Love Once Again

by Joann Simon

  "Just a month."

  "And your husband?"

  Jessica had been expecting the question, and repeated the story she'd told the others.

  Lucas frowned. "Not a happy situation, but not hopeless either. I would expect his ship put into a safer port to wait out the war. It has been nearly impossible, even for some of the wiliest privateers, to slip through the blockade into New York."

  "I know," Jessica answered softly.

  "He will know where to find you?"

  "Yes. I left word at our former dwellings."

  "It must have been a difficult decision to make . . . coming up to Connecticut."

  "At the time I had no choice." And how true that was, Jessica thought.

  Lucas nodded. "Well, I think you will be happy with the Beards. From all I've heard they are good employers."

  "Mrs. Beard has been very kind. I only met Mr. Beard and their daughter briefly."

  "Elizabeth?"

  Was it only her imagination, or was there a sudden spark of interest in his eyes? "Yes, Elizabeth."

  "Quite a young woman." For a moment he stared off into the distance, a slight smile on his lips. "And not lacking for suitors. What did you think of her?"

  "She's very lovely, but as I said, I have only been introduced to her . . . though I understand I will be attending her."

  "Oh?" His brows lifted quickly. "That should be interesting."

  "What do you mean? Is she difficult to work for?" Jessica didn't really need confirmation, having sensed that much herself.

  He smiled. "I'm putting ideas into your head. I meant nothing by that comment."

  Jessica didn't believe him, but didn't think pressing the point would gain her anything.

  "Besides," he added, "I am in no position to advise you on Elizabeth's finer, or lesser, traits." A dancing light jumped into his eyes. "But do put in a good word for me should the opportunity ever arise."

  Taking his last remark in the joking vein he intended, Jessica laughed. "I will praise you to the heavens . . .

  should the opportunity ever arise."

  He reached out and patted her arm—a purely spontaneous and friendly gesture. "Well. I have some other visits to make. Best be going. Again, a pleasure meeting you. Living so close, we will see each other again soon. Take care of yourself and the child."

  She returned his smile and watched as he moved away through the crowded kitchen saying his good-byes, stopping to chat a minute with Molly and Jeb, then collecting his hat and coat and stepping out the back door. A very nice man, Jessica thought, warmed by their encounter, and one who might be more than just a little bit interested in Elizabeth Beard. A pity. Little though she knew of Elizabeth Beard, she felt that Lucas could have a hard road ahead if his interest lay in that direction.

  She shook her head, dismissing the speculative thought, and glanced up to find Rachel staring at her so coldly that Jessica felt chilled. As soon as their eyes met, Rachel looked away and moved into the crowd.

  What had brought that about? Was Rachel upset at her talking to Lucas? Yet what was there in conversation to prompt such anger?

  Jessica remained at the party a while longer, but she was tired, and despite the merriment of the people around her, she was growing melancholy, too. She was reminded too sharply of Christmas a year past and the joy she and Christopher had shared—Christmas Eve with their closest friends in to share their dinner, later all of them singing carols; and after their guests had left, she and Christopher opening their gifts before the fire. She remembered so clearly his delight with the statuette she'd given him of a mare and foal grazing . . . the same statuette that by uncanny coincidence had sat on his desk at Cavenly one hundred and sixty years before. It was that night, too, that he had given her the ring that now graced her left hand, one he'd had made to duplicate his mother's wedding band, the traditional ring of the brides of the earls of Westerham. And when they had gone to bed that night, she recalled their tender lovemaking, the happiness that had filled her as Christopher had held her gently in his arms and let one hand caress her cheek, then brush the hair from her brow as he told her of his joy at being there with her; told her how very much he loved her.

  She lowered her head to hide from the others the sudden tears that had flooded her eyes. How could she go on without him? How could she survive in this strange world-survive anywhere—without the man she loved as much as life itself?

  She listened to the laughing voices around her, thinking how in contradiction that laughter was to her own torn and aching emotions. But there was Kit. She had their son to care for, and for his sake she must summon all her strength.

  Jessica took several slow, deep breaths to compose herself and waited until the worst of the wetness was gone from her eyes. Then she collected Kit from the cradle and said her good-byes to the guests.

  As she hurried out the kitchen door before her composure shattered again, she missed the long, sad look Molly cast her way.

  CHAPTER 3

  He felt disoriented, as though wakened suddenly from a deep sleep. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he shook his head quickly to clear away the cobwebs, then looked at his surroundings again. This was wrong . . .

  he was sure of it . . . this narrow room of grimed ochre walls, chipped paint, one filmy window from which a few brave rays of sunlight were filtering through. The bare floor felt cold against the soles of his feet. From somewhere behind him came the sound of very loud snoring. He glanced up to the tattered calendar tacked to the wall just above the iron bedstead— the single effort made by some unknown person to enliven the dreary expanse of plaster. A four-masted schooner was sketched on the upper portion of the calendar; below that appeared "James Petrie & Sons, Shipper's Agents." The month exposed was December. Yes, it was December; he remembered now that it was Christmas Day. His eyes moved on to the numerals printed beside the month. 1813. No, that couldn't be correct. Heavens, 1813 was one hundred and sixty years past. . . .

  Suddenly all that was so hazy came flashing back. Oh God, he thought. No! it couldn't be!

  He didn't have to look around to know that Jessica and his son weren't with him. Too clearly he recalled the last moment they were together, desperately reaching for each other's hands, he knowing all the while that it was useless, hopeless; nothing could stop the wheels of fate that had al-ready been put in motion; nothing could stop him from being thrust back to where some cruel fate had decided he belonged—torn from the side of the woman and child he loved as much as life itself.

  He closed his eyes in an effort to block out the unpleasant truth. Back in his own world—yet where?

  London? Certainly not Cavenly. No room in that great house would dare to look so decrepit as this one.

  Through the dirty window he saw a scattering of three-story brick buildings; beyond them a forest of ship masts standing at their moorings in the blue-gray waters of a narrow harbor. Definitely not London. He knew that city too well, and no spot along the Thames remotely resembled what he was seeing now. Where, then, was he? He glanced again to the calendar, to the fine print beneath the advertiser's name. He strained forward to read it: "Burling Slip, New York City."

  There was his answer. It made no sense, but then nothing in his adventures of the last year and a half could be deemed logical. His senses were in full clarity now as he rose from the bed, tightening the belt of the robe that appeared to be his only possession.

  The snoring in the background had ceased some moments before, but he only now became aware of it and turned to see another narrow bed, its occupant just lifting himself on a forearm to gaze bleary-eyed at Christopher's tall figure.

  "Uh. Didn't know I had company," the stranger muttered. "When you blow in? Must have been dead to the world not to hear ya." With a calloused hand he rubbed the top of his disheveled head. "Rum was flowin; a bit too free last night. Head's feelin' it today. Willis Mawson's the name." His eyes squinted against the daylight.

  "Christopher Dunlap."

  "D
unlap, eh? You come to Hester's often?"

  Christopher looked puzzled.

  "This here boardin' house," Mawson laughed, then winced at the pain. "You must of tied one on yourself, don't even know where you are."

  Christopher nodded slightly, but remained silent to see where the conversation would lead.

  "Where you from, or you a local man?"

  "Connecticut."

  Willis Mawson hoisted himself from the bed, a husky, broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties, nearly six foot. Again he groaned, as he put a hand to his head. "Devil rum. Oughta swear off the stuff. Will till day after tomorrow, no doubt. Leastwise you can't be in no better shape than me." He reached for his breeches hanging over the iron bedstead, pulled them on and slipped the leather suspenders over his shoulders. "Brisk in here. No wonder-fire's out. Well, don't stand there in that fancy dressin' gown, man. Get some duds on afore you freeze to death."

  Christopher swallowed. How could he explain that he had no clothing but what was on his back? He decided on a blunt statement. "I am afraid I find myself in the embarrassing position of having misplaced my luggage."

  Mawson stared at him. "Misplaced your luggage? If that don't beat all—" Suddenly the man burst out with a loud guffaw. "But I'll bet my last pay you had it with you when you stepped in here last evenin'."

  "I do not recall . . ."

  "Well, you didn't walk in here wearin' that thing, man, and I don't see no other clothes lyin' about."

  "Very true, but—"

  "I've seen it happen before. First night in town. Someone sends you up Five Points way. Next thing you know you got this little lady on your arm, escortin' you to this tavern and that, full of promises, liquorin' you up. When she knows you're too far gone to know up from down, she lures you to one of these boardin' houses, romps a bit on the bed, and when you're out to the world, walks out with everythin' you've got. Ayuh, somebody saw you comin'."

  Christopher didn't need to confirm or deny what the man said. Mawson had made up his mind, and Christopher was grateful for the avenue of explanation being offered him.

  "A regular greenhorn, you were," Mawson continued amiably. "These seeming country misses, so innocent actin' you'd think their bubble hadn't been popped. I was taken in myself that way a few years back. What about your purse? Don't suppose you had enough sense to stick it under the mattress before your romp."

  "In my jacket pocket."

  "That would be the first to go. Musta had some fine duds or she wouldn't have bothered with the baggage. They resell the good stuff for a nice price. What bothers me's I didn't wake up through none of this. Really musta had a load on. Good piece I hope she was, for all of that."

  "I hope so as well."

  "Don't remember that either?" Mawson laughed again. "Worst parta them whores, they sometimes slip a powder in your drink." The man grew thoughtful. "So you're out on the high seas without a sail."

  "I am afraid so."

  "From Connecticut, you say? I catch a bit of limey in your speech—high-class limey."

  "I am an American."

  "Didn't say you weren't, but with all that's goin' on, one wonders. What part of Connecticut you call home?"

  "Near New Haven."

  "Know that harbor. New Englander myself. Used to work at the shipyards up in that area till I came down to New York. Afore that I hailed from Maine. Much good the move's doin' me now, with the war lockin' up the harbor and the yards all closed down. Nothin' goin' on but a few ships sneakin' up the Sound and down the Hudson. No need for new vessels when more than half we have are stuck in port."

  "Is it that bad in New York?"

  "Ayuh. Bad as you can get. Take a peak out that window. What d'ya see? An ocean of masts—not one of 'em able to sail, with that damn blockade. Weren't like that a few years ago. Couldn't unload 'em fast enough; had new ships slidin' into the river once a month." Mawson started walking around the bed toward the pine dresser on the far wall.

  "You got interests down here? Representing one of the Eastport shippers?"

  "No. I came on my own."

  "Got work?"

  "I shall be needing some."

  "What's your line?"

  "Anything I can find at the moment."

  Mawson had opened the drawers, tossed a pair of rough corduroy work pants in Christopher's direction, then a heavy flannel shirt. "Ain't the newest, but they'll cover you. Here's a pair of longjohns, too. Gets nippy down on the water. See if Hester can't help you out with some boots and an overjacket." Mawson grinned. "She's got a collection of stuff left behind by boarders who left in more of a hurry than they'd have liked."

  "I appreciate this."

  Mawson shrugged off the thanks.

  As Christopher dressed, the other man went to the narrow washstand, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the dresser and beds, poured some water from the pitcher into the cracked washbowl, and began splashing his face. He then lathered up some soap and spread it over the bristles on his cheeks.

  "How long have you been in New York?" Christopher asked the man as he shaved.

  " 'Bout four years now. As I said, musta been a fool to come south. Hear they're still buildin' up in Maine . . . then again, can't believe all you hear."

  "But the blockade runs the length of the East Coast."

  "Ayuh. My guess is the British're lookin' for a little neutrality up there on the Canadian border, and they're softenin' up the locals by keepin' the yards open. Mistaken if they expect any allegiance from that neck of the woods. We Down Easters got minds of our own. What d'you do yourself?"

  "A bit of everything."

  "Know the sea trades?"

  "Somewhat. I did some sailing at one time." Christopher didn't add that the sailing had been on his own yacht, and he had been captain, not crew.

  "Take it you're a single man."

  "I am." There was no point in telling Mawson the truth that he was married. It could only involve a long and very fictitious explanation.

  "So you came to New York seekin' a new fortune?" Mawson had finished shaving and examined the results in the small mirror over the washstand.

  "It would appear I have not had much success thus far."

  Mawson grinned. "Ain't that the truth! Here—use my razor if you like. Strop's hangin' there off the edge of the washstand. Still, somethin' musta brought you down to New York. You got some education, sounds like."

  "I suppose. I thought I would see what opportunities presented themselves before I made a decision. Now, with my resources reduced, I will have to find a new course."

  "Mayhap I can help you out. Nothin' comin' in from overseas, but the coastal and Hudson packets are still slippin' in. I'm workin' as stevedore at one of the docks and could use a new laborer. Others waitin' in line for the job, but I could get you in. Wouldn't be fancy work . . . un-loadin' cargo and gettin' it off the dock into warehouse, but the pay's six dollars a week which ain't bad for these times."

  Christopher didn't need to deliberate. He needed to stay alive, and disoriented though he felt at the moment, he knew this was an offer he couldn't refuse.

  "When can I start?"

  "Tomorrow soon enough?"

  "I am grateful."

  "Least I can do for a greenhorn who loses his fortune his first night in New York, though with that education of yours, you'd prob'bly fit right in at one of them import houses. Problem is, none of 'em's hirin', with shippin' at a standstill."

  Christopher finished shaving and wiped the remnants of lather from his face with the handtowel. "I can understand."

  "You hear a lot of gloom and doom these days down at Tontines, yet every so often a privateer pulls in and things liven up. Cargo goes faster'n it's unloaded."

  "Some shipping does get through the blockade, then?"

  "Not enough to keep any but the big houses alive. Chancy business, but I know men got rich overnight who had an interest in a privateer."

  Christopher was thoughtful. Because the war had had
its beginnings in his own native era, he'd studied its history extensively while in the twentieth century, and he

  now drew what details he could remember to the forefront of his mind. Peace would come in another year, almost to the day, yet news wouldn't reach New York until two months later. By the spring, the British would flood the New York market with goods that had been scarce during the war, causing prices to plummet. Some would see it through, but others would have a very sorry time indeed.

  "You 'bout ready?" Mawson asked. "We'll see what Hester has out for breakfast. Mayhap some food will stop this head of mine from poundin'. I'll settle with her for your first week's board. Don't imagine you settled any-thin' last evenin'?"

  "I do not recall," Christopher said mildly.

  Mawson chuckled. "No, I'll bet you don't."

  After they'd eaten, Mawson, who was proving to be far sharper and more well-versed than his uneducated country speech would indicate, took Christopher on a walking tour of the waterfront. It was a new city to Christopher, but the sights and sounds surrounding him on the streets and along the wharves were not alien. This, after all, was his time, his world—the twentieth century had been the alien one. The cityscape of two- and three-story brick and wood framed structures was familiar, as were the packed dirt and occasionally cobbled lanes, community wells in the center of intersections, the litter of refuse and animal droppings piled in the gutters, stray dogs and hogs rummaging about; horse-drawn wagons and carriages passing on narrow alleyways that during the work week would be clogged with traffic, the street peddlers pushing their barrows even on this Christmas Day—for the poor there was no time for celebrating.

  As they came down Pearl Street to the heart of the commercial district, they passed the offices and warehouse fronts of textile jobbers and auctioneers. On Peck Slip, leading down to the East River and the wharves, there were more warehouses, and agents' and brokers' offices with lettered signs hanging from the lower story doorways.