Heart of the Ocean (5 page)

Eliza ran into the dark room and saw the window open,
wind gusting through it in sharp bursts. Pulling the window shut, she turned to
see her aunt. Moonlight cast dancing shapes upon the bed. “Aunt Maeve, are you
all right?” She stepped closer to the side where her aunt lay. “What happened?”
Reaching over, she touched her aunt’s motionless shoulder. Just then, a shadow
fell across the bed, causing Eliza to turn and stare at the dark form standing
behind her. She tried to scream, but a heavy hand clamped down on her mouth.

Eliza sat up in bed, perspiration soaking her hairline. She
clutched the quilt to her chin, shivering. The room was still dark, and the
faint sound of breathing came from Rachel.
It was only a dream.
Eliza
tried to calm herself.

But doubt crept over her. What if Jonathan Porter had come
to seek revenge? What if he’d been making his escape when he heard Eliza
calling for Maeve? He had definitely seemed bitter about the way his mother was
treated and about how the town continued to gossip about the circumstances
surrounding his birth.

“Canst thou sleep?” A quiet voice spoke behind her.

“No . . . I had a bad dream.”

Rachel was quiet for a moment. “About thy aunt?”

Eliza nodded.

“I’m very sorry.”

Tears dropped from Eliza’s eyes, making round wet circles on
the quilt in her lap. “I need to send a telegram to my parents. They’ll
undoubtedly come to fetch me.” She felt a warm hand on her shoulder, offering
comfort. Rachel had risen to sit next to her.

“Doest thou want me to come with thee to gather thy things
tomorrow?”

Eliza felt overwhelmed at the kindness from her new friend.
“That would be nice.”

“We’ll bring your things here. Thou cannot stay in that
empty house, not after what happened. Thou must stay with us until thy family
arrives.”

“Thank you,” Eliza whispered. It was another hour before she
fell into a fitful sleep, trying to keep the nightmares from returning.

***          

When Eliza finally aroused from her troubled sleep soon
after dawn, the house below was in full motion. She changed into the dress
Rachel had lent her the day before. Smoothing the dark brown cotton fabric over
her narrow hips, she noticed a row of starched bonnets hanging on the wall. She
walked over to them and fingered the ties on one, remembering her aunt. Maeve
had let Eliza wear a straw hat on weekdays, but on the Sabbath insisted she
wear a Puritan bonnet to Meeting, out of respect for the townspeople.

Descending the stairs, Eliza was surprised to see Nathaniel
at the table, cracking walnuts.

Mistress Prann greeted her cheerfully. “Good morning, dear.
Nathaniel stayed home from the fields so he could take thee back to thy aunt’s
house and gather thy belongings.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said.

“Rachel said she would like to help too,” Mistress Prann
continued. “She will be in shortly with the eggs.”

The day was overcast, as if it couldn’t let go of the storm,
fitting with Eliza’s somber mood. As they rode in the Pranns’ buckboard, she
couldn’t help but wonder what the house would be like with her aunt gone.
Rachel and Nathaniel kept up a light chatter, and Eliza joined in only when
necessary to be polite. For the most part, she was content to watch the
changing landscape as they traveled the narrow road. The brilliant-colored
leaves seemed to whisper to her from their branches.

“Turn back.”

It was the voice again. Eliza looked behind her. Rachel and
Nathaniel were quiet. Had they heard it too?  Eliza’s breath stuttered—she
didn’t dare ask them. Wouldn’t they say something if they’d heard it? She
hadn’t heard the voice since leaving her aunt’s, but now it was back. What did
it mean? Tears stung her eyes, and she rapidly blinked them back.

As they approached the clapboard cottage, the events of the
last few days seemed dream-like. She expected to see Aunt Maeve’s bustling form
fill the doorway upon the sound of the approaching wagon. But no one came out
to greet them, and when Nathaniel reined the horse to a stop, they sat in
silence for a moment until Nathaniel jumped from the buckboard and helped the
girls to the ground.

Eliza looked at the mud beneath her. It hadn’t dried
completely from the storm, and its twisted rivulets mirrored the feeling in her
stomach. Nathaniel hovered near her, as if he wasn’t sure whether to follow.

“You should check on the horse,” she said.

Nathaniel nodded, seemingly relieved to be given direction,
and he headed toward the barn.

Eliza stepped carefully around the more sodden parts of the
ground and headed for the house, with Rachel close behind. As she reached the
front door, Eliza realized that the last time she’d entered this door, she was
running to get out of the storm, with Maeve right beside her.

“Do you want me to go in first?” Rachel asked.

Eliza shook her head then turned the doorknob and pushed the
heavy door. The first thing she noticed was a set of muddy footprints on the
oak-planked floor. They were large—the size of a man’s boots. Eliza hesitated,
staring at the footprints. Could they be the murderer’s?

Rachel spoke behind her. “They probably belong to the
constable.”

Relieved at the thought, Eliza nodded in agreement and
looked at the sideboard cabinet that stood its ground, silently taunting her to
trip against it again. She scanned the room, her pulse a nervous flutter.
Nothing had been moved. The hearth was dark and still, the water in the iron
kettle quiet, and the air stale.

Everything reminded her of Aunt Maeve—the quilt thrown over
the rocking chair, the forgotten ball of yarn and needles, the painting of a
lighthouse, and the stack of brittle firewood. But the house felt empty—empty
of her aunt’s spirit, the woman who had once loved and laughed within its
walls.

Eliza continued into the kitchen and stopped, staring at the
disarray, caused either by herself on the night of the storm or the constable
searching for evidence. The table had been moved, cupboards left open, with
pots strewn about. She took a deep breath, turned and walked to her aunt’s
bedroom door. Images of that night surfaced. Taking a deep breath, she decided she
wasn’t ready to enter Maeve’s room and ascended the stairs to her own bedroom
instead. She removed the traveling trunk from under the bed and loaded her
belongings. The room seemed to grieve for Maeve; even the patchwork quilt on
the bed, made by her aunt, seemed sorrowful. Eliza lifted the quilt and tucked it
into her trunk.

“Can I help?” Rachel asked from the doorway.

Eliza wiped a stray tear.

“I’ll carry it out,” Rachel said. “Take the time thou
needest.”

Listening to Rachel’s retreating footsteps, Eliza sank onto
the bed. She tried to memorize every detail of the room, knowing this might be
the last time she’d see it. It was furnished with only a dresser, washbasin and
bed. The curtains covering the narrow window were of plain, homespun fabric.
She rose and opened them, letting the sunlight warm the room.

Finally she descended the stairs and paused, glancing again
at her aunt’s bedroom door—it seemed to beckon to her. Eliza resisted, not able
to bear seeing the room where her aunt had taken her last breath.

The sound of an approaching wagon came from outside, and Eliza
hurried to the porch. The constable had arrived and sat perched on top of his
black horse, a disapproving look on his face. He blew his nose haughtily into a
handkerchief, which made his bulging paunch vibrate.

“Thou shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This house is still
under investigation.”

Eliza opened her mouth to answer, but Nathaniel came out of
the barn and said, “We’ve come to gather Miss Robinson’s things.”

The constable looked at the three people before him, and then
his gaze focused on Eliza. “Thou should have notified me before coming. Best be
on thy way.” His eyes narrowed for a moment, and his mouth formed a thin line.
“Tuesday after the funeral, thy aunt’s will is to be read, and thy presence is
expected. It will be in the Meeting House.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eliza said, though she didn’t feel
entirely grateful. Under the constable’s gaze, she climbed onto the Pranns’
buckboard, settling next to Rachel. She clasped her hands together to conceal
their trembling.

Nathaniel set the horse into motion and turned the buckboard
around. Eliza stared straight ahead as they passed the narrow-eyed constable.
She felt his gaze on her back, and although it made her cheeks burn to be
stared at, she held her head high.

“Too bad the previous constable died,” Nathaniel said. “Master
Perry was an agreeable man.”

Rachel squeezed Eliza’s hand. “Master Perry was
gentle-mannered and would have never treated thee so harshly.”

Eliza’s shoulders sagged as she remembered something. “I
must post a telegram to my father. Could we pass through town?”

 “I thought thou mightest desire to do something like that,”
Rachel said. “I brought an extra bonnet just in case.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “My sister thinks of everything.”

Eliza smiled. The gloom the constable had brought with him
had dissipated. She donned the bonnet. Once they reached Main Street, Nathaniel
pulled the buckboard to a stop in front of the post office. Eliza descended,
followed by Rachel, and together they entered the oblong room. A dour-faced
clerk looked up as they walked in. He looked like he was straight out of the
1600s, wearing a heavy English wool jacket, a leather hat, with an
over-starched white collar.

“Good day,” he said in a voice worn with years.

“My friend would like to send a telegram,” Rachel said.

The postmaster’s eyes widened. “An unusual request for such
a young lady. Perhaps thou hast better ask thy father to come in.”

“The telegram is to her father, who lives in New York City.
He must be notified of his sister’s recent death,” Rachel said.

Eliza was more than grateful that Rachel had taken the lead
in this strange conversation.

“Ah. Thou are Maeve O’Brien’s niece? I was sorry t’ hear the
news.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said.

The postmaster left the counter and returned a moment later
with a card to fill out.

Eliza accepted the dip pen and ink well and began writing
the brief message. Both the postmaster and Rachel read each word as she wrote. Eliza
tried not to let their prying eyes bother her. When finished, she handed over
the money, and the postmaster double-checked the message.

When they left, Eliza asked, “Is that man always so nosey?”

“Yes,” Rachel said with a laugh. “But he’s sending the
message, so he would be reading it anyway.”

It seemed nothing was private in this town. By the time they
arrived at the Prann homestead, Eliza felt restless. She knew she should offer
to help with the chores, but she wanted to be alone. Mistress Prann noticed her
troubled face and offered consolation.

“I’d like to take a walk, if that’s all right,” Eliza said.

Mistress Prann nodded. “Doest thou want Rachel to walk with
thee?”

“No, thank you. I need some time alone.” She thanked her
hostess again and stepped into the front yard. One of the younger boys was
chasing a chicken. When he saw her, he waved merrily. Eliza smiled and waved
back.

The afternoon shadows stretched across the rutted road. For
a moment she thought about borrowing a horse but then thought better of it. The
Pranns didn’t ride horses for pleasure. Without planning her destination, she
headed east toward the shoreline. She reached the jagged cliffs and realized
she was only about a mile from her aunt’s lighthouse. Had it only been two days
ago that she had stood on this same rocky shore, facing the incoming storm?

Eliza shuddered. The changing sky above her brought new
clouds, swallowing up the shadows cast by the sun. Gone were the brilliant
golds, reds, and yellows of the tree-rich landscape. In their place stood muted
browns and grays.

The wind began to stir the wispy grass beneath her, and the
long, green fingers whipped her ankles. It was time to head back. The tip of
her ears had grown cold, and her feet ached. Maybe tomorrow she would take one
last look at the old lighthouse. She was about to turn away from the incoming
tide when she heard a whisper in her ear.

Don’t leave me.

Eliza spun and looked behind her. It was the same voice—the
one she’d heard on the night Maeve was murdered. Now, as then, no one was in
sight.

The dance was underway in the Maughans’ newly remodeled
ballroom. Jon took the first number with Apryl, but he paid careful attention
to Thomas Beesley, who danced quite close to them with another partner. Apryl
chatted about the shops she would have to visit to obtain a proper riding habit,
and Jon was only required to nod from time to time.

More than once, he caught Thomas gazing at Apryl. When the
first dance ended, Jon asked Thomas’s sister, Jessa, to dance. She remained
quiet as they danced and nodded at Jon’s occasional comment. Thomas ensnared Apryl
and waltzed her around the dance floor. Surprisingly, Beesley was light on his
feet despite his bulk. Laughter floated from their direction. Jon frowned,
looking at Jessa.

“How long has your family known the Maughans?” he asked.

Jessa looked up at him. “My brother has mentioned them once
or twice, but this is the first time we’ve been invited for dinner.”

What intentions did Thomas have about Apryl to make him pay
such particular attention to her? She was not a wealthy heiress. Her family
came from new money procured in the financial markets. Any future son-in-law
would well know the risk of such a volatile industry.

Because of his own recent inheritance, Jon would be far wealthier
than Mr. and Mrs. Maughan. It would be only a matter of time before his future
father-in-law would pose the indelicate question of what his estate in England
was worth. Of course, as the fiancé to Mr. Maughan’s daughter, Jon expected the
questions. After all, New York society marriages were often based on assets,
not love.

Jon didn’t expect to be in love with his wife, but he did
expect mutual affection and respect with his future wife. Most of the women he
had been introduced to were too self-centered for his taste. That’s why, when
he met Apryl, he was pleasantly surprised. The size of her figure told him she
didn’t care for the conventions of the corset fashion, though her clothing was
designed after the latest Parisian styles. And her animated eyes and vivacious conversation
kept him entertained. She would make a lively wife. More than ever, Jon wanted
to produce an heir for his imminent fortune.

“Have you been engaged long?” Jessa asked, interrupting his
thoughts, her pale brown eyes studying him.

Jon answered, “A month. We met only a short time ago through
a mutual friend. Apryl is hard to ignore.”

The corners of Jessa’s mouth twitched. It was the most
animated Jon had seen her all night. “That she is.”

Mr. and Mrs. Maughan retired after an hour, letting the
younger guests continue to enjoy themselves. It was after midnight when Jon
left the house, amid enthusiastic farewells from the guests.

Apryl followed him out to the carriage and kissed his cheek.
“You’ll call tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Jon said, tipping his hat. “Unless you would
rather see Mr. Beesley.”

Apryl lowered her gaze. “Oh, don’t tease me about him. I
thought he was rather too forward tonight.”

Jon snorted. “You didn’t seem to mind.” When he saw Apryl’s
irritated expression, he softened his comment by saying, “You were the belle of
the evening and naturally the center of attention.”

“You’re not angry?” Apryl’s gaze was hopeful.

He took her hands then kissed each one. “How could I be
angry with a cherub such as you?”

Apryl laughed. She pressed against him and gave him a rather
illicit kiss on the mouth.

Jon’s resentment toward Beesley faded. Jon might not be in
love with his fiancée, but he could still enjoy her. He was tempted to stay a
bit longer to explore the depth of her kisses, but his carriage driver was all
eyes, and there were still guests in the house. He drew away from her.
“Tomorrow, then.”

Apryl smiled up at him. Jon climbed
into the waiting carriage and lifted his hand in a wave. As the driver pulled
away from the walk, Jon saw Thomas exit the house and step behind Apryl,
placing his hands over her eyes in some sort of game.

***

The following afternoon, a formal invitation to the Beesley
country estate arrived by post. Jon opened the card in the hall. As he read the
details, he knew he would have to attend, if only to thwart Thomas’s advances
toward his fiancée. A note from Apryl was in the stack of correspondence.

Dearest Jon,

I assume you’ve received the Beesley invitation by now.
Would you like to travel with my parents and me in our carriage? We leave
Friday at 3:00 p.m. Don’t forget your riding habit.

All my love,

Apryl

Jon folded the scented note. There was no mention of meeting
before then, although she had asked him to call on her today. Seeing her flirt
with Beesley the night before created a sour pit in his stomach; he decided not
to make the call. Maybe it would be good for Apryl to wonder and worry about him.
He’d wait until tomorrow to reply. Meanwhile he wrote a hasty note to the
Beesleys, accepting the invitation to their country home.

The next letter in the mail stack troubled him. It was from
his deceased father’s lawyer, informing him that the original production of his
birth record was required by law to claim his father’s estate in England. Damnation.
It was as he thought, and the reason he’d traveled to Maybrook in the first
place. The last thing he wanted to do was return to Maybrook and face the
volatile constable again. Maybe there was a loophole that a solicitor well-versed
in estate and property law could uncover.

Donning his hat, Jon selected a polished mahogany cane. The
afternoon was still warm as dusk descended. He began the stroll to the
solicitor’s building. When Jon arrived at the office front, he noticed the sign
hanging over the entrance:
Doughty, Franklin, and Harmon, Solicitors at Law
—very
formal and impressive. He hoped their services would be equally so.

A man with well-oiled hair greeted him at the front
entrance. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”

Jon sized up the fellow and determined that he looked too
shabby, what with his soiled silk cravat and threadbare jacket, to be one of
the lawyers. “I have but a small matter to discuss with . . .” He thought of
the first name on the marquis. “Mr. Doughty.”

The man nodded. “Who may I say is calling?”

“Jonathan Porter.”

The man spun on his heels and ascended the narrow staircase
to the left of his desk. Moments later he returned and motioned for Jon to
follow. He was led into a dim office, where books were stacked everywhere. The
two bookcases were stuffed as well. A balding man looked up as Jon entered. The
man’s gray-blue eyes surveyed him over spectacles.

Jon offered his hand. “Jonathan Porter, sir.”

The man waved his hand away. “Christian Doughty. Please be
seated and state your business.”

Jon scanned the cramped space for a place to sit.

“Set the books onto the floor and excuse the clutter,”
Doughty said. “Mr. Franklin’s office is being renovated. I’m housing his books
until the work is completed.”

After creating a space, Jon took a seat. “I was hoping you
could help me reconcile my father’s estate. He passed away recently, and I am
the sole heir.”

Mr. Doughty nodded gravely. “My condolences on your father’s
passing. Being the sole heir will make settling the estate simple.”

“My father’s estate is in England, and I was born in
Massachusetts.”

“No problem.”

Jon continued. “England requires a birth record, which I
don’t have.”

“Was it lost or destroyed?”

“I don’t know.” Jon shrugged. “My mother died when I was
young, and my father never met me. You see, he was supposed to come back for us
in Massachusetts, but he never did. I was raised by a neighbor.”

“Did you check the church records?”

“Nothing is recorded there. My mother was an outcast in the
town. She and my father weren’t  married . . . She was from a staunch Puritan
family that—” He broke off.

Mr. Doughty was silent for a moment. “Puritans won’t bite,
son. My grandfather was a Puritan. Even if your birth was swept under the
carpet, there should be at least a private record at the Meeting House, if not
a public one.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Because of other circumstances, I’d
rather not return to the town to pursue the matter. Is there another way?”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Porter?”

“Litigation.”

“Ah, an-up-and coming profession. Had any luck?”

Jon relaxed a bit and smiled. “Actually, with my training, I
was able to get myself out of jail.”

Mr. Doughty raised his eyebrows. “Interesting!”

“I traveled to Massachusetts last week and went to my
mother’s former home to search the place. Unfortunately I walked into a murder
scene and was thrown into jail with another suspect. The next morning I freed myself
and haven’t looked back.”

Mr. Doughty smiled. “Those are words you may have to
swallow. Despite your wish not to do so, you’ll have to return to find recorded
evidence of your parentage.”

Jon leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “There
must be another way. Look at all these books.” He waved his hand.

The solicitor chuckled. “What are you afraid of, getting
thrown in jail again? Won’t happen. Unless . . . you
did
have something
to do with that murder.”

 “Of course not.” Jon leaned back.

 “Then there’s nothing to fear,” Mr. Doughty said in a
mellow voice. “If you want your father’s money, you’ll return to
Massachusetts.”

Jon blew out a breath. “Isn’t there another choice?”

“Not unless you want to travel around your birth town and ask
acquaintances to sign affidavits, testifying to your parentage.”

Jon hesitated. Ruth was the only one who’d probably be
willing to sign something like that. And her friend, Maeve, who was no longer
alive. “If I hire you to represent me, will you accompany me to Maybrook?”

     Mr. Doughty gave a curt nod.
“I can leave Tuesday.”

***

On Monday morning, Jon scrawled a brief note to Apryl and a
second to Thomas Beesley, declining the invitation to Beesley’s estate, citing
important business that couldn’t wait. By afternoon, he’d cleared his
appointment book. Once he collected the inheritance, he could live a
gentleman’s life and pursue politics if he chose. Maybe he would refer his
current clients to Mr. Doughty.

His father, Jonathan Sr., had paid for his college education
at Yale. Yet the older Jon became, the more tortured he felt knowing that his
father had been alive and well, but refused to meet his own son. What had his
father been afraid of? Was the idea of facing his past really so awful?

Upon graduation, Jon had purchased a steamship ticket to
England, determined to meet his father and discover why he’d abandoned his
mother. But the day before departure, Jon had received notice of his father’s
death. 

The door to his past had been cruelly slammed shut. Then an
envelope arrived with a copy of his father’s will, and Jon learned he would be
financially independent. That was when he decided to propose to Apryl.

A knock sounded at the library door around 3:00 that
afternoon. “Mr. Porter?” Richards said. “Miss Maughan is here to see you.”

“Send her in, please.”

Apryl entered with a flurry of rustling yellow silk.
Ringlets protruded beneath the delicate straw hat she wore, tilted jauntily on
her head. Jon crossed the room and kissed her cheek.

“You’ve come alone?” he asked.

“My maid is in the carriage, but I don’t want her to
overhear,” she said, her eyes watering.

“What’s wrong?”

She glanced at the floor then met his gaze. “Can’t your
business wait a week?”

Jon tried to conceal a smile. “Is that what you’re upset
about?”

A stray tear fell onto Apryl’s flushed cheek. Surely she
couldn’t be this upset over his business trip. “You look tired.” Jon took her
arm and guided her to a chair next to the window. “Would you like a drink?”

Apryl bit her lip. “No. I can’t stay long. My parents are
going to a violin performance, and I must accompany them.” She folded her arms.
“It won’t be any fun in the country without you.”

Jon tried to suppress a smile. Apryl could be absolutely
childlike sometimes. “I seriously doubt that. Thomas seems to be the most
accommodating host.”

Apryl grabbed Jon’s hand. “Please, Jon, you must come with
us.”

He looked at her in surprise. She had never acted so
distressed before. “Has Thomas done something to make you reluctant to visit
him?”

Apryl lowered her eyes, her face flushing. “No.”

So there was something between them—some sort of attraction,
it seemed. But Jon didn’t want to drag it out of her. “Then what is it?”

She gave him a coy look. “I’ll just miss you, I guess.”

Perhaps that was all it was. That could be a good sign.

Suddenly, she reached for him and pulled his head down to
hers, kissing him on the mouth. Jon returned her kiss, but did so with a bit of
reluctance. If he kissed her as fervently as she was kissing him, they would
certainly cross the line of propriety, one that he dared not cross. Scandals
abounded in New York City, and Jon had had his share of that in Maybrook. He
would never want her to face any sort of speculation, not knowing what his mother
had gone through. No matter how Apryl tempted him, or how her curves pressed
against him, he must keep a level head.

He drew away from Apryl’s ardor and placed his hands on her
shoulders, keeping his distance. “I won’t be gone that long, my dear.”

“Oh, Jon,” she said, her mouth trembling. “I want to know
how much you truly care about me.”

Instinct made Jon want to laugh—she was like a toddler. He
refrained from teasing her, saying, “Of course I truly care for you. How can
you think otherwise?” He gently lifted her hand that sported her engagement
ring. “Are you not my fiancée?”