Heart of the Ocean (11 page)

“What kind of questions?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t.

But Ruth didn’t seem to mind. “About how long thou hast
lived here, and whether you were of the faith, and . . . oh, I forget now.”

“It’s all right,” Eliza assured her, reddening at the
thought of Jon asking about her. “I’ve come to inquire about a young man named
Gus, whom I’ve seen around lately.”

Ruth brushed the dirt from her hands and stood. “What about
Gus?”

“He was chopping wood at Maeve’s house and seemed to think
she was still alive.”

Ruth’s warm brown eyes studied Eliza. “Don’t pay attention
to that. He’s not all there, one might say. Gus is a hard worker, though he
could never do anything more than manual labor. Lives by himself now, poor
soul. His father passed away a couple of years ago.”

“Where does he live?”

Ruth hesitated. “Close to the cliffs in a little cottage not
too far from the lighthouse. In fact, if there weren’t so many trees
surrounding his place, thou could see it from here.”

Eliza looked in the direction of Ruth’s gaze.

Ruth spoke rapidly. “Poor boy, he was born breech, so it’s
no surprise that he never had much intelligence. But he’s a good lad, and he stays
out of trouble, he does. His father and . . . his father always saw to that.”

***

Eliza had only been at the station a few minutes when her
mother’s train arrived. A few people exited, and soon Mrs. Robinson came into
view. Her fashionable sapphire chiffon and low-cut bodice was completely out of
place in Maybrook. Thankfully, she wore a lace cravat, covering her bosom.
Her dark blonde hair was done up in a chignon, topped
by a pert hat. Behind her, the porter carried two bulging bags. Eliza crossed
to her mother and kissed her cheek. It seemed ages since they had last been
together.

“You’re looking well, Mother.”

Mrs. Robinson frowned. “I can’t say as much for you, Eliza.
What happened to your good dresses?”

Eliza glanced at her faded blue dress, which she used to
wear for traveling—it had become her mainstay as of late. It was clean, and the
collar starched in proper Puritan style, but the fabric lacked the luster it
once had. “There’s not much sense wearing my finery among the chickens on the
farm. Maybrook is different from New York.”

Her mother lifted her chin and glanced at their
surroundings. “You don’t need to tell me that, dear. It’s quite evident
already. Where’s the carriage?”

Eliza led the way to the crude wagon and instructed the
porter to load the bags.

Her mother stood rooted to the ground, her eyes wide. “You
can’t mean for me to ride in this.”

Eliza hid a smile. “As I said, Mother, this isn’t New York.”

Mrs. Robinson let out an exasperated sigh, hiked up her chiffon
skirts, and climbed into the wagon. “I hope my dress doesn’t snag,” she
mumbled. “And my hair will look a fright without a proper carriage roof. How
far is the estate?”

Her mother would find out soon enough that Maeve’s “estate”
wasn’t what she was expecting. On the ride to Aunt Maeve’s house, Eliza told
her mother about the people with whom she’d become acquainted with. “Ruth
Temple is our closest neighbor. You’ll find her very hospitable, and you’ll
probably meet the Pranns, whom I stayed with for a few days. Harvest Goddard
runs the only dress shop in town, although I’m afraid you’ll find it somewhat
lacking.”

“What strange names,” her mother said.

Eliza laughed, tightening her hands on the reins. “It’s a
Puritan town, remember? Multiply Aunt Maeve by a hundred, and you have the
population of Maybrook.”

Mrs. Robinson flicked at an unseen piece of lint from her
skirt. “The society papers have stirred themselves up again over you.”

“What are they saying now?”

“Oh, that you’re an heiress, and you were thrown into jail
as a suspect in your aunt’s death.”

Unbelievable.
“They’ve twisted the truth, I imagine.”

“They have.” Mrs. Robinson pursed her lips. “And like your
last scandal, this one will no doubt affect your father’s clientele. Some of
our oldest friends have dropped us from their invitation lists.”

Anger bubbled inside Eliza, not because of the gossip
journalists who managed to get their malicious words printed, but at her mother,
who refused to defend her own daughter. Even when Thomas had proposed, her
mother had seemed to take his side. Why did Thomas Beesley have to propose to
her in the first place? It had set in motion a chain of unsavory events. And why
was her night in jail being talked about? It wasn’t anyone’s business.

Her mother continued her self-indulgent talk. “I hear Thomas
is doing well. Your father says he’s working on a contract to implement mass
production.”

Her father had been set against mass production for as long
as she could remember. “What does Father think?” Eliza slowed the horse a bit
as they rounded a bend.

“Oh, you know him. He’s old-fashioned, but I think he’ll
come around. The ladies at the club say it’s the next step in industry, and anyone
who wants to compete will have to start mass-producing ready-made furniture.”

Her mother made it sound like there was no other choice.
Eliza thought about how Jon had said that Thomas was still spreading the story
of his rejection. “Has Thomas forgiven me?”

“What a question, dear. Thomas was deeply hurt. I don’t see
him getting over the humiliation, especially working with your father on a
regular basis.”

If only the gossip columns would stay out of it, maybe
Thomas would be more inclined to drop it as well. Maeve’s house came into view.
“There it is,” Eliza said, glancing at her mother to gauge her reaction.

Mrs. Robinson noticeably flinched. “It doesn’t look like
much.”

Eliza smiled. “I know, but I love it.”

When they climbed from the wagon, Eliza unloaded her
mother’s baggage.

“Isn’t there anyone to do that?” Mrs. Robinson asked,
looking around.

“Just me.” Eliza hefted the bags one at a time up the stairs
and set them on the porch. “Come inside and have a look around, and then I’ll
make us some tea.”

Mrs. Robinson’s face brightened a little. She traipsed up
the stairs and followed Eliza inside.

“What do you think?” Eliza asked.

Her mother looked around, walking slowly from the kitchen to
the hearth room. “I, uh, it’s very humble,” she finally managed.

“They were Puritans, remember?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Robinson said. “It’s rather quaint, like a
country home should be. I can’t imagine how Maeve lived here all those years.”

Eliza shrugged, expecting her mother’s reaction. “The simple
life made her happy. I think she was the most cheerful person I’ve ever known.”

Mrs. Robinson scoffed. “Perhaps she didn’t know any better.”

Eliza saw no solution except an argument, so she ignored the
comment. After all, there was no changing her mother’s viewpoint. “Why don’t
you sit on the sofa? I’ll stoke the fire and make some fresh tea.”

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” her mother said with a
sigh.

Jon settled into the carriage seat, Apryl beside him. Mr.
and Mrs. Maughan were seated in their own carriage, traveling a short distance behind,
as they left the Beesley estate. Adjusting the fur covering over her knees, Jon
hoped the courtesy would deflect the onslaught that was sure to come.

Apryl had barely spoken to him after learning that the small
town he told her he’d grown up in was in fact, Maybrook, and that he was
acquainted with Eliza Robinson. Not to mention that he had in fact, rescued
her, twice. Two bright spots stood out on Apryl’s cheeks as she stared forward
in the chilled air.

“I think we wore out our welcome at the Beesleys,” Jon said,
in an attempt to make peace. The carriage jolted forward, and they were on
their way back into the city.

She blinked and slid her gaze to his. He’d never seen her
gaze quite so . . . icy.

“You’ve not been forthcoming, Jonathan,” she said.

Ah. She is speaking. At last.

“The events didn’t seem remarkable at the time,” he said. “I
did tell you about Maybrook, just not in connection with Thomas’s ex-fiancée.”

“And you don’t see any reason for my concern?” Her voice was
quiet, but strong. “What am I to think? You told everyone that you rescued the
Robinson woman on the very night of her aunt’s murder . . . and you had to get
her out of jail as well.” Apryl pulled the rug up higher and folded her arms.

“Am I being scrutinized because for once, I seemed to know
more about the gossip than anyone else in the room?”

She turned her head and looked at him full on, and that’s
when Jon realized she was jealous. His heart thumped—although he wasn’t sure if
it was because he realized that Apryl might care enough about him to be jealous
of another female acquaintance, or whether thinking so much about Eliza had
brought on the rush.

“I’ll concede that is quite a feat,” Apryl agreed. Her lips
quivered. “Tell me what she looks like.”

“Whatever for?” It was true, then. Apryl was jealous. He
exhaled. What he said next could determine Apryl’s mood.

“Unless you want to keep that private as well.” Her pouty
tone was back.

“No . . . of course not . . .” Jon gazed out the window at
the passing countryside. The first cold of autumn had arrived, and he found the
chilly air invigorating. “The first time I saw the famous Miss Robinson, she
looked like a wet rat.”

Apryl gasped then giggled. “No!”

At last. His icy fiancée was thawing. “It was during a
horrific storm, and I had meant to leave the next day, so I braved the weather
and rode to Maeve O’Brien’s doorstep. There Miss Robinson was, staggering in
the mud, drenched to the bone.”

Apryl scoffed. “And the handsome hero rescued the damsel in
distress.”

“If you want to put it that way, I suppose. But it was the
wrong damsel.” He met her gaze—her eyes had warmed. He wrapped his hand over
hers. She didn’t pull away. “Eliza is nothing like the lovely Apryl.”

A smile touched her lips. “Is she at least fair?” Apryl asked.

“I suppose some men might think so. But I wasn’t interested
in making such an assessment. I felt sorry for the poor girl, that’s all.”

Apryl’s smile turned triumphant. “Certainly not a
predicament I’d wish on anyone.”

“Of course not,” Jon said. “She was hysterical and asked for
help, telling me her aunt was dead. Naturally, I had to help her, so I loaded
her on the horse and took her to Ruth’s house.”

“The woman who raised you?” Apryl interjected.

“Yes.” Jon remembered how fragile and young Eliza had seemed
at the time. He’d thought her merely a girl. He’d thought her hair dark at
first, but when it dried, he realized it was the color between the early
morning sun—

A nudge from Apryl brought him to full awareness.

“Ruth knew what to do and instructed me to help get her warm
and dry.” He stopped, his throat suddenly raw.

“Pray tell me how you accomplished that, sir Jon?”

Jon’s collar felt itchy and the carriage stuffy. He could
very well imagine Eliza’s eyes on his—scared and desperate. He’d felt helpless
at the time, wishing he could soothe the girl’s fear. “I wrapped her in a
blanket. She was delirious and kept saying that her aunt was dead.” He shifted
position, trying to dispel the heat spreading upward from his neck.

“Then you got her out of jail. What a gentlemen,” Apryl
said. “If nothing else, Jon, you’re always a gentleman.” She leaned her head on
his shoulder.

Jon exhaled. Crisis averted. It seemed he was forgiven now.

Apryl’s head remained on his shoulder, and the carriage soon
lulled her to sleep.

My thoughts aren’t always gentleman-like.
Jon
continued to stare out the window, remembering the morning after he had found Eliza.
With Ruth dozing by the fire, he’d peered into the room where Eliza slept. As
vividly as if it were yesterday, he could still picture her pale, delicate
face, with dark eyelashes resting peacefully against her cheeks in slumber,
framed in a halo of gentle waves of dark gold.

An hour later, with Apryl and her baggage unloaded from the
carriage and settled into her house, Jon went home. When he reached his place
and walked through his front door, he glanced at the pile of letters on the hall
bench and decided they would have to wait—he was famished. But as he passed the
bench, something caught his eye. Turning, he picked up the top envelope and
scanned the handwriting. It was definitely feminine, but unfamiliar.

“Sarah?” he called.

 A moment later, his maid appeared. “Yes, sir?”

“Bring me some hot soup in the library, please.”

Sarah nodded and scurried away.

Jon walked into the library, tossed his coat over the chair,
and sank onto it to read. He scanned to the signature—it was from Eliza. Her
mother would be joining her in Maybrook. He wondered when Eliza might come back
to New York. Had she read the journal? It was strange to think that he might
meet her in New York—Eliza and Maybrook seemed to be an entirely different
world.

A short time later, Sarah entered the room with a tray of
steaming soup and a small loaf of bread. Underneath her arm she carried the
evening paper. “It just arrived,” she said.

Jon thanked her and dipped his spoon into the soup. The hot,
spicy liquid felt wonderful as it warmed his throat. He scanned the front page
and, seeing nothing new, he turned to the next. A heading caught his eye.

Connecticut Transient Sentenced to Death

He continued to read.
One such Byron Hatham, accused of a
series of murders in the Massachusetts and Connecticut regions, has been
brought to justice. Mr. Hatham’s rampage began a little over a month back, with
his final villainous act ten days ago upon the murder of Mr. Donald Barton, in
Hartford, Connecticut
.

Jon reread the dates again and compared them to the timing
of Maeve’s death. He stilled. The dates weren’t consistent. The transient
blamed for Maeve O’Brien’s death, couldn’t have been in Maybrook the night of
her murder. He was in Hartford killing the unlucky Donald Barton.

Damn it to hell.
Jon stood and paced the room,
running his fingers through his hair. That could only mean one thing—the killer
was still in Maybrook, and Eliza was in danger.

In the light of the sinking sun, Jon sank into his chair
until dusk had deepened into night, debating what to do. Was he overly worried?
And why was he so concerned about something that had nothing to do with him?
Finally, he made up his mind. He would send a telegram to the constable of
Maybrook and write a letter to Eliza. And then he could put the matter out of
his hands.

***

The following morning, Jon set out to see Mr. Doughty,
thinking that the man might be interested in his discovery. The day was cold
and blustery, with promise of rain to come, so he ordered Richard to bring the
carriage around. He snatched the morning paper from the front hall table and
scanned the pages for a follow-up story. There was none.

He arrived at the law offices. Mr. Doughty greeted him
warmly, and led him into his cramped office. “Sorry again about the clutter.
Renovations are taking longer than planned.”

Jon stepped over a pile of books. “I’ve brought something
for you to see,” he said, handing over the newspaper clipping.

Mr. Doughty read the article. “So they’ve found the murderer
guilty. That’s good news, right?”

“Look at the date and location of the Barton murder,” Jon
said. “That was the same night Henry Robinson’s sister was killed in
Massachusetts.”

“Ah, I see what you’re getting at. This man, Byron Hatham,
couldn’t have been in two places at once,” Mr. Doughty said.

“Exactly.” John moved some books from a chair and sat down.
“I sent a telegram to the constable. But there has to be something more we can
do.”

Mr. Doughty arched a brow. “We?”

“What if the murderer knew Maeve personally, and Mr.
Robinson’s daughter is the next victim?”

“I thought the family was back in New York. I happened to
run into Mr. Robinson this morning,” Mr. Doughty said.

Jon let the news sink in. “I received a letter from Eliza in
yesterday’s post, sent from Maybrook, and she said her mother is coming to stay
with her.”

Mr. Doughty leaned back in his chair. “You’re being
extremely gallant, Mr. Porter. I’m sure the constable will take care of it.” He
paused and steepled his fingers. “Forgive me for getting personal, but aren’t
you engaged, Mr. Porter?”

“Yes. Why—” He felt his face grow hot. What was Mr. Doughty implying?
“My concern is only natural and stems from having met the family.”

Mr. Doughty nodded his head in agreement, but didn’t look
convinced. “Of course. I’m sure the constable will reopen the investigation and
see to the safety of his citizens.” He peered at Jon closely. “Or perhaps we
should pay another visit to Maybrook and warn Miss Robinson in person.”

Jon tugged at his collar. “Perhaps a telegram is enough
after all. Thank you for the advice.” He took the newspaper article back from
Mr. Doughty and rose to leave.

Moments later, Jon stepped out in to the driving rain and
made a dash for his carriage. Richards pulled forward as soon as the door was
shut. Now sodden, Jon leaned back in his seat and exhaled. How could Mr.
Doughty make the assumption that he was interested in Eliza as more than an
ordinary acquaintance?

Terms with Apryl were back on track, and there was no reason
for him to jeopardize that, especially after he’d remonstrated Apryl for being
friendly with Thomas. He must let his mind be free of the Robinson girl, forget
he ever met her. She would be protected by the constable in Maybrook. He would
soon recover his mother’s journal. Then he would never see or hear of her
again.

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out his handkerchief.
After wiping his forehead, he discovered that it was the cloth that carried Eliza’s
initials. He folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket, reminding himself
to remove it at home.

As he rode, the wind whipped about the carriage, which reminded
him of the night he met Eliza.

“Enough,” he told himself, pressing his fingers against his
temples. Maybe he should accept a few clients to take his mind off things until
his father’s estate was ready to be settled.

Upon his arrival, Sarah met him at the door. “Mr. Thomas
Beesley is waiting for you in the library. I hope you don’t mind, sir,” she
said with a curtsy. “You said you wouldn’t be gone more than an hour, and Mr.
Beesley said he didn’t mind waiting.”

Jon tried to hide his annoyance. “Did he state his
business?”

“No, sir,” Sarah said, her eyes going to the floor.

“No matter. Thank you for making him comfortable.” Jon left
the maid standing in the hallway and entered the library. Thomas sat in a
chair, leafing through a book. When he saw Jon, he rose, his massive form
making the room seem insignificant.

“An unexpected pleasure,” Jon said, staying decidedly calm.

“Your maid is gracious,” Thomas said through his full lips.

Jon sat in a chair opposite. “Thank you. Please have a seat.”

Thomas followed suit, his eyes gleaming. “You must be
wondering why I’m here.”

Jon watched the man’s bulk settle into his chair.
I hope
the legs hold.
“I suppose your country vacation is over, and it’s time to
get back to business?”

“Something like that.” Thomas folded his hands over his
girth. “I’m looking for a lawyer to represent my case against Mr. Henry
Robinson. As you seem to know the family’s quirks, I thought you’d be the
perfect candidate. That is, if you feel you’re up to it.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. Becoming further involved
with the Robinson family wasn’t inviting, especially if it meant representing
Thomas against Eliza’s father. “I’m newly out of law school, Mr. Beesley, and I
haven’t yet established my practice.”

 “So I’ve heard.” Thomas nodded. “Tell me, Mr. Porter, what
are your future plans?”

“Once my financial situation is secure, I’ll marry Apryl, of
course. I’ve thought about doing something in government . . .”

“How very noble of you—a public servant. I hear the pay is
pittance, but the benefits are immense.” Thomas pulled out a massive
handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blew his nose.

Jon flinched and waited for the noise to subside. “I’m not
worried about money.”

Thomas took one last swipe at his reddened nose and replaced
the crumpled handkerchief. “You must be very rich, then, Mr. Porter, to be able
to work for free and support a wife accustomed to a lavish lifestyle.”

Jon gripped the edge of his chair, aching to punch the man.
“Apryl will be well-taken care of, as will our children. I’m sorry I won’t be
able to represent you in this matter.”