by Joann Simon
Turning down the road to the left of the crossroads, she followed its narrow, rutted width toward the river and the arched stone bridge spanning the water just below the dam. Barely wide enough for one horse-drawn vehicle, it was a rustic version of the bridge across which Jessica had once almost daily driven her car.
How little this scene had changed. It was almost eerie. She surveyed the tall trees, now winter skeletons, standing proud to either side of the sloping, rocky banks; the ice coated pond above the dam; the weathered, wood mill building perched at the edge of the pond with its water wheel turning slowly; white-frothed water falling steadily with a dull roar over the stonework of the dam and into the river below. She remembered so clearly the many times in the twentieth century when she'd come to this very spot to lean on the railings, as she was doing now, on a warm summer's evening or amid the chill snap of winter, listening to the rushing water, gazing up into a black-velvet, star-spattered sky with the old buildings surrounding her; feeling the history of the place, the age, the beauty; imagining former inhabitants and their lives . . . some long-dead resident crossing the bridge, perhaps pausing in this very spot to gaze at the falls. There'd been such a sense of peace, of continuity—it had been so easy to forget the jarring modern world around her; to feel in spirit with a gentler lifestyle.
And now she was in that past she'd imagined, was seeing it with her own eyes. But now there was no peace, only a feeling of terrible loneliness and loss.
Eventually she turned from the view, her mind full of memories that weren't memories at all but a vision of what was to come. Sighing, Jessica continued across the bridge in the direction of her former home. With her emotions churning, she wondered if it had been wise to come this far. Yet this was something she knew she had to do.
In the future a few houses would shoulder up to this lane where now there was only woodland and field, a large barn and ramshackle shed. But up ahead of her today, straddling the space between river and road, was another mill, quiet now on this Sunday morning and looking very different from the residence it would become. And opposite the mill, on a slight rise of land that blended with the field and the woods beside it, was the spot where her home would one day stand.
She left the road, climbed over a weathered gray stone wall. Mentally she pictured the buildings, the landscape.
Here would be the route of the driveway, and there the flower garden; across the drive, the barnlike garage, and here the path to the back entrance of the house. Her mind full of memories, she followed its would-be route.
Stepping through the imaginary doorway, she paced slowly through the rooms, remembering the architectural detail, the furnishings.
First the large kitchen along the back. She could so easily envision the round table before the window, where she'd sat in nervous anxiety the day she discovered she was pregnant; she could remember how she'd run crying into Christopher's arms as, finally, he came through the door, and he'd soothed and comforted away her fears of bearing a child when its father's destiny was so uncertain. The joy in his eyes had been her happiness.
Then there was the paneled dining room, the harvest table where she and Christopher had shared their first dinner together—two strangers, stunned by the unfathomable accident that had brought them together; yet, looking into each other's eyes, they'd sensed the depth of what might grow between them.
Finally the living room with its large old fireplace where, months later on the couch, with their love binding them together, they'd snuggled before a blazing fire.
As she closed her eyes, the memories seemed so real— Christopher sitting beside her, gazing down with eyes of love, reaching out his hands. She could hear his deep voice, his elegant English accent, feel his touch on her shoulder, the softness of his lips on her brow. She could feel him pulling her close into the strong protection of his arms. Only as she leaned forward into the embrace did reality pierce through the images that had taken hold of her mind.
There was no house! There was no Christopher! Just an empty field, the sun slanting down on the dried grass and snow beneath her feet. She mustn't cry! If she let the tears come now, how would she ever stop them? If she was to survive, she couldn't give in to the pain inside and let it be her master. She couldn't give up hope. She would find Christopher again
—she must find him! She and Kit . . .
She stepped forward, blinded by the wetness in her eyes, forcing her feet back to the road, toward the bridge, up beyond the crossroads, past neat eighteenth century dwellings where chickens scratched in sideyards and an occasional milk cow poked a head over a board fence. The lane was quiet, all activity stilled on this day of rest.
Why had she gone up there, rubbing salt into the soreness of missing him? Why hadn't she realized to what extent the memories of him would overwhelm her?
A farmer's wagon rumbled by, its bed stacked with hay. A man on horseback, dressed in town clothes and a curly brimmed top hat, passed. Jessica glanced up; but his eyes were dark, his features not those of the one she was seeking.
He lifted his hat briefly to her; she nodded in acknowledgment and continued walking.
Only when she became aware of the cold seeping through her shoes did she turn back. Weariness had numbed her senses, and Kit would need to be fed.
CHAPTER 5
As though paced by a metronome, the hours and days clicked by, one after the other. Jessica survived; Kit thrived and grew. Though there were times when hopelessness seemed about to overtake her, in the busy activity of the farm there was always some impetus to snap her away from despondency. Snows had come, blanketing the world in fairy-tale white. Sleighs and work wagons on wooden runners skimmed over the lanes. Foot travelers trudged with heavy boots through the drifts.
One cold but sunny February afternoon, Lucas St. John came to the farm with a large bundle under one arm.
Molly answered the knock on the kitchen door. "Ah, Lucas, good to see you! Come in out of the cold and let me get you a warm drink."
He grinned. "Not an offer to be refused." He stepped quickly past Molly and smiled at Jessica, who sat at the table polishing silver. "How are you?"
"Just fine. This is a nice surprise. I thought you would be busy at the mill."
"Things have been a bit slow the last few days." He placed Ms burlap-wrapped bundle on the floor, shrugged from his heavy jacket and hung it on the peg by the door, then took a seat at the table. "Actually, I stopped by to see you.""You did?"
"I have a little something for Kit. With so much time on my hands, I put together a sled for him."
"Lucas, how good of you!"
Lucas colored a bit. "It is nothing fancy, but I thought he might get some pleasure out of it."
"Is this it on the floor?" Jessica put down her polishing rag and wiped her hands on her apron. "Let me see it." As Molly handed Lucas his hot drink, Jessica knelt and pulled away the burlap covering to expose a three-foot sled made from an old barrel from which the staves on one side had been removed. A sturdy handle and cord were attached to the front.
"I thought you could bundle him and lay him inside, give him a ride across the yard out there."
"Oh, yes! He'll love it, though he's getting so rambunctious I may have to tie him in. Thank you so much, Lucas."
"If Kit enjoys it, that is all the thanks I need. I see he is awake. Shall we try it out?" He looked over to where a wide-eyed Kit in his cradle was watching the adult goings-on. "Can you spare the time from your work, Jessica?
If not, I would be happy to take him out."
"Of course she can take a few minutes." Molly interrupted, smiling broadly. "You two run along. I'll be watching from the window."
In no time at all Jessica had Kit bundled; and with her own cape wrapped around her, and Lucas following with the sled, she stepped out the back door into the snow-covered yard.
"Over here on the other side of the drive," Lucas suggested. He placed the sled on the snow as Jessica carefully tucked Kit within. At first the c
hild wasn't happy about leaving his mother's warm arms. But when Lucas gave a tug on the rope and the sled slowly began to slide over the snow, his delight gurgled forth.
"He likes it," Jessica laughed, striding beside Lucas as they set out across the broad sweep of lawn. "I believe you've made a friend for life, Lucas."
"You think so?" Grinning, he picked up his pace to a trot. "For this afternoon, in any case. He does seem to be enjoying it. Shall I pull him a little faster?"
"I don't think he'd mind," she called, returning his grin as she picked up her skirts and hurried after Lucas and the skimming sled. In that moment of play in the icy air, seeing her son's pleasure and good health, Jessica felt an inner glow; she was almost her old self again. A burst of laughter escaped her as Lucas slipped in a snow drift and went sliding down onto his bottom.
"Oh, Lucas, I don't mean to laugh, but if you could see yourself, all covered with snow—" As she rushed up to the fallen man, she laughed again; but the sound was halted by the suddenly serious, intense expression on Lucas's face.
He stared up at her, and for a moment neither of them said anything.
When he spoke, his voice was almost husky, deep-toned. "You should laugh more often, Jessica. It becomes you."
"Does . . . does it?"
"Yes. Unquestionably. This is the first time I have seen the sadness leave your eyes."
Jessica dropped her gaze, flustered. "Today has been fun. I haven't had much time just to relax."
"I know, and I have sympathized with you . . . a great deal."
Another moment's silence, then the twinkle was back in Lucas's eyes, a wide grin on his face. "Well, don't just stand there. Be a lady and help this gentleman on his feet again."
"I'm sorry."
"A hand will do. I cannot seem to get my footing."
They'd frolicked for another half hour before Lucas had to get back to the mill. There'd been no more seriousness, only the cheerful bantering of two friends. Perhaps that look in Lucas's eyes, that tone in his voice, had been Jessica's imagination, she thought as she waved Lucas off down the drive, thanking him again. It was Elizabeth who interested him, and although Jessica liked Lucas very much, she knew she was not ready for a more serious involvement. No, it was only in friendship and good-heartedness that he had come. She was sure of that, and the afternoon had been pleasant. She felt so much better for it.
She settled Kit in his cradle for a much-needed nap and went on to finish her chores. As she slipped through the kitchen door into the hallway, she didn't hear Rachel's hushed comments to Molly.
"So, Miss Hoity-Toity's finally gone back to her work. Not like the rest of us who don't have time for an hour or two of play."
"She needed the respite. She's been working hard and is tired."
"I'm sure, but not too tired to flirt around with Lucas St. John."
"Hush, child," Cook said in a firm reprimand. "Lucas came by as a simple friendly gesture and brought a sled for the babe. If you had eyes in your head, you'd see there was nothing else there. Her mind's on another—-that husband of hers."
"Ha! Wouldn't be surprised if that story was all a bag of wind."
"Rachel! I won't have you talking like that. The girl's a lady—never seen one so well-mannered in service here."
"Thinks she's better than the rest of us, that's the truth." The girl smiled slyly. "But she's in for an awakening.
Miss Elizabeth didn't miss none of that scene out there on the lawn. Lucas is beneath her touch, but she won't have him foolin' around with her lady's maid. Told me as much herself a few minutes ago."
"Neither you or Miss Elizabeth do yourselves any credit with such talk!" Molly's eyes flashed.
"Hmph. Well, the 'lady' Jessica may have pulled the wool over your eyes and the mistress's, too, but see if Elizabeth don't take her down a peg or two."
"And what mischief have you got on your mind, child?"
But Rachel was already gone, and Cook wagged her head sadly. She could see she'd have to keep an eye out for Jessica's welfare. The young woman had enough of a burden on her mind without Rachel's petty troublemaking. And that Miss Elizabeth . . . another crafty one, bending her parents round her little finger.
During those evenings as winter slowly slipped past into the early days of spring, Jessica often sat with Molly before the kitchen fire, Rachel generally preferring her own room and her own company. One early March night, as Molly put up the dough for the next day's bread and Jessica stitched diligently on a new uniform, the two talked easily across the broad kitchen table. Jessica was proud of the four garments she had completed for Kit and was hurrying to finish the new uniform for herself. Only a few more buttons and the hem remained to be done.
An understanding woman, Molly never pried during their chats, but she was perceptive of Jessica's moods.
"You've been blue these last weeks," Molly said one evening. "It's your husband on your mind."
Jessica nodded. She'd adamantly refused to give up hope of finding Christopher, yet it was difficult at times not to give in to growing despair when she could discover not the smallest clue to his whereabouts. Earlier that day she'd traveled for the first time with Molly on a marketing trip to Eastport, still grasping onto the thread of hope that she might find Christopher. But as thoroughly as her eyes had perused the crowds on the street and in the shops, she'd seen no one of Christopher's description. The center of town had been a mass of pedestrians, horsedrawn vehicles of all sorts fighting thair way over the mud and icy slush of the main street, the New York to Hartford stage clamoring by—its six-horse team snorting, their hooves echoing on the wooden bridge that spanned the river, pulling to a jangly halt at the post stop at Whitlock's Tavern.
Jessica hadn't been free to roam about on her own. She'd stayed in Molly's wake to help the older woman with the shopping, as Jeb left them off in front of the stores then went to find a spot to tie the horse and wagon. They'd gone first to Beard's Mercantile, one of the largest and most prosperous shops in town, its shelves stacked with a variety of merchandise from yard goods to hardware, despite the scarcities caused by the war. Bertram Beard had greeted them jovially, sending one of the clerks to find the items on the list his wife had sent along, then chatting at length with them and taking up so much of their time that they'd had to rush up the muddied brick sidewalk to the grocer's; on further to the butcher's. Jessica had hoped for some time to explore town, but with the afternoon growing short, Molly had hurried her back to the wagon, and they'd headed immediately to the farm.
Molly's voice broke into Jessica's thoughts. "I know you're distressed, with all good reason, but there is much that could stop him from coming, you know. Not many can get through the blockade. Give it time, child, and try not to lose hope."
Jessica nodded, wondering what Molly would say if she knew the truth. Yet Jessica was all too willing to cling to any shred of hope that somehow, someday, they would be together again.
"You're English, aren't you, Molly?"
"Aye. What makes you ask? You're not thinking that puts me on the King's side in this fighting."
Jessica grinned, shook her head. "My husband is English, too.
"Is he now? I'm from Sussex myself. Came over as a girl and met my husband while I was working as kitchen maid in one of the New York inns. Luckier than many I was, getting an honest job and not being lured into the brothels like some of them poor girls. William and me came up to Connecticut soon after when he took a job at one of the shipyards down in Eastport. Some good years we had till that accident in the yard killed him."
"I'm sorry."
"Aye, I am, too, but that was a long time ago now. The shipyard owners were good to me—found me this position with the Beards. Been here ever since. What part of England is your husband from?"
"Kent."
"Not far from my village as the crow flies, Kent being the next bordering county, but I didn't do much traveling about before I set out for America. My family were tenants on a nice little farm,
but times were bad. That was back in eighty-nine, when I left."
"Do you ever hear from them?"
"Now and then. It's only my sister and me can read and write a hand. At one time I was hoping to have her come and join me here, but she married." Molly was looking thoughtfully at Jessica. "You're not from the working class yourself, are you?"
"No."
"Thought not. Carry yourself like a lady. Won't go prying into the whys and wherefores of your being here, but you're a strong young woman and you'll do just fine." She paused as she placed the kneaded dough into a crockery bowl. "Miss Elizabeth been behaving herself any better?"
"She has her moments."
"Needs a firm hand, she does. Much as she tries my patience at times, don't think too ill of the girl. Working too hard at growing up and being a lady, and with all the attention she gets, no wonder her head's been turned."
"I know. I try to keep that in mind, and I know she's bored."
"Pity there's no girls her age near about. Well, you ever have a problem, you come to me, and I'll see what I can do."
To welcome in the spring and take everyone's mind from the war that seemed to drag on interminably, the community planned a Sunday social early that April at the meetinghouse on the corner. A very democratic affair, it welcomed all the inhabitants of Silvercreek, from the most prosperous of the gentry to the lowliest servant. Food and drink would be provided, and perhaps a little dancing if one of the local musicians felt inclined to bring along his fiddle.
Despite the melancholy of her mood, Jessica couldn't help but feel a touch of anticipation. To be out with people again, to put aside the forced servitude that sometimes threatened to get the best of her proud spirit, would prove a welcome respite. How wonderful to once again be able to don a flattering dress, to make an effort to look her very best.
