Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  " "I am in the wrong, it's true—I've not been hasty enough!"

  "If I were you, I would first find out if my husband agrees with such an assessment."

  "And why should he not agree?" Despite herself, Jessica felt her heart constrict. "He acknowledges my equal control over the running of this household. And concerning you, Mrs. Taylor, I know his opinions."

  "Do you?" Jessica's rival looked at her steadily. There was no flinching; nothing but self-assurance in Rhea's manner as she languidly perused Jessica.

  "You have tried to divide my husband and me since the day I met you," Jessica said through clenched teeth. "Yes, I can understand your anger. You thought yourself engaged to him. You never knew the whole of our love—he

  never told you. Just as I would not do so now—except to say that our bond together goes far beyond yours to him. I sympathized with you once, three years ago, when you found yourself no longer engaged to the man you wanted. I could understand your pain—but Christopher and I were married before you met him. Yet you haven't given up since in trying to get him back."

  Despite the strong words of Jessica's speech, Rhea smiled. "No, I haven't given him up yet. Why should I? When only a few months ago I was in his arms, and you were nothing to him but an obligation."

  "That's not so!"

  "Ah, but it is. You should have asked him. He sought nothing but a return to the far more congenial relationship he and I had. You see, I understood him. I did not try his nerves. I gave him what he wanted—a woman who was always there at his side; who always smiled, who soothed his worries—who was the perfect companion socially, never having labored as a serving maid."

  "He came back to me."

  "Did he?"

  "He did!" Jessica wanted to scream out at the woman, shake her by the shoulders for her cool contempt, her formidable self-possession. But she held on to some shred of sanity. "He has been a good husband to me, before and now."

  Suddenly a vindictive, angry spark galvanized her. "He has been with me . . . night after night. He is here, taking care of my household . . . our children. Can you say that, Rhea?"

  Rhea threw back her head and laughed. "Ask me five or ten minutes from now—or five or ten hours, at most—when I will have him. You see, I have been patient, too; and it has proved its worth. After our very recent discussion"— she glanced, slyly, toward the door to the garden—"I do not think he will agree with you.

  Why don't you ask him? Then again, if I were you, I would not ask. Why look for more pain? Why look, why ask questions of the husband who is only going to deny you?" Rhea looked at Jessica fully; and as she shrugged her shoulders, the green fabric

  of her gown slipped farther down her elegant shoulders, making her a more seductive figure than ever.

  "If I were you," Rhea continued, having paused long enough to let her prior words sink in, "I might consider my own position. Your husband does not want me out of his life." Again she looked Jessica full in the eyes. "If you will excuse me."

  With a smile on her lips, Rhea strolled off toward the drawing room.

  For a moment that felt to Jessica like an eternity, she stood frozen to the spot, her face drained of all color. Then, choking with impotent anger and pain, she turned and walked blindly into Christopher's empty study. Halting before the darkened windows at the side of the room, she stared unseeing at her reflection in the glass. After all his promises, all his vows of love and remorse, how could he do this to her? And in their own house! Did he care nothing for her feelings, that he could use her like this? God, how it tore at her! She'd trusted him—believed every word of his remorseful apologies. She didn't want to believe even now that he could be capable of this—not her Christopher, her beloved Christopher!

  "Jessica?"

  She swung around; Jerome Weitz stood in the doorway. He stepped quickly toward her. "Rhea told me I might find you here—that you were in some distress."

  She only stared at him. That Rhea had sent Jerome did not connect with anything else in her jumbled mind.

  He had only to see her face to know that her rumored distress was real. "What is it?" He came forward, his warm brown eyes filled with concern.

  "Christopher . . . Rhea . . . I—you won't believe . . ." It was too much. She couldn't get out the words of explanation, not when her pain was so great. Instead, a sob escaped her; a broken, anguished sound. Jerome reached for her, and he gently, in a fatherly fashion, pulled her head against his chest.

  "Good heavens, what has he done to you now! Not the two of them again? My poor dear."

  The pain was so intense, she couldn't cry; she only stood shaking in Jerome's arms. He held her, rubbing his hands along her back, soothing her as he might a small, frightened child: Suddenly a harsh voice called from the doorway behind them. "Then it is so! Rhea spoke the truth! How dare you, Weitz, in my own house!"

  In an instant Jerome and Jessica had turned to face the enraged, white-lipped man approaching them.

  "Christopher!"

  "Yes. Are you surprised to see me, my dear? Did you expect this little meeting to go undiscovered? You might have succeeded had you the presence of mind to close the door!"

  "What are you talking about?"

  He stared at her in disbelief. "When I see you with my own eyes in the arms of your lover, you have the audacity to ask me what I am talking about? How long has this been going on? Since your stay at the inn, no doubt—or was it before that? You two have always been rather friendly, and fool that I was, I took you at your word, dear wife, that it was only that!"

  "Listen, Dunlap," Weitz broke in, as angry now as Christopher. "You are wholly misconstruing reality!"

  "Am I? I beg you to tell me how seeing my wife in your arms can be 'construed' as anything but an embrace."

  "But not for the reasons you have in mind."

  "You have made it no secret that you are an admirer of Jessica."

  "Quite true, and I make no secret of it now! She is a fine woman who deserves better than you!"

  "I would advise you to watch what you say, Weitz. I once nearly laid you low, and I would not hesitate to try again to do so!"

  "Christopher, please!" Jessica's voice was nearly a sob again as she reached for his arm. With her other hand she held back Weitz. "You are misconstruing the situation. Jerome was only comforting me—comforting me because I've learned you were just out in the garden betraying me again with your mistress!"

  Now it was Christopher's turn to start. "What?" He

  frowned in apparent confusion. "You are making no sense. I have been betraying you with no one! Nor was I just out in the garden."

  "Then where were you?" she countered.

  "Why, in the drawing room of course . . . and before that I went to the servants' pantry for a few minutes to speak to the butler."

  Jessica realized it was time she and her husband spoke alone. She turned to Jerome. Her voice was soft.

  "Jerome, can I ask you to please leave us. My husband and I must talk."

  Weitz looked back and forth between the two of them. He'd realized several moments before that there were gross misunderstandings on both sides—misunderstandings that, it seemed to him, had been carefully planned by a third party, with whom he himself wished to have a word. Too, he knew that until he'd spoken with Rhea, nothing further he said here would improve matters. "Very well. . . because you ask, Jessica."

  He gave Christopher a hard stare. "But I will not be far away."

  After he was gone, Christopher looked down at his wife. "So tell me what is going on! I find you in another man's embrace, yet you tell me he is only comforting you because you discovered me meeting with my mistress. I presume you are speaking of Rhea, but I have had nothing to do with her. I have not spoken to her

  — Ah—I take that back. When I was walking on the grounds this afternoon, she came up to me. We did talk.

  . . . Is that what you are so angry about?"

  "I saw you, yes, but that alone would not have swayed me. W
hen I woke from my nap this afternoon, I found a note shoved under the door . . . a note of sympathy for my strength in the face of my husband's duplicity and the 'dalliance' he had carried on. even the night before with one of the guests in my house. It was unsigned, but in a woman's hand. I would have thrown it into the fire, but then I remembered how late you'd been up the night before, and Rhea had been a guest—and then I looked out the window and saw the two of you."

  "Why did you not say something to me?" He gripped her

  arms. "Not tell me about this malicious note? It is all lies, of course. I was with no one last night before I came up to you, except Bayard and several other men. We could have straightened this out long before now!"

  "I don't know. . . . I didn't want to believe it was true. But I was afraid it was, and if I accused you—"

  "Jessica, Jessica! How could you doubt me? I had given you my promise. It is over. And this note! I would dearly love to know who wrote it. Do you have it?"

  "It's in the bedroom. But, Christopher, I think I know who wrote it . . . to seed doubts in my mind. I guess I always knew it was Rhea; but I just didn't think she would dare do such a brazen thing unless what she wrote was the truth. So I decided to watch you tonight. That was why I was so nervous at dinner, and talked so much with Jerome. I saw her come up behind you when you were playing cards, then stand near you again later, while you were talking to some people. Then you left the room, and a few moments later she followed. I couldn't take any more, and I followed, too. I looked through all the rooms and didn't see either of you. I was just about to head back to the drawing room when she came in through the side door from the garden. She was very sly, very assured. I'd long since lost my temper. I told her she was unwelcome in this house—to leave immediately. She laughed at me, and said it might be wise if I checked with my husband first, because she doubted you'd agree after your very recent discussion. She said you didn't want her out of your life. Then she walked right past me back to the drawing room. I was so sure—she inferred so positively—

  that she had just met with you out in the garden—what else could I think? I came in here to pull myself together. I wasn't enough in control to face our guests. That's how Jerome found me. I was trembling and upset, and he tried to comfort me—and then you walked in." She stopped as something her mind had ignored before suddenly clicked into place. "Oh—I remember him telling me very clearly that Rhea had sent him . . . "

  "Wait here." Christopher released her arms, turned, and strode toward the door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To get Rhea. We are going to settle this matter once and for all. She is going to learn that she has interfered in my life for the last time."

  It was only several minutes before he returned; yet to Jessica, wondering what the scene ahead would bring, it seemed an eternity. She knew Rhea: the woman would land on her feet, try somehow to twist the truth.

  Jessica was watching the door as Christopher walked in, a smiling Rhea on his arm. She saw Jessica, and her eyes narrowed.

  "What is this? I thought you sent them both to Hades. You said—"

  "Yes, a convenient ploy to get you here, similar to the ones you have used." Christopher smiled.

  Rhea's face grew a shade paler. "I do not understand."

  "Oh, I think you do. My wife received a very interesting note this afternoon, stuffed under her bedroom door, I will not bore you with the details, since I believe, if we compared your handwriting with it, we would find you were the author."

  "What nonsense are you talking?" Rhea frowned. She was not so confident now, but trying to save face.

  "No nonsense at all. We have the letter and can prove the point if necessary. A rather foolish thing for you to do, Rhea. But more foolish still was your conversation with my wife this evening. Did you really think you could get away with it? Did you assume that after your insinuations about meeting me in the garden, she would pack her bags and run? Or was that the purpose of your sending Jerome Weitz to my wife's aid—

  knowing she would break down and take comfort from a man she considered a dear friend? And then to send me to walk in on the supposed lovers in hot embrace was, of course, the finishing touch. At that point, husband and wife would be at such odds with each other, there would be no settling it. Your scheming was unique, but far from faultless."

  "I do not know what you're talking about!" She was flustered now, as flustered as such a coolly composed woman would ever be. "This is total nonsense—lies and exaggerations. I admit to encountering your wife earlier, but when she told me to leave the house, I thought, of course, she was joking. And as for Jerome—"

  "Sufficient, Rhea. Remember I know you quite well! Your trying to further deceive us now is pointless.

  What I am about to tell you is what you should understand." He looked at her levelly, emphasizing his point.

  "When I said to you we were finished, I meant every word of it—we are; we were. I wish never to see you again. All ties between us are dead. If you decide to go to your father, complain to him, endeavor to sever our business relations—very well. I will stand the loss, although I do not think you will find your father lending you such a sympathetic ear as he has done in the past. You have brought enough unhappiness to my life and Jessica's, and I admit I was partially at fault—I do not try to cast that blame on you—but I will not have you interfering in our lives again. If I find you are, I will make your life as miserable as you are endeavoring to make mine. Am I clear?" He stared hard at her. Jessica felt as though she might as well not have been in the room at that moment.

  Rhea's eyes were narrowed, but she didn't avert them from Christopher's face. "You are a bastard." The words were said quietly, but they had the effect of darting knives.

  "Perhaps. In fact at many times I probably am. I believe you can find your way to the door. Good-bye, Rhea."

  Jessica thought the woman was going to slash him across the face. For an instant she felt sympathy with Rhea in her utter fury at Christopher's cutting and uncompromising words, but then she remembered what Rhea had tried to do to her. After all, Rhea, to reach her ends, would not have given a thought to what Jessica felt and suffered. Why should Jessica give a care to her?"

  Still, she felt strange as she watched Rhea rush from the room. She stood silent, unnerved by the scene that had just transpired, until she felt her husband's gentle touch on her arm.

  "You think I was too hard on her. I can see it in your face."

  "In a way."

  "Why? Think of what she tried to do to you . . . to us."

  "I know, but I think she really loved you—not that I ever want to see her again, but I was just imagining what it would be like to be in her shoes . . . to have tried everything and lost." She had been staring toward the empty doorway; now she looked up at her husband, into his blue, blue eyes. "I know what it is like to love you. I know what it is like to feel I have lost you. Rhea and I are different people, but I know how she feels now. If you and I hadn't found one another again, you and Rhea would have been together."

  "Ah, but the two of us would never have loved the way you and I love. That special ingredient was not there—that something that is physical, but also of the mind. That something that kept me thinking of you through those two years we were separated, through all my deceit, so that I always knew that no matter what else I did, you were the woman I loved. That does not excuse my behavior, or make it any easier for me to think of all the lonely days you had, your heartache and suffering, but that was the way I felt underneath, inside.

  Can you understand that?"

  "You may in the end have found happiness with her."

  "No. I now see Rhea for what she is. She wants only the prestigious, the secure; a man to maintain her in the social stratum she was born into. If she had ever been faced with the truth of my background, she would have run. Heavens, what is more unstable than a man who jumps through centuries?"

  Jessica smiled. "You don't have to persuade me furthe
r. I obviously don't want you running back to the woman's arms!"

  "I'm delighted to hear that." He, too, smiled, reached out to put his hands on her waist, gazed down at her. His face grew serious again. "Jessica, you are my wife, and I love you to a depth I cannot even describe.

  We have had some terribly, terribly difficult times, yet I believe, if anything, those times have strengthened the bond between us . . . have strengthened us. I will not pretend that there may not still be difficult times ahead, but I promise I will do everything in my power to bring you happiness. You see, I have discovered all too clearly that my own happiness depends on yours. I meant every word I said to you that day a few weeks ago when I found you and the children. Let us continue that new start we began then."

  "Yes . . . let us."

  Smiling gently, he drew her closer, pressed his lips to her brow. "I love you, dear wife. Even if we should be separated again, God forbid, that love will never die."

  Resting his finger beneath her chin, he lifted her face so that his eyes were gazing unwaveringly into hers. "Shall we go upstairs and leave our guests to their own devices?"

  "We should tell the servants first that we are leaving."

  He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose we should, so we will not be disturbed. Life is never without its small inconveniences."

  Yet before they left the room, he drew her against him, and his mouth came down firmly and purposefully on hers.

  Epilogue

  She stood at the top of the hill overlooking Long Island Sound. In the distance beyond a cluster of bare-branched trees stood her tall, proud home of over fifty years, its stone walls a replica of that great mansion in England, Cavenly, that had stood on its foundations over two hundred years.

  The November wind tore at the strands of her silky gray hair escaping the edge of the black-veiled bonnet that was styled, as was the long black cape wrapped about her, in the latest fashion. Lifting her head, she turned toward the sea a face creased with life and time, yet strong boned and still beautiful, full of spirit, the greenish eyes barely dimmed by the haze of old age.

  Her gaze dropped to the newly placed gravestone at her feet. An imposing stone—a square granite pedestal with a man on horseback atop; worthy of the man it commemorated—simple and straightforward, so unlike these Victorian fribbles. He had always loved horses, and it had been while out riding that he had met his end—his horse stumbling while jumping a wall, throwing him to break his neck. It was the way he would have wanted to go: quickly, relatively painlessly; no long, lingering illness that brought suffering to his family. Not that she wasn't suffering; not that his death hadn't torn every fiber of her being; not that she didn't wake in the night reaching for the warmth that was no longer there.