Heart of the Ocean (13 page)

Jon awoke well before sunrise. His eyelids felt heavy; the
previous night he’d spent most of the time trying to fall asleep. Exasperated,
he rose and donned a heavy robe and slippers. Padding down the stairs, he
stoked the fire in the library until it was a roaring blaze, hoping the flames
would push the gloom away from his mind.

The evening newspaper was still on the desk, and he picked
it up, but nothing held his interest. Why was he so restless? Apryl had been
more than contrite about the business with Thomas. His father’s estate should
be settled in a few weeks, and then wedding plans could begin. Thomas had left
in a hurry last night, but not as an enemy. He’d sent the telegram to the
constable in Maybrook, warning him about Maeve O’Brien’s murderer. Everything
was in order, and there should be nothing to worry about.

But something kept gnawing at him—nothing was under his
control. He didn’t know what had really transpired between Apryl and Thomas.
She had sobbed when he accused her of kissing Thomas. The business with his
father’s estate could drag on for months. Thomas Beesley definitely had
something planned against the Robinsons, and it couldn’t be favorable. Maeve
O’Brien’s murderer was still at-large.

And Eliza was still in Maybrook.

There. He admitted that he was worried about the girl. Fool.
Losing sleep over someone who had nothing to do with him was ridiculous. She
had a family and an inheritance and a beautiful face . . .

“That’s enough,” he said aloud.

“Sorry,” Sarah murmured.

Jon looked up and saw the maid leaving the room. “Wait, I
didn’t see you there.”

Sarah turned around and faced him. “Would you like breakfast
in the library this morning, sir?”

“Yes, that would be fine. I woke early and lit the fire
myself. I apologize if I startled you,” Jon said.

Sarah bobbed her head and left the room.

After breakfast was brought in and Jon had eaten his fill,
he made a new resolve. He pulled out a sheet of paper, ink and a dip pen and
began to write.

Dear Miss Robinson,

Thank you for your speedy reply. As you may know already,
the transient who was thought to be your aunt’s murderer has been proved
innocent of that crime. I’m sorry that you continue to experience
disappointments. But I assume you are returning to New York soon with your
mother for safety purposes.

I look forward to having my mother’s journal in my
possession. It will be helpful to learn about her. If you would prefer me to
fetch the journal from your place of residence, I’m happy to oblige.

Regards,

Jonathan Porter
         

He set the pen down. It was done. Now he could forget about
her and attend to more important matters. He would begin the day with a trip to
the flower shop and purchase a bouquet for Apryl.

Late in the morning, Jon emerged from the flower shop, a
bouquet of white lilies for Apryl in his hand. A couple approached him, and he
stepped to the side to let them pass.

“Good morning, Mr. Porter,” the man said.

“Ah, Mr. Robinson,” Jon said, noticing who it was for the
first time. “What a pleasant surprise.”

The woman at Mr. Robinson’s side regarded him with interest.
She was fair-haired and stately.

“This is my wife, Grace.”

“Pleased to meet you ma’am.” Jon briefly clasped her hand.

She seemed to radiate pleasure. In her smile, Jon recognized
the likeness of her daughter, although Eliza’s eyes and coloring came from her
father.

“Haven’t we met?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

Jon smiled. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

“Grace, Mr. Porter is the young man whom I met on my journey
to Maybrook,” Mr. Robinson said.

She smiled politely, but distaste crossed her features. “A
quaint town I must say. I returned from there yesterday.”

A carriage rattled past, and Jon waited for the noise of it
to fade before saying, “Did you enjoy your visit, ma’am?”

Mr. Robinson broke in. “Mr. Porter was raised in Maybrook.
He was the one who helped Eliza get out of jail.”

Mrs. Robinson brought a hand to her throat, as if she didn’t
want to be reminded of something so distasteful.

“Is your daughter quite recovered from her ordeal?” Jon
asked.

Mr. Robinson chuckled, and Mrs. Robinson pursed her lips
together.

“Our daughter is a stubborn one, but she will eventually come
around to her mother’s more civilized ways,” Mr. Robinson said.

Jon looked from husband to wife. What was Eliza being
stubborn about?

“She refused to return with her mother and remains in
Maybrook for the time being,” Mr. Robinson continued.

Jon gripped the bouquet tightly. “Do you think that’s a good
idea?”

Amusement leapt into Mr. Robinson’s eyes. “Obviously you
don’t know my daughter well, Mr. Porter, or you would know that she doesn’t
concern herself with the conventional.”

“Even when her life might be in danger?” Jon asked.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Robinson’s voice rose in pitch.

“You haven’t heard?” Jon said. “The man who they thought
killed Mrs. O’Brien turned out to be the wrong man, which means the real killer
hasn’t been caught.”

Mrs. Robinson gasped and gripped her husband’s arm.

“My humble apologies. I thought you knew,” Jon said. “I sent
a telegram to the constable in Maybrook so that he could reopen the
investigation.”

Mr. Robinson had grown pale.

“Let’s find a place to sit down.” Jon led the way a short
distance past the row of shops, and they sat together on a bench. “Is your
daughter still staying at the Pranns’ house?”

“No,” Mrs. Robinson whispered. “She’s alone at Maeve’s.”

“That obstinate girl,” Mr. Robinson said. “I’ll drag her
back here if that’s what it takes.”

“Perhaps the constable has already informed her, and she’s
taken protective measures,” Jon suggested. But worry had already burrowed
inside him.

“Let’s hope.” Mr. Robinson’s jaw was set firm. “We should
go, dear. I need to catch the afternoon train to Maybrook.”

The couple rose from the bench and hastened away.

Jon stared after the Robinsons, thoughts of Eliza in danger
tumbling through his mind. But what could he do? At least her father was on the
way to Maybrook now. After several minutes, Jon finally walked back home. As he
reached the doorstep, he realized that he still held the bouquet of flowers in
his hand. A note from Apryl lay on the hall table—an invitation for dinner that
night. Drained, Jon tossed the fresh flowers onto a table and scratched an
acceptance reply.

***

Hours later, Jon found himself seated at the grand table in
the Maughan’s massive dining room. Thomas Beesley and his sister, Jessa, were
present, although they weren’t seated next to him this time. It was like a
recurring nightmare. Apryl sat on his left, resplendent in a scarlet dress
trimmed in velvet. Jon thought of Thomas’s words from the night with disdain, about
being able to provide the lavish lifestyle Apryl was accustomed to.

Jon caught a glimpse of Thomas watching Apryl, and the
familiar ill feeling returned. Last night’s visit wasn’t about representing
Thomas in some legal matter against Mr. Robinson. Thomas was sizing up his
competition. He’d probably laughed the whole way home. Jon’s eyes narrowed in
Thomas’s direction.

May the best man win.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, my love,” Apryl purred next
to him.

Jon shrugged and took another sip of wine. He was feeling
reckless, moody, and was on his third glass. The over-confident beast of a man across
the table would soon be sorry he interfered. Jon had no intentions of
representing Thomas against Mr. Robinson.

“Let’s play charades,” someone suggested.

“Oh, let’s do,” Apryl squealed and took Jon’s arm. He
followed her into the drawing room, where the guests chattered excitedly.

“Thomas should start us off,” his sister said.

     Thomas stepped forward,
awesome in gaudy attire that would have made a king pale in comparison.
Clapping greeted him, and he immediately delved into character. The charades had
begun.

***

Eliza gaped at the broken glass scattered across Maeve’s
floor.

“Is everything all right?” Ruth called from the porch.

“Someone . . . broke in. The side window is shattered.” She
and Ruth had come to check on Maeve’s cottage. It was apparent that Eliza had
made the right decision in not staying there the night before.        

Ruth came in and stood next to Eliza, staring at the mayhem
strewn about Maeve’s hearth room. Ashes and torn pages from books covered the
fireplace. The lighthouse picture had been ripped down, and a long gash
punctured the front of the painting.

Arm in arm, the two women proceeded cautiously toward the
kitchen. The sturdy table was upturned, and the drawers dangled open.

“What were they looking for?” Eliza whispered in dismay.

A cupboard door had been torn from its hinges. Others had
been scarred with knife marks. Eliza felt frozen in place. Whoever it had been
had given no mercy.

“We should check thine aunt’s room.”

Eliza exhaled. They walked to Maeve’s room, where Ruth
pushed open the door, which stood ajar. The bedding had been pulled off and lay
in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Whoever it was is not going to give up easily.” Ruth
pointed at the chest of disheveled drawers in Maeve’s room. “It’s a blessing
you didn’t stay here last night.”

Eliza could hardly comprehend the destruction as fear iced
through her. They moved back into the hallway. The stair-boards leading to the
second level had been pried open.

Shivering at the thought of the intruder making another
appearance, Eliza said, “Let’s go. We must notify the constable immediately.”

“Yes,” Ruth agreed.

They left the house, and Eliza felt like she was stepping
out of a dark hole into the light. But still she shivered. The women climbed
into the wagon and headed for town.

***

After the constable had finished his investigation of the
house, he brought Ruth and Eliza inside. “Have a seat,” he instructed.

Both women sat on the sofa, on top of the stuffing protruding
from slashes.

“Did Maeve have anything in her possession that might be of
value to someone else?” he asked.

“Nothing I know of,” Eliza said.

 “Everyone knows how simply Maeve and her husband lived,”
Ruth added. “Why, this land was the only thing of value they owned.”

The constable looked past the ladies as if he was in deep
thought. When he focused back on them, he said, “There must be something more
to this. Thou must try to think of something Maeve might have had that someone
else would desperately want.”

“Secret recipes?” Ruth offered.

The constable’s mouth pulled down. “Thou wilt have to try
harder than that.”

“If my aunt had a deposit of money, it would have been
stated in her will, wouldn’t it?” Eliza asked.

“I would assume so,” the constable said. “But let’s say it’s
not money. What else could Maeve have had that would be of value?”

“Eliza?” A male voice boomed from outside.

Her father. Her heart nearly burst at the sound of his
voice. She hurried outside, having never before been so glad to see him in her
life. It was truly him, in his dark suit, his hat askew. She rushed over and
embraced him. 

Her father held her tightly. “I’ve come to take you home,”
he said, then pulled away. “Are you all right?”

She took a steadying breath. “Someone broke in and destroyed
everything.”

“Were you hurt?” he asked.

“No, I stayed at Ruth’s last night . . . she’s the woman who
raised Jon Porter.”

Her father put his arm about her shoulders as Ruth and the
constable appeared on the front porch.

The constable spoke first. “We’ll board up the place until
the murderer is found.” He looked at Eliza’s father. “I’d like to ask thee a
few questions about thy sister. Come see what’s been done to the place.”

“Certainly,” her father said and followed the constable
inside.

Ruth moved to Eliza’s side, grasping her hand. “Perhaps it’s
better to return to New York where it’s safe.”

Eliza nodded in agreement. Every bit of stubbornness inside
her had fled. The gossip columns could do their worst, but Eliza couldn’t
remain in Maybrook any longer.

“Thou are both welcome to stay with me tonight.”

Long after Ruth and her father had retired for the night, Eliza
lay in bed awake, thinking about Helena Talbot. She hadn’t yet finished reading
the journal, and tomorrow she would be on a train back to New York with her
father. Then she’d have to return the book to Jon. Lighting a candle on the
nightstand, she pulled the trunk from under her bed and removed the journal,
deciding to finish reading it tonight. She climbed back into bed, pulling the
covers high, and began to read.

December 5, 1815. Any day my child will be born. I have
felt a few pains over the past days. As thou seest, my handwriting is somewhat
shaky. I am weak and alone. But I am not afraid. This is a challenge from God,
and I will meet it. Ruth said she would look in on me from time to time. I hope
she takes it upon herself to come soon, for I feel my time growing nigh.

December 12, 1815. I can finally see the light. I gave
birth to a healthy son on December 6
^th
. Praise God. During the
labor, a hurricane hit the coast and most of my windows were blown out. Ruth
arrived just in time. She settled me into the room under the stairs, and Little
Jonny was born. He is strong and perfect in every way. Ruth cleared the debris
around the house and ordered new window panes. She showed me how to care for my
baby. For a woman with no children of her own, she knows a lot.

January 2, 1816. I’ve written a letter to Jonathan
telling him of his son’s arrival. I pray he will receive it and come for me
soon. I pray for the letter’s safe journey across the ocean—the ocean that
divides our hearts. The townspeople have left small gifts at the doorstep after
learning of the birth. I am overawed by their kindness. Little Jonny changes
every day. His eyes are bright and inquisitive. It’s such a joy to have someone
to love who doesn’t judge me. At night I watch him sleep. His soft breaths are
so trusting and innocent. Sometimes I can’t hold him close enough, trying to
ease the pain I feel in missing his father. Ruth is the only one whom I have
seen, unless thou countest the lighthouse keeper, Gus. He is widowed with a
young son. He’s an odd sort, nice enough, but something in his eyes reminds me
of a hunted fox.

Even my own mother will not come see her grandchild.

March 18, 1816. Gus has been helping me a lot lately in
the evenings. On those nights, I fix him supper, and we sit together in the
evenings and watch our sons. His company helps to pass the time. Little Gus is
awkward and clumsy, but gentle and loving with my son, something I admire. Even
though Gus doesn’t go to Meeting, the townspeople seem to respect him.

I haven’t received a reply from Jonathan. The wait is
almost unbearable. I wonder if his reply was lost in its travels. I don’t know
how much longer I can wait.

The candlelight sputtered then dimmed. Eliza lit another and
turned the page, surprised to see the next date—more than a year later.

July 23, 1817. I’ve decided to go to England. I’m raising
chickens and selling eggs to anyone who will buy them, to raise money for the
fare. I often attend market day, and some of the townspeople have been quite
friendly. My father stopped by the other night and gawked at Jonny. When he
picked up my son, he had tears in his eyes, and he held the baby for a long
time. He promised that Mother would eventually visit. I doubt she ever will. I
told Father I want to go to England, and he seemed concerned for my well-being.
That made me sad, but I told him that at least I could hide my past there.
After a quiet pause, he said that he would try to help with the fare.

September 1817. Gus comes over every night. I have been
watching his son during the day while he’s working. Little Gus is slow-witted,
but sweet. Gus chops wood, keeps the house in good repair, and gives me money
for food. I have found some comfort in his presence. I can’t help but compare
him to Jonathan. As the days pass, memories of Jonathan seem to grow ever more
distant. As I watch little Jonny toddle about the house, I think of his father
and wonder why he hasn’t replied to my letters. Many nights I have soaked my
pillow with tears.

October 12, 1817. My father came to the market today. He
said he heard that Jonathan was married last summer. The anger in his eyes
betrayed his concern for me. I turned away, trying to hide my tears. I think
maybe my father, too, hoped that Jonathan would return and make an honorable
woman out of me. I feel worthless and used. I bore and am rearing Jonathan’s
son, yet he has forgotten what we were to each other.

I have been so foolish letting my heart rule my head. I
used to think the ocean was the only thing dividing our hearts; now I know that
my heart has drowned in the deep waters.

Eliza wiped away a stray tear, feeling the pain in Helena’s
words.

October 28, 1817. My heart is heavy with grief. If only I
could see Jonathan and know for myself whether he has married. Is his wife
carrying his child? Gus came over last night, and I decided to tell him of my
burden. He was sympathetic and comforted me. I found myself feeling secure and
appreciated in his strong arms. I let him share my bed.

I awoke this morning and felt worse than ever for sharing
my bed with Gus. When he left, I ran outside and vomited. What have I become?
The very thing my mother called me. A whore.

November 2, 1817. I have sunk into the depths of misery.
My heart is dead, but I continue to act as a mother and a mistress. After Gus
leaves each morning, I pretend that Jonny and I are waiting for his father to
come home after a hard day’s work. It is only when I hear Gus’s heavy step on
the front porch that my dream is crushed yet again. It is as if I am trying to
climb a cliff but keep sliding back.

The only one who knows about me and Gus is Ruth. But I’m
not worried about her telling the townspeople, because she seems quite fond of
both Gus and little Gus.

Eliza wondered if Jon remembered playing with little Gus,
and of having the elder Gus staying at the house. What a strange twist of
events.

February 13, 1818. I am leaving this hell I’ve created. I
loathe Gus’s touch, knowing it may be all I have for the rest of my life. His
clumsy hands repulse me, and I can no longer pretend it is Jonathan caressing
me. I’ve saved enough money for the fare to England. If Gus finds out, he’ll be
furious. I’ll have to pack in secret for Jonny and me, and somehow get away.
Maybe I could leave little Gus at Ruth’s house and hope that I’m not found
missing for a long time. I’ve gone into town to see about the train schedule
and plan to leave in a few weeks.

February 20, 1818. Yesterday, Gus found the train ticket.
When my lies didn’t satisfy him, he hit me so hard, I fear my nose will never
look the same. Sobbing, I confessed the whole plan. But my tears couldn’t coax
mercy from him. He stripped my clothes off and bruised me with his passion. I
pretended to faint, and he finally climbed off of me and left the room. I
stayed in bed for a long time, waiting for him to leave the house, but he
didn’t. Sometime in the middle of the night, he brought me tea and watched me
drink it. Then he began to kiss me. I had to do everything possible not to
retch. Finally this morning, he left. I am so bruised and sore that I can
hardly walk. I don’t know where he went, but I’m afraid of what he’ll do next.
He took little Gus with him, so maybe he’ll stay in his own house from now on.
Jonny lies in bed with me, stroking my face—my sweet angel.

Eliza fought back the tears. She turned the page with
trembling hands and found page after page blank.

Helena Talbot never wrote in her journal again.

Eliza squeezed her eyes shut at the horrible images she’d
read. Gus entering the house, and stomping into Helena’s room, demanding her
affection, angrily stripping her dignity away.

A breeze stirred the pages of the journal, and the hairs on
her arm rose. “Ruth?” she called, peering into the darkness beyond the glow of
the candle.

Silence.

“Father?”

A whisper sounded in her ear.
“Help Maeve.”

Eliza turned her head, her eyes searching frantically in the
darkness. The voice was back. Eliza climbed out of bed. “Helena?” The beating
of Eliza’s heart was the only answer.

She stole out of Ruth’s house, running blindly, stumbling
over the uneven earth, until she collapsed onto the ground. Helena had been
murdered. Eliza felt it. Her jealous lover, Gus Senior, must have done it.
There was no other explanation, and it was up to Eliza to discover the truth.

Help Maeve
,
the voice had said.

A sudden thought dawned. Maeve’s death had to be connected
to Helena’s. Did Helena know who killed Maeve?

“How can I
help
her?” Eliza called into the darkness.

She held her breath, listening to nothing. Slowly rising, Eliza
brushed off her clothing. The early morning air was cold and damp, but she paid
no attention to it. Her heart seemed to be pumping warmth through her veins.
She pressed forward through the undergrowth until she finally came to the
clearing with Maeve’s home.        

A faint light glowed from within. Eliza hesitated. Someone
was there. Was Helena waiting for her? Could ghosts light candles? Eliza spun
in a circle looking for any signs.

“Show me what to do,” she said.

“Go to her.”
The voice was faint.

Eliza felt a shiver crawl up her back. She swallowed hard
and walked to the door of Maeve’s—Helena’s—house. Even before she turned the
door handle, Eliza knew it was Gus Junior inside. He sat on the rocking chair,
staring at the ceiling, rocking slowly back and forth. When he saw her, he
moved his head in surprise, blinking rapidly.

“Looking for something?” She was no longer afraid of the
strange man, but she still stayed close to the door.

Gus’s eyes narrowed. “What are thou doing ’ere?”

“This is my property now.”

Gus rose from the chair. “Thou ’as it, doesn’t thee?” He
took a step forward.

Eliza held her ground. “Has what?”

“’Er journal.”

“Helena’s?”

Gus’s face paled. “How dare thee speak ’er name? She’ll hear
thee.”

Eliza stared at the man and realized that he believed
Helena’s ghost was present too. But she had something he didn’t—Helena’s
support.

A draft of air stirred Eliza’s hair, causing gooseflesh to
rise on her neck. “Helena led me here.”

Gus’s face drained to white.

Eliza knew she had the advantage. “She can’t rest until her
murderer confesses.”

“She drowned,” he said matter-of-factly, as if trying to
convince himself.

“I don’t believe you.”

He crossed to the sofa and sat heavily upon it. He buried
his face in his hands, swaying back and forth. Eliza was taken by surprise—she
hadn’t expected this reaction.

Quiet sobs came from the surly man. “I didn’t mean to tell.
But father said he’d whip me if I told what happened. He tried to stop her, but
she fought back too much. He couldn’t let her get away. When he brought ’er
back in the wagon, she wasn’t moving. The town thought she’d drowned, and we
let ’em believe it.”

So it was true. Eliza sagged against the wall. “What did you
do with Helena?”

Gus wiped his nose with his arm. “We hid ’er body.”

She felt sick.

Raising his tearstained face, Gus went on. “I found the
journal after my father’s death and ne’er told anyone.”

She actually felt sorry for the poor man. He was a child
when this happened and wasn’t to blame. “Your father can’t hurt you anymore.”

His shoulders stopped heaving, and his sobs quieted.

“Did you break into this house to find the journal?”

Gus lifted his head again, his eyes darkening with fury. “
Maeve
took it, and I know she was goin’ to tell someone. And when you moved in, I
knew I had to stop ’er.”

Eliza steadied herself against the door. Had Gus just
confessed to killing Maeve? She tried to conceal the panic in her eyes. “What
did you do, Gus?” She inched her hand toward the door handle.

A shadow crossed his face as he rose. “Thou are goin’ to
tell ’em, aren’t ’e? Thou are goin’ to tell how my father killed ’er, that I
had to take care of Maeve too.”

Eliza reached the handle and spun around, pushing at the
door with all her might. But it was too late. Gus lunged and grabbed her,
dragging her to the floor. She gasped as she thudded against the ground. She
was trapped beneath his weight. “Don’t hurt me. I won’t tell anyone.”

He laughed like a wild animal. “I won’t hurt thee, Helena. I
love thee. Now stop moving so much.”

Cold fingers of fear spread through Eliza. Gus was repeating
words he must have heard his father say.

“I’m not Helena. Get off me!” she screamed.

He covered her mouth with his heavy hand and grinned, his
breath sour. “I know thou still lovest me.” Staring into Eliza’s eyes, he
brought both hands to her neck and started to squeeze. Gagging, she tried to
scratch him, but it only made him squeeze harder.

“Helena!” she gasped. “Help me.” A scraping sound came from
the other side of the room.

Gus smiled. “It’s the only way, m’love, that thou wilt stay
mine forever.”

Just before the darkness closed in, Eliza saw the rocking
chair rise in the air and smash into Gus’s head.  

***

“Please find me.”

Eliza opened her eyes as the voice faded from her mind. She
was in a room with white-washed walls.

“Eliza?”

She turned her head and saw her father sitting next to her
bed. He looked years older, his face darkened with whiskers and his eyes rimmed
in red. Grimacing at the soreness in her neck, she tried to speak, but her
voice was nothing but a croak.