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  LOVE ONCE AGAIN

  JoAnn Simon

  author of Love Once in Passing

  CHAPTER 1

  The air was bitterly cold, piercing to the bone. The numbing chill forced its way into her consciousness, prompting Jessica Dunlap to open her eyes and stare about her.

  She stood in a small room with rustic pine furnishings, roughly plastered walls, a low ceiling, and a wide board floor, unpainted and worn in places. None of it was recognizable.

  All was very still; only her breathing and the muted whimperings of the month-old child in her arms disturbed the silence.

  Yet what Jessica was seeing couldn't be real! A moment before, she'd been standing in the warm bedroom of her twentieth century Connecticut home. It was Christmas morning and the sun had been streaming brightly through the window as she held her son in one arm and approached her husband, who sat expectantly on the edge of the bed. His smile had been brilliant, his arms outstretched in welcome as she'd stepped forward.

  But she remembered how, suddenly, that smile had been wiped from his lips . . . how his image had seemed to begin fading, drifting in and out of focus before her. She blinked her eyes, thinking something was wrong with her vision. Then she'd heard his pleading voice as though from a distance, calling to her, begging her to come quickly, to take his hand. His eyes . . . those beautiful, vivid-blue eyes, fading before her own horror-struck gaze . . . were filled with alarm and urgency.

  She'd rushed forward, reached desperately for his hand. She'd barely been able to see him any longer.

  "Oh, God," she'd prayed. "Let me find him!" Then she'd felt him . . . felt his warm, strong fingers closing tightly around her own . . . . and then he was gone.

  Now this cold, strange room; she and her son alone; no sign of the tall, dark-haired figure with his vibrant blue eyes, his warm smile, his comforting arms.

  All color had drained from her face. It couldn't be true! After all they had shared together, she couldn't have lost him!

  It had begun so unexpectedly a year and a half before, on May 5, 1978, that otherwise unexceptional day when Christopher Dunlap, elegant, privileged English nobleman, had entered her life. She remembered so well now driving over the winding country roads that afternoon, from her office toward home, the Connecticut landscape green and glorious with budding spring. Suddenly, startled by unnameable sensation, she'd glanced to the supposedly empty passenger seat beside her to find him seated there, dressed in the long-tailed jacket and tight breeches characteristic of the early nineteenth century. At first she'd stared in disbelief—she must have been seeing things! But there'd been nothing imaginary about him. He'd been real; he'd been there as much in the flesh as she. Yet how and why had he come to be in the car beside her?

  She'd felt fear, then outrage, at his ridiculous behavior. How she'd smirked at his presumptuous attitude and speech, laughed at the affectation of his dress and at the absurdity of his apparent belief that he was living in a world one hundred and sixty years in her past. Yet how quickly her scoffs had turned to bewilderment and astonishment as he'd displayed proofs of his identity: gold coins, a small fortune's worth and none bearing a date later than 1811, although they looked almost newly minted; a packet of letters he said were written to him and by him, the earl of Westerham, all dated 1812 and seeming too authentic to be denied.

  His stupefaction was equal to her own, yet he was the first to be convinced of the truth—extraordinary as it was— that he was a man swept out of the world of 1812 England into twentieth century America, carried forward in time by a phenomenon neither could explain.

  Thus had begun their life together . . . a fairy tale, the meeting of two people whose paths would never have crossed had not fate thrown them together to share an unimagined relationship. As they'd faced each day, never Knowing what force had brought them together or whether they would be separated with the same suddenness, Christopher had learned to adjust, to accept with some equanimity the wonders of modern technology: television, electricity, indoor plumbing, automobiles, airplanes. In the months that followed, he'd begun making a place for himself in his strange new world, surmounting the obstacles that faced him, gradually discovering that his life in the twentieth century was becoming more important to him than the life he'd left behind.

  He had fallen in love with Jessica, and she with him. They had come to share the intense love of two people who wanted to spend the rest of their lives together without the specter of separation hanging ominously over them. They had to try to discover the truth of Christopher's destiny— whether or not he would remain in the twentieth century, or be swept back in time to his own world. They'd traveled to England, to the ancestral estate he'd left one hundred and sixty years before, hoping to find in the family archives some evidence, some proof of whether or not he had returned. It had taken many days—nerve-racking ones for Christopher especially.

  But the facts he'd finally discovered in an old diary had filled them with joy. Christopher Robert Julian George Dunlap, ninth earl of Westerham, born 26 June 1780 in Cavenly, Kent, England, at the age of thirty-two a renowned and sought-after member of London society, a man rising in prominence in the House of Lords, had, on 5 May 1812, disappeared without trace from the world he'd known.

  A search for him had been conducted, but nothing had been uncovered, and in due course his title and estatee Lad ceded to his cousin and heir, who'd lived to a ripe old age as the tenth earl. The former earl apparently never had returned to reclaim what once had been his, and his disappearance was still considered a mystery.

  They'd felt so secure then, so happy in their conviction that they weren't going to be separated by time, that Christopher was to remain in the twentieth century; that they could live their lives as normal people, loving without fear. They'd returned to Connecticut and embarked on their future with vigor and high expectations, purchasing a home in the country, starting the horse breeding farm that was Christopher's dream. Their son, Christopher Jr.—Kit

  —had been born a month before, and they were justly proud of their healthy, handsome child.

  Jessica had carried him into their bedroom early that Christmas morning. Christopher's expression had been ju-bilant as he'd sat on the edge of the bed, arms spread wide. "Let me wish my fine son a Merry Christmas, too," he'd called.

  Tears welled in Jessica's eyes, a blinding, stinging heat, as she thought of what had come next . . . what had occurred in those last moments. Where were she and the child? Where was Christopher? Why weren't they all together?

  Was he near by? Or—and a feeling of dread swept through her—had she lost him forever?

  She tried to analyze her surroundings. Through the win-dowpanes harsh daylight flooded the room in which she was standing; slanting rays of sunlight cast white-gold trails over the simple furnishings. Behind her was a narrow bedstead, at its head a washstand bearing pitcher and bowl. To her left was a fireplace, in the recesses of which hung a soot-blackened kettle on a swing arm. In front of her was a plank table and two ladder-back chairs.

  Beyond the windows was a winter landscape, a few inches of snow blanketing the frozen earth. In the distance stood a large white house several stories tall. The house, the lay of the land, were strangely familiar to Jessica. Dormer windows poked out from the gambrel roof, and various additions to the house branched off to the back and sides. A .wide drive running along the side of the house led to two large barns and a small cottage edged by a stone wall that climbed the low, rolling hill to the rear. Near the barn a rough wagon was parked, and beside it were several other pieces of horse-drawn farm equipment. Wispy white trails of smoke were floating from the three large chimneys of the house.

  The scene might have been from a Currier and Ives print, so perfectly did it
embody the atmosphere of a nineteenth century New England farm. Was that precisely what it was?

  She thought again of that last instant in the bedroom —of her husband's hand gripping hers. Was that the link? In making that physical contact, had she and the child moved with him into another plane? Had they, too, become travelers in time? Yet if that was the case, why weren't the three of them together? Had they made that physical contact only to be carried in different directions?

  The baby began to fuss, screwing up his tiny face, clenching his small fists. Jessica gently rocked him, adjusted the folds of her robe and his blanket. Wherever she was, whatever had occurred, she had to carry on, however frightening the thought was.

  As the baby quieted, she rubbed a finger across his smooth cheek and thought of the day she and his father had named him. There'd never been any question that he'd be Christopher Dunlap, Jr., but in arriving at a diminutive to avoid two Christophers in the house, they'd disagreed.

  "Chris sounds more American," Jessica argued.

  "And you know how I despise that abbreviation directed toward me," he retorted. "You have some deep dislike of the name Kit? It is what I would have been called had I been named for my father."

  "I don't have anything against Kit, but I think of him as Chris."

  "And I as Kit— from the moment the doctor told me we had a son and held him in the air for us to see."

  She'd looked up at him sidelong, and saw he wasn't about to change his mind. "Okay . . . but I want first choice in naming our next child."

  "Do you?" His brows lifted. She could see the laughter in the eyes that had been so serious a moment before.

  "What's fair is fair."

  "Agreed, my love. What interests me is that you are already thinking about our next."

  "Eventually, Christopher," she'd grinned. "Eventually."

  Now she wondered if "eventually" would ever come. Her sigh was deep and painful. She couldn't think of that now . . . not now.

  Again becoming aware of the cold, of the need to protect her son and herself, she stepped quickly toward the bed, noting the thick down quilt spread over its narrow width. Wrapping the warm folds around her child, she laid him in the center of the bed, where he'd be safe for the moment. The insulation of the quilt wasn't nearly enough. On the fireplace hearth was a basket of kindling and a few neatly stacked logs. If she could get a fire lit, it would solve the immediate problem of the cold.

  She could find no matches, but on the hearth was an object she guessed might be a flint. It took her some frustrating moments of fiddling before she was able to raise a spark and ignite the dried leaves she'd scattered under the kindling. When she was sure the fire would continue burning of its own volition, Jessica returned to her son. He was sucking hungrily on his closed fist. In a moment she would have to feed him, but first she needed some warmer covering for herself. Her thin nightgown and robe were no protection against the cold air. Hoping there might be something in the cupboards along the wall, some spare blankets if nothing else, she reached for the latch of the first of the two doors. Beyond was a storage room, its walls lined with wooden shelves holding various items, from mason jars to rags. The second door opened into a smaller closet, where various articles of clothing hung from wooden pegs. She was grateful for her luck. There were a worn, woman's cloak and several long, faded, drab-colored, full-skirted dresses, all old-fashioned, a century or more out of date. A pair of high-topped, laced lady's shoes rested on the floor next to a small trunk, its hide coverings and leather straps cracked and dried with age. She lifted the lid of the trunk and found half a dozen folded articles at its bottom—an old shawl with a torn fringe, several pairs of darned wool stockings, a limp linen camisole and a petticoat of the same material, clean but yellowed with use and age.

  She took from the closet the heaviest of the dresses, a deep-gray wool with long sleeves and a high, plain neckline. The bodice was fitted and buttoned down the front to just under the bust, where the high-waisted skirt was gathered to fall in straight lines to the ankles in the style of the early nineteenth century. Jessica removed her robe and dropped the dress over her silk nightgown, retaining the latter for added warmth, and drew her long dark hair from under the collar to fall in a gleaming mass down her back, then fastened the buttons of the bodice. Although the dress had been made for a shorter, heavier set woman and was somewhat baggy on Jessica's slim form, it was warm.

  Returning to the opened trunk, she reached greedily for the wool stockings she'd seen there and, leaning against the doorjamb, pulled them over her numb toes. She looked back to the trunk and drew out the tattered shawl, which she wrapped around her shoulders, at the same time discarding her own lightweight, uselessly decorative robe into the trunk. Jessica closed the old humped lid and picked up the leather shoes on the floor near by, taking them to the bed to try them on. The shoes were snug, but they were better protection for her feet than the flimsy satin slippers she'd been wearing. If she laced them loosely, she could get by.

  Standing, she tested them, then went immediately to her son. He was fussing, hungry for the feeding he should have had an hour earlier. Jessica could feel a fullness and soreness in her breasts, brought on by the delay, and knew a moment's guilt for having neglected the baby. Taking Kit in her arms, she pulled one of the ladder-backed chairs

  before the fire, which was still flaming heartily. At least his tiny hands felt warm now as they pressed against her. She studied her son's face, so small, so perfect in its innocence: the minute nose, the fading red pressure mark of birth that now only slightly tinged his forehead, his lightly etched brows and lips-so like his father's-his chin, already showing the barest hint of the Dunlap cleft, the cap of dark hair curling with infant fineness over his round head.

  She loved him so, it was like a warm tide surging through her; a tide that reminded her of her feelings for his father. Already, despite the shock of the abrupt change that left her feeling dazed, the thought of Christopher brought a yearning, an aching emptiness that she knew would never be assuaged until she had found him and they were together again.

  The worst of the chill had left the air. The quilt protected Kit, but as Jessica touched him tentatively, she found his bottom wet. What was she going to do for diapers? . . . She thought of the old petticoat in the trunk. It wasn't the sturdiest of articles, but if she could tear it into strips, it would work. With a gentle hand, Jessica burped the air bubbles from Kit's system, then rose and placed him carefully on the bed before she went to the trunk and pulled out the old petticoat. The material ripped easily in her hands, and in almost no time she had a square of cloth of approximately the right size. She folded it, then removed her son's wet diaper and replaced it with the dry linen.

  The baby, comfortable again with a full stomach, was already beginning to doze off. Jessica covered him carefully, gently dropped a kiss on his rosy cheek, and went to lay another log on the fire.

  She was bending over the hearth, settling the log in place with the fire tongs, when a knock sounded on the door. Startled, she nearly dropped the tongs. Had she been hearing things? The knock sounded again, more firmly, this time accompanied by a woman's voice. "Hello! Is anyone there?"

  Hesitantly, with a deep fear, Jessica moved forward. She had no choice but to answer the door—yet what was she to say to the unknown woman on the other side? How could she explain her presence?

  "One moment," she called, forcing into the tone of her voice a steadiness she didn't feel. The wooden latch stuck for a moment under her trembling fingers, then gave way suddenly as the door swung inward, letting a cold rush of air into the room.

  A middle-aged woman stood on the stoop. Her mittened hands held closed a voluminous hooded cloak, which she let slide open as she stepped briskly into the room. Beneath her cloak the woman was wearing a deep-green wool dress of the same high-waisted style as Jessica's, but with lace trim about the neck and sleeves. Kindly-looking brown eyes gazed at Jessica as the woman drew the hood back from her
gray-streaked brown hair, which was pinned in a bun at the back of her neck.

  "I am Amelia Beard." Her voice, though pleasant, was cautiously reserved as she scrutinized the dark-haired young woman before her. "Mistress of this farm. And you must be the new maid sent up from New York. I saw the smoke coming from the cottage chimney and came to investigate. The agency didn't give me your name, only vouched for you."

  "Jessica Dunlap." She took the small hand that was extended to her. Her voice quavered as she absorbed the woman's words, barely daring to believe in the authenticity just given her.

  "But we expected you a week past," the woman exclaimed. "What delayed you?" For all her mild aspect, Amelia Beard was also clearly a perceptive woman.

  And at the moment she was a very puzzled one, as well. This young woman before her was not at all what she'd expected. Too attractive. Was there something to be learned here, under the surface of things? Miss Dunlap's appearance didn't fit that of serving maid.

  "We had begun to think you had changed your mind," she said. "I can understand how difficult it must be for a young woman accustomed to city life to uproot herself and come to the Connecticut countryside, but I assure you we have most of the comforts of the city, with the schooners sailing frequently in and out of Eastport harbor. Of course, with this war of Mr. Madison's it has been difficult. Let us hope 1814 will bring an end to it." She paused, wagged her head. "But what delayed you? You came by stage?"

  Jessica could only nod mutely to the last question as she rapidly digested the information just given her and tried desperately to maintain her composure in the face of her astonishment. Two facts stood out. She was in or near Eastport, Connecticut, the town of her birth, where she'd lived for most of her twenty-nine years of life, where she'd met Christopher, where she'd conceived their child. But this wasn't the Eastport of her living twentieth century memory. This was, just as it appeared to be, the Eastport of the early nineteenth century!

  "True," Amelia Beard continued, unaware of Jessica's turmoil, "they would not chance sending you up the Sound in a packet. The British have stayed to the east of us—but who knows how long that will remain the case? But why did you not come directly to the house?" She peered quickly around the room. "And where is your luggage? Have you unpacked?"