by Joann Simon
You seemed so happy, and I tried to push aside my misgivings about your husband—although I admit, after that scene on the ballroom floor, I would gladly have put him in a cannon and shot him off into oblivion.
"It was that night, too, in all my disappointment and misery, that Elizabeth came to me as though, after years, she had suddenly realized my worth. Please, do not misunderstand. I love Elizabeth and will be a good husband to her. I would not have asked her to marry me if I felt otherwise. But the feeling I had . . . still have
. . . for you is something that perhaps only comes once."
As Lucas spoke, Jessica's eyes had grown misty. She was remembering that time almost three years ago—
remembering so well the warmth she'd always felt when Lucas was around, brightening her otherwise dreary days; the frequent, flitting thoughts that had caused her to wonder what would happen if there were no Elizabeth; and later, the strange sense of loss and melancholy when she'd learned he and Elizabeth were engaged. She'd tried to convince herself that her melancholy had been caused by her fear that the young woman would hurt him again. She knew now that it had been more.
His voice was soft, gentle. "I have wondered, ever since, how things would have turned out if your husband had not returned . . . have thought that perhaps you would now be my wife. Was I wrong? Am I? Could you have loved me?" A choked cry escaped her lips. "Yes—yes, I could have . . . but it's not to be . . . " His words brought such upheaval! She tried to cover her tear-streaked face with her hands, and felt herself being pulled against his chest. "Jessica, I am sorry . . . I should not have spoken." Several moments passed before she whispered into the cloth of his jacket. "It's all right, Lucas. One day these things had to be said."
"I only told you now because I wanted you to understand just how much I care about your happiness. We cannot go back. I have long since resigned myself to it—nothing beyond friendship can ever be fulfilled between us. I know that you love your husband and that no other man could hope to attain such a place in your heart. On the other hand, I could not bear to see him hurt you again. I would see him dead first."
"Lucas!"
"Strong words, perhaps—but true."
"I don't know what to say to you. Yes, I do love him. We have gone through so much together. I suppose even if he turns his back on me now, I will go on loving him. It's the kind of feeling that anger and pain can't seem to kill." Jessica drew a little away from him, gazed up at his fine, strong face; she saw the furrow of regret on his brow, the whiteness of pain about his sensitive mouth. "Do you think me a fool?"
"Not a fool. I am only regretting that I did not meet you first. There must be some great tie binding you to him, that you can love him still, even after this . . . but I have to respect a love that deep."
Lucas realized, as he gazed down at the woman he might have loved to an equal depth, that there was nothing else to say. There was nothing he could offer her but his friendship; she would accept nothing else. He tried to smile. "We have been gone awhile. They will be wondering what happened to you."
She nodded.
"I will walk you back."
But before they left, she took his hands, brought them up to her face and held them there. Her eyes, the lashes about them still damp, looked into his. "Thank you, Lucas . . . dear friend."
The feeling in that simple statement went far beyond the literal meaning such words usually conveyed.
For three days thereafter, Lucas paid his brief daily visit. Though their talk that day in the orchard was still searingly fresh on both their minds, they said nothing of it to each other; it was better that way.
Lucas only asked if all was well, if there was anything she needed. She didn't tell him how, with each day, the hurt and confusion within her were growing, or that because of the pain that increased with each day her husband himself did not arrive and find them, she was only going through the motions of living. The longer she waited, the greater her doubts that she and Christopher could work things out; the greater her fears of returning to Eastport. She had no guess as to her reception. He might be so thoroughly enraptured with Rhea that he would turn Jessica out in the cold.
Worse still, he might whisk the children away and never again let her see them. Wasn't that the way it worked in the nineteenth century when a wife willfully left her husband?
To keep her mind occupied, she began taking the children farther afield for their airings, driving them over some of the more remote country lanes. Yet even with the respite of getting out of the inn, she knew she could not continue this way much longer.
Lucas tried his best to be patient and not press too hard in his persuasions that she give up her vigil and accompany him to the Beard farm or send a message to her husband. Finally that patience snapped.
"Enough is enough, Jessica," he told her emphatically. "If you continue to insist on doing nothing, then I must take action."
"No, Lucas, please." She knew he meant it this time, and she knew he was right; yet she felt more afraid than ever.
"I have no choice. To see the growing despair in everyone's faces and know the secret I am hiding from them! Jessica, have a thought for other people's feelings, too."
"I do, I do. It pains me to know I'm hurting them, but please, one more day—only one."
His expression was grim, undecided. Finally he acceded, sighing heavily. "All right. But only one. Jessica, no matter how much I care for you, no matter how much I try to want for you what you yourself want . . . if you have not made up your mind by tomorrow afternoon, I am sending a message to your husband."
As Jessica waved him good-bye a few minutes later, she was overcome by a numbing sadness, a heaviness in her heart. Was he right? Was it time to talk to Christopher? She could not remain at the inn forever, but was there any hope at all of repairing the breach between Christopher and herself? What future did she have to look forward to? Her pride would never allow her to remain with a man who didn't love her, who actively saw a mistress on the side. But what laws governed a sundered marriage in this age? What of the children? She didn't know. She simply did not know what to do.
CHAPTER 20
The early fall day was unusually mild, and with the sun warm and bright in a cloudless September sky, Jessica took the children to a small pebbled beach in a cove not far from the inn. Today was the day her decision was due, and that unsettling thought was foremost on her mind. While Mrs. Bloom rested in the shade, Jessica let Kit remove his shoes and stockings to splash barefoot through the shallows. She carried her daughter down to the water's edge, out of range of her brother's frolics, to let the baby dangle her hands in the lapping water. Jennifer was at first startled by the cool, ever moving waves, but her curiosity was soon aroused by this new form of water that did not lay complacent in a bathtub, and in no time she was reaching out with chubby little fingers to catch the wave crests.
It was Miss Bloom who first noticed the horseman approaching down the dirt road that led off the main Post Road.
"Rider coming," she alerted Jessica. There was always a need for caution that close to the Post Road, where ne'er-do-wells traveled as frequently as respectable citizens.
Jessica looked up, stood. Her daughter protested at being lifted out of reach of the water, but Jessica's eyes were riveted to the solitary figure. Although the rider was yet too far away for her to make out his features, there was something familiar in his seat, the set of his shoulders. In a moment he urged his horse into a trot.
Mrs. Bloom was now at her side. "Trouble, you think?" she said nervously.
"No . . . " Yet Jessica's voice, barely above a whisper, was filled with trepidation. She knew now who the rider was.
It seemed to take a very long time for him to approach, each second increasing Jessica's anxiety. Then he halted before them. His eyes were only for Jessica; hers for him. They said nothing as they stared at each other.
She noticed the tired lines on his cheeks, the reddened eyes, the furrow between the brows, the
first hint of gray in the dark waves at his temples.
As though the scene was moving forward in slow motion, he dismounted, stepped forward warily, and stopped. Jessica made no move. Even the baby had ceased fidgeting in her arms, sensing something of the importance of the moment.
The spell was broken by Kit, who came racing out of the shallow water toward the man with arms wide, a child's uninhibited smile of joy on his face.
"Daddy . . . my daddy!" The boy flung himself into the waiting arms of his father, who lifted him high in the air, then clutched the small body to his chest.
"I missed you, Daddy . . . so much."
"And I missed you . . . more than I can say." Christopher's voice was choked, his eyes blurred by the wetness that sprang to them.
"I wanted to come home, Daddy, but Mama said we have to stay here for a while."
"Your mother had her reasons, Kit."
"But we come home now!"
"I would like that very much." As he spoke, his gaze fixed on his wife. Seeing the longing and need in his eyes, Jessica felt her heart surge; but still she stood unmoving, her eyes on his.
"Jessica . . . to have found you—" His voice broke. He swallowed. "There is so much to say. Will you hear me out?"
Something inside her was crying out in happiness to see him; something else was holding her back. So many impressions of the moment were whirling in her brain—of his haggard look, his obvious joy at seeing them, his uncertainty over what his reception would be; yet much else had happened between them. It wasn't something to be sorted out with an instant's decision.
"I will talk with you, Christopher." Her voice sounded strange in her ears. "Now?" "Yes."
"Can Mrs. Bloom take the children?" She nodded, then turned to the woman and spoke quietly to her.
"My husband and I want to talk for a moment. Will you watch Kit and Jennifer?"
"Of course, ma'am."
Jessica handed her the baby while Christopher lowered his son to the ground. But Kit's hand had grasped his father's coattails, and would not let go. "No, Daddy. I will stay with you."
His father's voice was its most reassuring. "Your mother and I must talk alone. You go along with Mrs.
Bloom. We will follow soon—I promise."
The child gave him a fearful, wide-eyed look. "You won't go away?"
"We will be right here."
Reluctantly Kit allowed Mrs. Bloom to take his hand and lead him off. He cast a long look back over his shoulder, as though afraid to let his father out of his sight.
When the children were gone, Christopher and Jessica faced each other uncomfortably.
"I have been searching for you for weeks." His voice was hoarse with feeling. "I have been over every inch of this road—and every other road for miles and miles. I had nearly given up hope when a rumor came to me today that a woman of your description had been seen in the area." His wearied, beseeching eyes told her of his anguish. "Where . . . where have you been?" "At the inn up the Post Road."
"But I have been there! And to every other inn and rooming house for miles around."
"I took precautions that we should not be recognized." "You went to such lengths?" His blue eyes darkened further in pain. "Why did you run off? Why have you not sent some word to me?"
"You know why I ran off, Christopher; and I did not send word to you because I needed this time alone."
"You must have known what my anxiety would be, to find you and the children gone and have no idea where to look for you!"
"Under the circumstances, I did not know."
Under her steady stare, he lowered his eyes.
"I had a great deal of thinking to do," she added.
He immediately looked up again. "Is that the only reason you stayed away? To think?"
"I was hurt and angry. Did you expect me to feel otherwise?"
"Indeed no. . . . Jessica, I am so sorry," he choked.
She remained silent. She needed to know far more before she would have any forgiveness to offer him.
"I have been afraid," he continued unsteadily, "that there was more to your leaving than what occurred that evening in New York. Jerome Weitz paid me a visit—"
"Yes, I know. He and Lucas St. John found us . . . which made me wonder why you had not."
"Lucas St. John!" Astounded, he stared at her. "Then why did he not tell me? I saw Bertram Beard only this morning. Why did St. John send no message?"
"He wanted to. I forbade him."
"Why, Jessica, why? Was this your way of punishing me for what I have done? Or was it more? Have you stopped caring? I know your friendship with St. John in the past was a more serious thing than I ever suspected . . . and now Weitz . . ."
"No, Christopher! Jerome and Lucas have been no more than friends in their behavior toward me. It was purely by accident that they found us."
"Then why have you not at least given me some chance to explain? I know I have been wrong, terribly wrong, and have cursed myself and suffered for every second of my foolishness and deceit! Could you not have waited to hear my side?"
"I am listening."
"My God, have things come to this between us—that you must talk to me like a stranger!"
Jessica forced back a sob. "What do you expect, Christopher? Am I supposed to come running back into your arms as a loving wife when I know you have been lying to me, deceiving me, making love to another woman—when I saw you in New York in the arms of your mistress?"
"That is over—believe me! It was over that night in New York." He reached for her hands, gripped them desperately. "If only you had not rushed from that party, not left the hotel, you would have known then. I was on my way to explain to you . . . to tell you the whole truth of my infidelity and to beg your forgiveness, ask you for another ehance . . ."
"That is easy for you to say now."
"It is the truth! Believe me! If you had remained to witness all of that scene in the garden, which I can only presume you did not, you would have heard me tell Rhea that it was over, that I no longer wanted to see her again—no longer cared about her threats of exposing our affair to you—that I intended to admit everything to you myself. And that was precisely my intention, but when I returned to the party, you were gone, and gone from the hotel. As soon as my ship could sail, I went to Eastport and there found your note.
I cannot describe to you the anguish I felt—how I have hated myself these last weeks, known I had no one but myself to blame!"
"This is all fine and good," she cried, "to say how sorry you are now—but why did you do it? Why did you ever start up with her again? Did you think of my feelings then? Did you care about anyone but yourself?"
"Jessica, please. I was utterly wrong. I will not attempt to make excuses for myself. I thought at the time I had cause. It was after Mary's death, when you were so remote, that I saw Rhea again. No, the affair did not begin then; we chanced to meet at a gathering. I tried to hold her at arm's length, but then when you got pregnant and still seemed to want nothing to do with me . . . well, once again our paths crossed in New York, and one thing led to another. Yes, I felt guilt. I wanted nothing more than to come back home and hold you in my arms and try to make up for what had just occurred; but you turned me away. I felt I was living with a stranger. After that it was easier to succumb. I rationalized that if my wife did not want me, why not find what I needed in another woman? Wholly selfish of me; totally the wrong way of thinking, as I realized later.
But it was done. When I wanted to get out of the relationship, Rhea threatened to expose my duplicity to you. I couldn't endure the thought of your discovering, so I stumbled on with it—another weak and spineless thing to do. It was during those days we were in New York together that I finally realized just how much I hated myself for what I was doing; I didn't care about Rhea. I loved you, only you! I made up my mind to end it; and I did, that evening. . . too late." His eyes had never left her face; their piercing anguish bore through to her soul. "If you cannot forgive me, Jessica, I
can understand, but in these last weeks of soul-searching I have come to realize even more just what a wonderful love we have shared together. It is something too special to be lost. I need you . . . must have you."
She was silent, yet still so filled with doubt and pain. It was not easy to wipe from her mind the image of the man she loved making love with another woman; not easy to forgive his actions or to understand why he had been drawn to another woman in the first place. No matter how much she loved him, wanted to forgive him, wanted to be back in his arms, it was so hard to dismiss the memory that he'd lied to her, gone behind her back, and hurt her to her very core. And despite all his avowals to the contrary, might it happen again? She felt so torn; knew that she'd been wrong, too, in pushing him away when he'd needed her. But did that justify what he'd done? Couldn't he have stood by her side a little longer?
"Jessica, I mean every word I've said."
"I'm beginning to believe that."
"Then will you please let us try again? If nothing else, these past weeks have forced me to look at myself very critically, to ask myself why any of this ever happened. I thought back to the way we used to be before Kit was born. I thought about what a wonderful partnership we'd had; ' how we had shared everything. I began to realize that we were not sharing anymore; that I was making all the decisions for both of us; that I was not letting you be the woman you were meant to be—the woman I fell in love with and have loved with all my heart ever since. When you tried to tell me you were unhappy, I did not understand. Now I do. Let us go back to the way we were, Jessica, in the beginning . . . in your world. I know, after learning the hard way, that I do not want a meek and compliant wife. I want you—the way you are." He clenched her hands more tightly, as though with the pressure of his fingers he would transmit the feeling in his heart.
"I won't pretend that I can forget the hurt that quickly," she said quietly. "I will try . . . but the memory will always be there. Every time I think of you and Rhea together, I'll turn cold inside. I hate her; I despise her. I never want to hear her name or see her face again! I can't condone what you did, but I know I've been wrong as well. I've hated you these last weeks for what you'd done to me; but I couldn't stop loving you, too—