although they traveled less than ten miles, it took two hours over the rough road to reach the inn. During the trip Jessica could not stop glancing back reflexively over her shoulder, so afraid that someone at the house had seen their departure; that Christopher might already be in pursuit. She let out her breath in relief as they finally pulled off the Post Road into the quiet and empty inn yard. Of course, there was always the possibility the innkeeper would not have any available rooms; in her rush to get away she hadn't considered that.

  A livery boy approached, and held the horse's head as Jessica went inside. Though it was only shortly after seven in the morning, the innkeeper was at his desk. He glanced up at the travel-worn but still elegant woman before him. Before leaving Eastport, Jessica had changed into one of her most subdued traveling gowns; had pulled back her hair and disguised it beneath a veiled bonnet, powdered her face to leave it pale and make her look older than she was; but there was an aura of wealth and dignity about her.

  "May I be of service to you, madam?"

  "Yes. I will need two rooms—a suite if one is available, otherwise two adjoining chambers. For a period of a week or two."

  The innkeeper continued to study her. "Well, I do have two rooms available, adjoining, at the back of the inn. How many in your party?"

  "Myself, my maid, and two children. And I will need stabling for my horse and storage for the carriage."

  He nodded. All types traveled this road and inquired for lodgings, although few women traveled without the company of a male. But his concern for respectability was appeased by Jessica's demeanor and her mention of a maid. "The charge is two dollars for the week per room, twenty-five cents extra for linens and maid service; stabling one dollar a week." He motioned to the book on the desk top. "If you'd like to sign in .

  . ." "Yes; and I will pay you now." Jessica took the pen and wrote clearly, Mrs. William Franklin, Hartford, Connecticut—the name and address she'd decided upon during the drive. She then reached into her purse and counted out payment for two weeks.

  The innkeeper inspected her signature. "Hartford, eh? On a bit of a journey. You're out traveling early this morning."

  "We spent the evening with friends not far from here," Jessica said as she handed him the money with a smile. She blessed his curiosity; it gave her a further opportunity to steer away anyone who might come asking questions. "We are on our way back to Hartford, actually, bringing my niece and nephew for a visit.

  We thought we would rest here until a friend joins us to accompany us the balance of the way."

  "Well, you should be able to rest here with no trouble. We run a nice quiet place. None of them carryings-on and carousing like the establishment down the road."

  "I am delighted to hear that. In fact your establishment was recommended to me for precisely that reason."

  The innkeeper stepped around the desk. "I'll just tell the boy to get your baggage, then I'll show you to your rooms."

  Jessica followed him outside and spoke quietly to Mrs.

  Bloom, who nodded and handed Jennifer down into Jessica's waiting arms, then climbed from the carriage. Kit, who'd already been informed firmly to say nothing and ask no questions, followed after her, still dazed by sleep. Never before had he been spirited off in the middle of the night, but he had no fears. With his father so often away, he was accustomed to his mother making plans for them—and this trip had all the makings of a high adventure.

  The innkeeper led the four of them into the inn and up the stairway to two rooms that faced a rear yard.

  "This will be excellent," Jessica said, looking over the interiors.

  "Breakfast is set out in the front parlor till ten. The conveniences are to the back of the yard."

  "Thank you."

  "Keys are in the door. Let me know if you need anything further."

  "I shall."

  "Enjoy your stay."

  When he was gone, Mrs. Bloom, who'd been carefully inspecting their new quarters-—one large bedroom she and the children would share, and a smaller, adjoining bedroom for Jessica—gave a brisk nod. "Decent rooms, and clean, and I can make up this cot for the baby." Then her eyes went to Jessica, who stood with Jennifer in her arms, staring out the back window. Mrs. Bloom gave a soft sigh, thinking, I do hope you have made the right decision, my dear.

  CHAPTER 19

  Christopher fervently hoped never to relive that night. It was not until well after seven in the morning that he rode up the drive to their Eastport home; she had to be here. Where else could she have gone?

  Anxious, exhausted, eaten up by fear and guilt, he prayed only that if she had left New York the evening before, she'd made the trip safely.

  When he'd returned to the drawing room the evening before, he hadn't known what to think or say when his hostess had come straight to him to commiserate on his poor wife's headache.

  "I do sympathize with her," Patience Fish had said. "I know others who suffer from these headaches—

  terrible things—and she did look so peaked when she left."

  He'd tried to keep his amazement from showing on his face. Jessica was gone . . . was ill? But she'd said nothing to him, had no complaints a few minutes earlier, and she definitely was not prone to headaches.

  "Yes, it is a shame," he'd answered, though he'd scarcely known what he was saying, "and I think I will be leaving, too, to see that she is all right."

  "Of course, I understand."

  He did not like the almost condemning look in Patience Fish's eyes, but did not have time to analyze it, A far more terrible fear gripped him. Had Jessica . . . could she somehow have seen him and Rhea in the garden?

  No; he'd been careful to see that no one observed him when he left the drawing room.

  It had
been against his better judgment to talk alone

  with Rhea, although he'd already made up his mind to do so at the first opportunity in order to break off his relationship with her. He'd at last resolved to risk everything—to tell Jessica the truth before Rhea could.

  Admitting his guilt was a great risk; he had no guarantee that Jessica would forgive him. He would be asking a great deal of her, but he had no other choice. He loved her; he wanted with all his heart to work things out between them. Most of all, he didn't want to hurt her any longer.

  Seeing Jessica those last days out in company again-sparkling, beautiful, alive—had reawakened him to just what an extraordinary woman she was. Each hour of those days he was torn into indecisive pieces. As he'd watched Jessica dressing, brushing out her long hair, serene and beautiful in her ignorance of his infidelity, he'd felt a desperate longing for the closeness they'd once shared. At the dinner table as he'd listened to her converse with others, saw their impressed reactions, he knew a swelling of pride: this woman was his wife . . .

  his. He remembered so clearly his conversation with Rhea— how she'd coaxed him out into the garden, and he'd gone, deciding to use the opportunity to tell her of his decision. When she'd snuggled up against him in a manner that in the past had always been so persuasive, encouraged him to join her at her father's house, he'd felt the bile of self-disgust rising in his throat.

  Only moments later, he'd pushed her away. His words had been emphatic: "No, Rhea. Not tonight—not any day or night in the future. It is over."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean precisely what I said. I will not be seeing you again. I love my wife and intend in the future to be the husband she deserves."

  "You do not know what you are saying!" she'd gasped. "It has been an uncomfortable evening for you; you are overreacting."

  "I know full well what I am saying, and it should have been said long past."

  "I will not allow you to do this!"