Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  Jessica's mind was working rapidly, manufacturing a story that followed along with what Amelia Beard was telling her. Lying was an unfortunate necessity.

  "I'm afraid I've lost my luggage. When we stopped along the way, it was discovered that the baggage straps on our conveyance had broken and several articles were missing, my luggage included. Someone was sent back to check along the route, but he discovered nothing and . . . and presumed the straps had broken while we were fording a stream. The fallen baggage must have been washed away."

  Amelia Beard shook her head. "Well, not a new tale. The performance of the stages can be most disgraceful. You did not walk to the farm from the stage stop, I hope?" "A traveler coming this way was kind enough to give me a ride, but because of the early hour, I didn't want to disturb you. The cottage was open. It was cold, and I lit the fire. I hope you don't mind."

  "Mind? My dear, had I known you were arriving today —on Christmas of all days—I would have had the cottage in readiness for you. And you with no luggage!" Her lips pursed. "I am certain we can find something for you in the house. The maid's uniform will give you a change of clothing, at least. And I have two grown daughters of about

  your size. One or two of their older gowns should suit for the time being."

  All the while Amelia Beard had been speaking, she'd continued appraising Jessica. Now she tilted her head slightly to one side. "You are a very comely young woman—not the usual sort to be seeking such a position. Those with looks such as yours are usually long since wed, snatched up immediately—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes catching sight of the band on Jessica's finger, and widening. "But you are married!"

  "I. . . yes . . ."

  "I had no idea! The agents said they were sending a single woman."

  "I didn't tell—" Jessica was cut short by the sudden wail from the side of the room. Her face paled as Amelia Beard swung around, eyes riveting themselves to the small, blanketed mound on the bed.

  "What is this? Sounds like a child . . . a babe?"

  "It is." Jessica sought vainly for words of explanation as Mrs. Beard walked toward the bed.

  "An infant! Yours?"

  "Yes, mine."

  "You never told us! The agents certainly did not. There was no stipulation in our agreement for a mother and a newborn babe. It will interfere with your work."

  "Please let me explain."

  But Amelia Beard was already lifting Kit from the quilts, soothing and cradling him with experienced hands. "Hush, hush. Yes, quiet now. My, but it has been a long time since I held a child of your size in my arms." She looked piercingly to Jessica. "Girl, boy?"

  "Boy."

  "His name?"

  "Christopher. We call him Kit."

  "And his father?"

  Jessica hesitated, then rushed into the story she'd been formulating in the last few minutes. Her sentences were clipped, her voice breathless in her nervousness and her revulsion at having to weave such a lie. "My husband's a seaman." Remembering how Christopher had loved sailing and the sea, the profession was the first to pop into Jessica's mind. It also provided a handy excuse for his present absence. "He signed on with an American cargo vessel that sailed over six months ago. He knew that, with the war, it wasn't a wise move, but he needed the work. I stayed at our lodgings in New York, waiting for him. Then the child was born. My husband should have returned long since. The money he had left was running out. I had to find some work to support the baby and myself."

  "Did you inquire at the shipping offices? Could they give you no information about your husband's vessel?"

  "I am embarrassed to say I didn't know at which shipping office to inquire, and I don't know the name of his vessel. It was only to be a short trip."

  Amelia Beard's expression was thoughtful, and Jessica waited with clenching stomach; this cottage was all she had. It afforded no luxuries, but at least it offered warmth, protection. If she and Kit were cast out, what might befall them? Where would they go? What would she do?

  "Why weren't you honest?" Amelia said finally. "Why did the agents give me a lie?"

  "I needed a job so badly, I didn't dare tell them. I accepted the position hoping that when I arrived, you would understand. I didn't know what else to do; I had to find work, and this position was by far the best offered. I could find nothing available in the city, and I didn't have the resources to wait. I am terribly sorry for the deceit."

  Mrs. Beard's brow was furrowed. She liked the girl; her immediate impression was, on balance, a positive one. Yet . . . to show up on her doorstep with a baby, a missing husband—one could only wonder if her story was true. "It is not what I expected," she spoke firmly. "There are some from whom I would never believe such a tale, but you have the look of an honest woman about you, and you are wearing a ring—no brass trinket that, either." Her eyes again rested on the white-gold band, adorned with sapphires, on Jessica's finger.

  "It was my husband's mother's . . . a family heirloom," Jessica explained. Here at last was a bit of truth.

  "He comes from a prominent background then? A colonial?"

  "English. He came here looking for a better life." Amelia nodded. "Came upon hard times—no need to explain.. Two generations ago my family, too, came from En-gland seeking a new start. But these are bad times to be in your husband's profession—the blockade, the British impressing our sailors—enough to make one's blood boil! Didn't we fight fairly enough for our freedom? I lost two uncles in that war. Mr. Beard, too, lost some of his family. General Tryon burnt most of this town to the ground. I heard stories of those days from Mr. Beard's father . . . how the family helped those from town who lost every-thing to the redcoats' torch."

  She wagged her head, then another thought crossed her mind. "Your husband will know where to reach you?"

  "I left word at our lodgings in New York." As she spoke, Jessica prayed that Mrs. Beard would not ask where those lodgings where.

  Fortunately Amelia Beard didn't ask, and Jessica realized from the look in the woman's eyes that she had ac-cepted the story. Jessica's relief was . . . almost palpable, yet she knew this was only the first of many obstacles she would find in her path.

  Already there was the obvious question of the maid she was being mistaken for. Where was the other woman? Since a week had passed since she was due to arrive, Jessica could only hope that the woman had changed her mind just as Mrs. Beard had begun to suspect.

  Amelia Beard's tone of voice found a more sympathetic note. "I can understand why you were not honest with the agents. Positions for women in your situation are few and far between. Not that I like . . .

  evasiveness, but you have come to us now, and we will make the best of it. I think you will work out."

  "Thank you—thank you so much. You are very kind."

  "It is just that I've been blessed—sometimes it is a curse—with being able to see through to people better than most would care to be understood." She smiled. "You are not English yourself, are you?"

  "American."

  "I thought so. You met your husband here, then?"

  "Yes."

  "No family of your own?"

  "They are all gone." That, too, was the truth. She had no family to reach out to now.

  "Sad. . . . And you seem a well-educated lass—certainly more so than the regular house servant. Life can deal cruel blows. We have all suffered a few. Now—let us find a place for the babe in the kitchen. Kit, you called him?" Jessica nodded.

  "I have an old cradle we can put by the kitchen fire. Cook Fletcher will tend to him while you work—no doubt she will spoil him—and Rachel, the kitchen maid, can give a hand. We can spare you time from your duties to feed him. Not much over a month old is he?" "Just a month."

  "He'll need his mother. Never could see putting a child this age in the hands of another. It would be best if you stayed with us in the house for the present. We have a spare room near the servants' quarters."

  "Oh, Mrs. Beard, that's not necessary. It's so very good of
you, but Kit and I will be comfortable here."

  "Not as comfortable as in the house." Amelia Beard had made up her mind and was not to be swayed.

  Whether the story of a missing husband was true or false, the young woman was not of the common stock.

  She showed refinement, intelligence, a good background. And she was obviously suffering. Amelia felt an almost motherly urge to give her some protection. "The babe's too young. You will stay in a room upstairs that's large enough to be used as a nursery."

  "I don't want to intrude on your family." "You will not intrude, you will be very welcome. I have always loved little ones. Well, fetch your wrap, and we will go up to the house. A good breakfast is what you need, and Cook will have it ready."

  As Amelia Beard moved toward the door, still holding Kit, Jessica went to the closet to collect the old cloak she'd seen hanging, there. She pulled it around her shoulders, and Amelia wagged her head.

  "You have naught but that old thing to protect yourself? A wonder you have not already caught your death.

  Well, come along. It is but a short walk, and you will be warm soon enough."

  The snow crunched under her boots as Jessica hurried after Amelia Beard, down the narrow path from the cottage, across the drive and up a short walk to the back of the main house. They entered from a small roofed porch, on the side of which cords of firewood were neatly stacked, into the kitchen of the farmhouse.

  Jessica felt a comforting blast of warmth, mingled with tantalizing cooking smells, as Mrs. Beard opened the door and hurriedly preceded Jessica into the room.

  "Well, Molly," Amelia called to the plump and rosy-cheeked woman who stood at the table kneading dough. A surprise for us all—our new maid has arrived. She was staying in that drafty cottage for fear of waking us on this Christmas morn! Can you imagine! A good thing I went to investigate that smoke from the chimney. Come in, Jessica, come in. Warm yourself, and Molly will give you a bite to eat."

  Closing the door behind her, Jessica stepped forward across the brick floor. A tremendous fireplace filled most of the back wall of the large, low-ceilinged room. A wide range of utensils hung from the beams, and spacious cupboards were set against the walls. The cook was working at a long harvest table that stood in the middle of the room apposite the hearth. A white gathered cap covered some of her graying blond hair, and she wore a gray homespun gown, the front of which was almost entirely covered by a starched white apron. She looked up curiously.

  "Jessica," Amelia Beard continued briskly, "this is Molly Fletcher, our cook. I know you will find her happy to help you until you are familiar with your duties. Molly, this is Jessica Dunlap."

  Molly smiled warmly as she wiped her floury hands on her apron and stepped across to meet Jessica.

  "Welcome, dear, and a Happy Christmas. 'Tis a good house to work in. You'll be happy here." Her voice held traces of an English country accent, and its pleasant intonation immediately put Jessica at ease.

  "I am glad to meet you, Molly."

  "Aye, the same—but you look a bit weary."

  "As she is bound to be," Amelia said, "after her journey and with no food in her stomach. I promised her one of your good breakfasts. Have a seat, Jessica." Amelia waved her hand in the direction of the table, which Jessica took after removing her cloak and draping it over the back of a neighboring chair.

  "I have some hot porridge right here on the fire," Molly smiled, "and warm bread. A glass of milk, too. In better times I would offer a bit of tea, but it is hard to come by these days."

  "The British blockade," Amelia Beard explained to Jessica. "Although I imagine you were faced with the same scarcities in New York."

  Molly went to the cupboard for a wooden bowl, filled it with steaming porridge from the pot on the hearth, and, setting it and a spoon on the table before Jessica, then fetched a cutting board with a loaf of fresh bread, a crock of butter, and jar of jam.

  Mrs. Beard still had Kit bundled in her arms, so well protected by his blanket that even his tiny face was hidden. It was as Molly passed with a mug of milk for Jessica that she noticed the child and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Amelia laughed at the expression on the cook's face. "Another surprise for you, Molly. Jessica has brought along her babe." Amelia was already slipping the folds of the quilt away from Kit, who fidgeted at the loss of the cozy warmth.

  "Well, I'll be," Molly exclaimed. "Tis a babe! And such a lovely one!"

  "Yes, a fine lad," said Amelia proudly, sounding as though Kit were her own grandson. "I was a bit taken aback when I learned about the child, but I believe we will all get along very well. Where is Rachel? I want her to run up to the attic and find the old cradle. We can set it here by the fire, and Jessica can tend to him between her chores. . . though I am sure the babe will not be lacking attention."

  "Rachel's in the dining room setting the table for breakfast. I'll go and fetch her." Molly bustled away through the swinging door at the far end of the room, and Amelia Beard took a seat in one of the kitchen chairs, perfectly content to continue holding Kit while Jessica finished her meal . The porridge, flavored with cinnamon, immediately warmed her, and the milk she sipped was far richer and creamier than she'd tasted before.

  In a moment Molly came back into the kitchen with a slender, dark-haired girl dressed, similarly to the cook, in a gray gown, a long, starched apron, and a white cap on her head.

  "Ah, Rachel," Amelia Beard greeted her. "Merry Christmas."

  "Merry Christmas to you, ma'am."

  "I had not intended to give you extra duties on Christmas, but I need you to fetch something from the attic.

  Under the eaves you will find an old wooden cradle. Bring it here to the kitchen. Then also gather some linens and a blanket or quilt."

  "The cradle?" The girl was obviously puzzled by such an odd request.

  "Yes." Amelia smiled almost conspiratorially. "We have a need for it. . . as you can see." She turned so that Rachel had a clear view of Kit.

  "A baby!"

  "Indeed so, and his mother is seated right here at the table. Rachel, I would like you to meet our new housemaid, Jessica Dunlap."

  The girl swung around, surprise written on her features.

  "Jessica, this is Rachel Coombs, kitchen maid," Amelia continued.

  Jessica smiled to the girl, but Rachel merely nodded and turned back to Mrs, Beard.

  "Well, hurry along, Rachel. We want to get him settled."

  Rachel bobbed quickly and scurried away.

  "Once we get the child comfortable, Jessica, I will take you through the house, but let me explain a bit about your duties while we have a moment. You will be responsible for the cleaning of all the rooms in the house, although there are several guest rooms that will not need more than a weekly dusting, and a good cleaning twice a year. You will not be expected to serve at table—that is Rachel's job— except on her day off or to help her out during a large party. You will have one day off a week, and on Sundays you are welcome to come with us to church service. It's a bit of a trek, so in the worst winter months we attend only when the weather is clear. Cook takes care of the marketing. Once a week Jeb Latham, our farmhand, takes her into town in the wagon, but I am sure you will have no objection to giving Cook a hand with the heavier shopping should she need assistance. It will be a good opportunity, too, for you to get out to Eastport and see the area. This northern section of Eastport is known as Silvercreek. Before the Revolution, it was a small town on its own. There is still a small market, and a meetinghouse, and of course the mills, all up and down the river. You will find it a pleasant place to live."

  "I am sure I will," Jessica said evenly, but her mind had caught on Silvercreek. Amelia Beard had just confirmed that Jessica was in the very neighborhood where she'd lived with Christopher in the twentieth century. Now she understood why the Beards' house had looked familiar. She could picture it as it had appeared in the nineteen seventies.

  Minor exterior changes had been made by then. The c
ow pastures around the house had grown back to woodland, but the barn remained, and, in a modernized form, the cottages. She guessed there would be other buildings in the area that would be familiar to her, too. Perhaps she could even visit the site of her twentieth century home, she realized suddenly with a start. The house wouldn't be standing, since it had not been constructed until the eighteen thirties, but Jessica could walk over the grounds where she and Christopher had found such happiness together. Again she felt a knot of anguish in her stomach. Oh, Christopher, she cried inwardly, as she sat, outwardly composed, at Amelia Beard's kitchen table. Where are you, my love? Please, please be somewhere near by!

  Rachel bumped into the room then with the bulky cradle, jarring Jessica's thoughts back to her present surroundings.

  "That's going to need some dusting," Molly observed. "I'll just brush this flour off my hands , . ."

  The cook had already grabbed a rag and was approaching the cradle, but Jessica intercepted her. "Let me do that. You still have your bread to finish."

  The cradle was a sturdy and beautifully crafted piece, obviously made with love, and the activity helped to keep Jessica's whirling thoughts and fears at a safer distance. By the time Rachel returned bearing linens and blankets, the cradle was spotless.

  When Jessica had finished fitting the blankets and sheets into Kit's new bed, Amelia Beard rose with the child in her arms. "Well, that looks nice and cozy, young man. You should be very comfortable for the time. Shall I settle you in? . . . There.. . . Ah, no, you do not enjoy being left in there by yourself, do you?" She smiled down at Kit, who had begun to whimper.

  Jessica tucked the quilt securely around her son and took one of his chubby little fists. "Shhh, sweetheart. You can't expect someone to hold you all the time." Gently she rocked the cradle. "Yes, that's a good boy. How tired you must be after all the confusion. Close your eyes." After only a few minutes Kit drifted off in the contented sleep so peculiar to infants.