Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  "You have no choice in the matter. It is my decision."

  "You are a fool. You wish to spare your wife, but she shall find out what a 'loyal' husband you have been

  —that I can assure you!"

  "Yes, I am sure you will waste no time in running to tell her the worse, and I have lived with that threat of yours long enough. It means nothing to me now, and I do not give a damn what you do. My wife will already have learned the truth from my own lips."

  "Ah, the remorseful husband," she sneered, "bowing at her feet, baring his soul."

  "And I only pray she will forgive me!" With determined purpose he turned and began to move quickly away. Her voice stopped him.

  "You will live to regret this, Christopher. You left me once before only to find it impossible to stay away.

  We have something between us that is not going to be so easy to forget. You will be back."

  "Good night, Rhea."

  All he'd wanted at that point was to get away from her. It was done; at last he'd ended it. He'd hurried back to the drawing room to find his wife. He'd take her back to the hotel room, and there would tell her the terrible truth, beg her forgiveness. Already he was composing the words he would say to her.

  Then, to his great shock, he'd found her gone from the party. He rushed to their hotel room, sure she was there, only to find she'd left with all her luggage. She'd written him no note. All the doorman could tell him was that he'd called Mrs. Dunlap a hack about forty-five minutes earlier.

  Christopher knew then that Jessica had witnessed part or all of his meeting with Rhea. Either that or she had in some other way learned the truth and in anger and pain had run off, perhaps to their friends in New York. He set out immediately for Bayard's and Mawson's. Bayard was out, and Mawson said they had not seen Jessica since the day she and Christopher had arrived in New York. Unable to answer Mawson's and Abbey's anxious questions, he told them only that there'd been some misunderstanding. Christopher returned quickly to the hotel to check out,

  then headed to the docks. One of his schooners was in, but could not be made ready to sail for several hours, during which time he paced the wharf, ready to tear his hair out, worrying, wondering, cursing at the wasted time. What if Jessica had not returned to Eastport? It would be hours before he could continue his search elsewhere.

  Now, with his front door beckoning, he spurred his horse up the drive, hastily dismounted, and, fastening the reins to the hitching post, bounded up the stairs into the house. He found the house quiet, the servants obviously occupied in the kitchens and unaware of his entrance. He raced up to the second floor and into their bedroom. The bed was made and showed no evidence of having been slept in; the room was in perfect order—except that Jessica wasn't there. But perhaps she was already up and gone downstairs?

  Then he saw the folded white note propped on the night table. He stepped over and reached for it quickly. His hands trembled as he unfolded it and read.

  I have left for a while with the children, and Mrs. Bloom. I have a great deal of thinking to do. There is no point in looking for us, but I promise you we will be safe. I have known for some time about you and Rhea Taylor. I've tried to be patient, knowing what you went through with my depression after Mary's death. I hoped you would give her up, but after seeing the two of you rendezvousing in the garden last night, I realized my efforts were futile. I need time to decide what I must do. When I've reached a decision, you will hear from me. After all we have shared together, Christopher, I have prayed it would never come to this.

  Jessica

  He stared for a long while at the missive, his eyes glazing with pain as her words sank in. Gone—and with the children! She had known all along about his affair and been suffering with the knowledge. What had he done to her? What had he done to himself ? He wanted to scream, to pound his fist against the wall.

  The only thing keeping

  him at all in control of himself was the conviction that he must find her! Perhaps all was not lost yet. He would not give up hope.

  Christopher began his search. He questioned the remaining servants, who stared at him blankly and shrank back from his wrathful voice. They had not even known the mistress had come and gone; had not realized Mrs. Bloom and the children were not in their rooms. It was only shortly after seven in the morning; Mrs. Bloom never sent for the children's breakfast until eight. The caretaker came rushing back from the stables to inform him that the carriage and horse were gone. At least that gave Christopher some clue: the women had a fairly speedy conveyance. But in which direction did they head? Where would Jessica possibly consider going? The Beards'. Of course. Her closest friends in Eastport, who wouldn't hesitate to give her refuge. But when he arrived at their door and confronted a confused Amelia Beard, he realized that Jessica would not have chosen such an obvious hiding place. Still he didn't want to believe Amelia's repeated assertions that Jessica and the children were not there, nor had she heard from them. He hadn't the courage to tell Amelia the full truth of why Jessica had left, responding to her worried and probing questions only that there had been an argument. Finally, however, he accepted her offer to send her husband to aid in the search as soon as she could contact him.

  Christopher returned to Eastport, to the office of the local constable. He did not want to bring the public authorities in, but what else was he to do? A force of two, even three men alone could not cover the area.

  Giving the constable full descriptions and asking the man's discretion, Christopher set out again, combing Eastport inside and out, checking at every inn and boardinghouse. He had his caretaker go in another direction; ordered one of his crew members to check every outgoing vessel's passenger list, every stage passing through.

  In the afternoon he was joined in his search by Bertram Beard and Lucas St. John, who met him at his house as he stopped in to see if there was any news. Both men were terribly concerned, although Bertram kept his thoughts to himself. He took in Christopher's frantic, disheveled look and thought it wise to say as little as possible.

  From Lucas St. John, however, Christopher received a piercing stare. Christopher was so distraught that he might not have noticed had Lucas not taken him aside before they all set off on their renewed search.

  "What really happened, Dunlap?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I know your wife well. Jessica would not fly off with the children unless she had some very pressing reason."

  "And how would you know my wife so well?"

  "You must be aware that we were friends while she was working for the Beards."

  Christopher suddenly remembered a look he'd once seen Lucas and Jessica share; remembered how disturbed he'd been at the time.

  Lucas was still speaking. "I know that she went through some bad times after your daughter's death, but that tragedy was in the past, and I do not believe her running off was prompted by it."

  "As I told Amelia Beard, we had a disagreement."

  "Quite a disagreement, apparently." Lucas lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "No, there is more to it than you are telling us. From the moment you appeared in Eastport two years ago with a fiancee on your arm, I have felt unsettled about Jessica's happiness."

  "And might I ask what business our personal affairs are of yours?"

  "I speak from deep concern." Lucas studied Christopher unflinchingly. "You have a wonderful woman in her, Dun-lap. I pity you that you cannot better appreciate that fact."

  "How dare—" But Christopher's angry retort was wasted. Lucas was already mounted and heeling his horse off to pursue the search.

  Although furious, Christopher thrust his anger aside. There was a far more urgent matter on his mind—

  finding his wife and children. In a moment, he, too, was mounted and galloping down the drive. Still, he could not put Lucas St. John's words from his thoughts.

  Their first day's efforts brought nothing. Bertram Beard reported to Christopher his and Lucas's lack of encouraging news, advising that they would b
oth continue the search in the morning. Christopher, unable to sleep himself, was out again before dawn, searching farther afield, up and down the Post Road.

  Everywhere he stopped, the answer was the same. No one had seen two women and two children fitting the description Christopher gave them.

  The men met again that evening, Lucas St. John visibly cool to Christopher. Given his own increasing anxiety, Christopher barely noticed. Exhausted, they stayed together only long enough to decide on the following day's plan, then went off to their homes.

  By the end of the fourth day, Christopher was beside himself; possessed. He'd eaten little and slept less, yet he was driven on by an inner force that superseded his physical needs. He must find them; he must explain everything to Jessica; tell her how much he loved her; beg her to come back! Every hour that he did not find her increased his nightmarish fears that some accident or misfortune had befallen them; that he would never see them again. God— that he himself might die first!

  His state of mind was not helped by the unexpected arrival of a visitor on his doorstep. He had returned to the house only briefly, for a change of clothing and to check on the progress of the search efforts, and was at first annoyed when the maid informed him there was someone waiting in the drawing room. Then he'd felt a surge of hope, thinking perhaps it was the constable with news. His surprise and dismay were evident when he saw Jerome Weitz rise from the armchair and step across the room.

  "Good day, Dunlap. I hope you do not mind the intrusion, but I was in the neighborhood on business and thought to stop by and pay my respects to you and your wife." Weitz knew immediately that something was wrong. Dunlap was visibly drawn and shaken; his red-veined eyes gave the appearance of his not having slept in days. Weitz had made the journey to Eastport impelled by the strong, instinctive feeling that there was trouble and he should investigate.

  Dunlap's voice was curt, irritated. "Unfortunately my wife is not here, and I have to go out almost immediately on business."

  Weitz sought for some way to prolong the conversation long enough to get answers to the questions in his mind. "Your wife is well?"

  "Yes." There was a decided flash of pain on Dunlap's face.

  "I am sorry I missed her. As a matter of fact, I have a message from Patience Fish for her, hoping that she will see you both in New York before long."

  "I do not know. Perhaps she shall. If you will excuse me, Weitz, I really must be on my way."

  That decided Jerome. If he wanted information, it would have to come through blunt inquiry. "You will pardon my straightforwardness, Dunlap, but I have been concerned about your wife's welfare since I saw her leave the party in New York and followed to see her board the packet for Eastport."

  Christopher's face went whiter, if that was possible. "You saw her?"

  "Indeed I did. I am also aware of her reasons for running off as she did. I have known of your relationship with Mrs. Taylor. Your personal affairs are none of my business, but I happen to like and respect your wife, and her well-being is important to me. I have been deeply concerned whether she made it to Eastport safely.

  From your obviously distraught condition, I gather she did not."

  "She did . . . but she has left." If not for his mental exhaustion and his shock at hearing of Weitz's knowledge, Christopher would never have said so much.

  "Left! Left for where?"

  "I do not know."

  "What are you saying, Dunlap?"

  "She left that night with the children before I arrived here. She left a note saying they would be safe."

  "What! And you have not found her? It has been four days! What have you been doing?"

  "Searching for them! What do you think! And going out of my mind with worry."

  "Nothing that you have not brought on yourself."

  "You think I am not aware of that? And I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. This is none of your concern!"

  "I am making it my concern! Their lives may be at risk-have you considered that?"

  "Damn it, what kind of a heartless fool do you think I am, Weitz!"

  "A man more concerned with his dalliance with a strumpet than with the feelings of an altogether remarkable woman!"

  "Get out of my house!" Christopher moved toward him, ready to lay the man level with his fists. "We have nothing further to say to each other!"

  Weitz was already striding toward the doorway. "No, we have not. But be well warned, I am taking up this search on my own, and if anything has happened to that woman, I shall hold you personally accountable!"

  "Get out!" Christopher followed after him, his blind fury evident in his fists clenched tightly, his nails biting into his palms. But before he could reach Weitz, that man was already out the door, slamming it behind him. Christopher crashed his fist into the ungiving wood panels, smashing his knuckles so badly they began to bleed. He did not feel the pain; it was no match for his inner torment. If Lucas St. John's accusing comments a few days earlier had not been enough, Weitz's interference now had been sufficient to snap Christopher's self-control completely. What right did these men have to interfere? What had gone on in the past between St.

  John and Jessica, that he should claim to know the workings of her mind so well; feel he had the right to make accusations? And what was there now between Jerome Weitz and Jessica that had prompted the man to come to Eastport to check on her? Was Weitz part of the reason Jessica had left him? Was it not only his own indiscretions that had sent her off, but the lure of another man, as well?

  Tired and angry though he was, he knew he had no justification for such suspicions, although he'd been so wrapped up in his own worries these last months, many things could have been going on without his being aware. He only knew that on top of his anxiety for Jessica and the children, he was suddenly consumed by a white-hot jealousy. He could not bear the thought of Jessica with another man! Was this to be his punishment for his dalliance with Rhea? To discover how much he loved his wife, only to lose her to another? She'd known for some time about him and Rhea. Had that knowledge sent her into another's arms?

  Yes, he'd been a fool to get involved with Rhea again; but he was also beginning to see that his and Jessica's problems went back before that . . . before even her depression. He was remembering the times in New York, be-fore Mary was born, when she'd tried to tell him of her unhappiness, her boredom, her feeling that he was forcing her to be something she wasn't; the time he'd berated her for going out in public in her obviously expectant state; and their terrible argument a few months ago when she'd finally told him of the depth of her discontent, and he'd still been unable to understand or sympathize. Yes, looking back now, he could see how their relationship had changed—how he'd changed—from the man who had once treated her as an equal partner into a husband who now made all the decisions, set their course and expected her to follow along without complaint, like the wives of all his friends. So quickly had he forgotten that Jessica was not of this century; that she was a woman grown beyond submissiveness—and a far finer woman for it! Why did it take the fear of losing her again to make him realize all this? Why hadn't he seen it sooner?

  He swung from the door, his long strides carrying him quickly across the hall. First he must find her; then he must pray that it was not already too late.

  The first two days at the inn, her anger still boiling and her crushed pride aching, Jessica had no doubts about the wisdom of leaving Eastport. This escape was for the best, giving her time to think and Christopher something to worry about. She knew revenge was unworthy, but something base in her wanted to see him suffer as much as she had. She ignored Mrs. Bloom's worried frowns, Kit's irritability at being closed up in confined quarters for so long. Those first days she'd wanted to take no risk of discovery and had kept them all in their rooms, telling the innkeeper the children had come down with slight colds, and having their meals sent up. The few times she did leave the rooms, she was careful to have her disguise in place, completed by a dusting of p
owder on her hair to give it a graying appearance.

  But as the days ticked by and nothing happened, no innkeeper came to tell her that a gentleman had come by asking about two women and two children traveling alone, she began to wonder whether Christopher was worrying . . .

  or even searching. She could not believe him that callous. He would search for the children, if not for her. When he'd found her gone from the hotel in New York, he must have come back to Eastport; must have read her note telling him she'd left with the children. What had he thought? What had he felt?

  No matter how angry she'd been, how determined to remain undiscovered, in her heart she'd held tenaciously to an image of Christopher pounding up to the inn doors in search of her. Now, with that vision unrealized, her determination began to sag, her hopes dwindle.

  Nights alone in her room, after the children were asleep, she cried her heart out, but she could not go back to Eastport to confront him—not with her spirits so low. They sank lower still as she forced herself through days that dragged tediously by.

  Almost two weeks had passed when, one morning, fore-saking her usual caution, she left by the front door of the inn to cross the street to the chemist's for a cod liver tonic for Kit. She hadn't bothered with the powdering of her hair or face, only tied the veiled bonnet over her head and hurried out. She was in the middle of the dirt road when she heard a loud call.

  "Jessica!"

  She froze, then turned to see two horsemen only a few yards away. She couldn't believe her eyes. Her first instinct was to flee—but there was nowhere to go. The men

  had already recognized her, had urged their mounts forward and were now gazing down at her from a distance of only a few yards.

  Silently she stood her ground as they hurriedly dismounted.

  "It is you!" Lucas St. John was the first to reach her. His arm stretched forward as though to touch her and prove her reality, but he halted the action in midair. "We have been worried sick, Jessica. Do you know how many have been searching for you?"

  She couldn't speak to acknowledge him; her shock was too great at being so unexpectedly discovered. Her gaze swept to the second figure, and she was.totally confused. Jerome Weitz? But what was he doing here with Lucas when, to her knowledge, the two men had never met. And why was he searching for her?