Heart of the Ocean (7 page)

Jon’s gaze moved back to hers, but was less intense than
before. “Gus is harmless. He’s not quite all there in the head, as they say.”

“I see,” she said.

Jon turned toward the ocean and scanned the horizon. “Looks
like another storm is coming in.”

Eliza studied his profile. Jon could be considered by some a
handsome man, but his manner was too curt for her. That alone made him quite
unappealing. She closed her eyes, wondering why she was studying him at all.

When she opened her eyes, she realized Jon was right. Dark
clouds were racing across the sky, right toward them. The storm had returned.

Jon’s gaze slid to Eliza as she stared out across the ocean.
Her brow was furrowed and her pale green eyes troubled.  He found himself
comparing Eliza to Apryl, who had dark green eyes. Eliza’s were like a
watercolor painting, as if different colors had been blended together. It
appeared as if she’d attempted a simple bun in her hair, but now it had come
loose, and tendrils of gold-brown hair hung down her back, reaching nearly to
her waist.

Seeing her coming out of the lighthouse had stunned him—first
that he recognized her immediately, and second, that she wasn’t a girl of sixteen
or seventeen. She was a woman of at least nineteen, perhaps twenty. And in a
few moments, she’d established that she wasn’t a wilting flower and wasn’t
about to mince words.

“Any more news on your aunt’s accident?” he asked.

She looked at him then. “You mean her murder?” Instead of
tearing-up, her gaze was like steel. “The constable hasn’t shared anything with
me, but in a town this size, I would have likely heard of any new developments
anyway.”

Again, Jon thought of her spending that horrible night in
the dank cell. At the time, he’d been quite furious, but now, seeing her
putting on a brave face, he felt awful about his actions, and that his actions
could have resulted in her being put in jail in the first place.

“My father is on his way,” she said. “For the funeral.”

“I met him on the train.”

Interest lit her eyes. “You did?”

“We shared the same compartment on the way here. When he
introduced himself, I discovered the connection.” He tried to contain his smile
at her change in countenance. “I wondered why you didn’t speak like a Puritan
when I first found you— much less act like one.”

A slight smile crossed her face, but she turned away
quickly.

Jon couldn’t help but smile as well. She looked quite
beautiful when she smiled—but why was he even noticing?

“You thought I was Puritan?” Eliza laughed and looked over
at him.

His breathing faltered, and he took a step back. This woman
was . . . he didn’t know what she was, but he suddenly felt unsure about
everything he’d ever said to her. “I assumed . . . being in Maybrook and all .
. .”

Her face tilted as she studied him, like he’d said something
she finally found interesting. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a
compliment.”

Jon exhaled. “It’s not, really—a mistaken assumption.”

Her gaze held his for a moment, and he couldn’t think of a
single thing to say.

Finally, she broke the silence. “I suppose I should head
into town and find my father. He’s probably looking for me now.”

“Yes,” he said, but neither of them moved. He decided to be
direct. “I came back to look for a record of my birth.” He hesitated. “Do you
think I could search your aunt’s house for any papers that my mother might have
left behind?”

Eliza bit her lip. “I don’t think there’s anything to find
in the house, but my aunt did mention a journal by . . . Helena Talbot.”

 “My mother.” He placed a hand on her arm before he realized
what he was doing. “Where is it?”

Eliza pulled away from him, alarm in her eyes.

“Sorry,” Jon said. “You don’t know what finding my mother’s
journal would mean to me.” He took a breath. “I don’t know what to believe
about her death. Ruth told me one thing; the villagers say something else.”

He found himself waiting for her response. Had she already
read the words of his dead mother? Had he divulged too much?

“My aunt said she found the journal in the lighthouse,”
Eliza said. “Maeve left it there, and that’s why I came today, but I couldn’t
find it. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you more.”

Jon took a step closer. “Where have you searched?”

“Only the upstairs room.”

His mother’s journal was somewhere in the lighthouse! His
mind churned with possibilities. It might have the answers he was looking
for—the location of his birth record, and what really happened to her. He
couldn’t waste another moment; he turned and walked to the lighthouse door.

“Wait!” Eliza called after him.

He paused in his step. “Will you help me search, then?” He
hoped his voice didn’t sound too desperate.

Someone interrupted before she could answer, calling out, “Eliza!”

Jon turned toward the direction of the voice. A young man was
riding toward them, and by the looks of him, he had to be a Prann boy.

“I’ve been searching for you,” he called to Eliza. “A storm’s
coming in.”

The rider looked over at Jon, and their gazes met for a
brief instant. The curiosity was plain in the Prann boy’s expression.

“I was about to return,” Eliza answered, walking to where
the boy had pulled his horse to a stop.

The boy climbed off of it and held out his hand toward
Eliza. She took it and said, “What is it, Nathaniel?”

Jon didn’t like the familiarity he showed toward Eliza. Nathaniel
Prann, it seemed.

“Your father’s in town,” Nathaniel said.

Eliza nodded and released his hand. “Yes, I know.”

“You know?” Nathaniel looked puzzled and cast another glance
in Jon’s direction.

Eliza shrugged. “I sent him a telegram, didn’t I? I assumed
he might arrive today, as the funeral is tomorrow morning.”

So she wasn’t going to mention his encounter with her
father, Jon thought. He exhaled and turned away. It also appeared that Eliza
was otherwise occupied and wouldn’t be helping him today after all.

He stepped into the lighthouse and waited for his eyes to
adjust to the dimness. In the few moments since Nathaniel’s arrival, the sky
had grown even darker.

Jon climbed the stairs, his footsteps slow and heavy. The
voices outside faded until he could no longer hear them, although that didn’t
stop him from remembering Eliza’s upturned face and Nathaniel’s obvious
interest and concern for her. A rock formed in his stomach. From the loft in
the lighthouse, he was drawn to the window.

Eliza had mounted the horse she’d brought and was riding
away, followed by Nathaniel in pursuit.

You fool
,
Jon chided
himself. Foolish because of the way he had let her make him feel. And foolish
because he was very securely engaged.

***

The day of Aunt Maeve’s funeral dawned misty and gray. By
the time the incoming storm hit land the night before, it had dissipated into a
harmless drizzle. Eliza was still glad Nathaniel had come to fetch her before
she spent more time with Jonathan Porter. The man was confusing—one moment he
was harsh and angry, the next, he was kind to that strange man. Then Jon was
practically pleading with her to help him find his mother’s journal. And why
had he been moody again around Nathaniel?

“Are you ready, Eliza?” Mistress Prann’s voice came through
the door to the room Eliza shared with Rachel.

“Another moment, then I’ll be out.” Eliza pulled on the
bonnet Rachel had lent her. It matched her most conservative dress of dark gray
she’d brought to Maybrook.

Her thoughts turned back to Jon—she’d been touched by the
acute sorrow in his eyes. She’d known when she saw them that he did have a
heart, and he did care, at least about his mother. How would it be to have lost
your mother at such a young age and not have any answers about the
circumstances?

Eliza left Rachel’s room, making sure it was tidy behind
her. Her father waited on the porch. When she stepped out, she grasped his hand
and gave him a kiss. She’d been quite nervous to see him when he first
arrived—after all, it was her actions that led to the trouble with his
business. She hadn’t even dared to ask him about Thomas, and her father hadn’t
said a word either. Perhaps the situation would wait until after the funeral.

“You look almost Puritan,” her father said.

“Mother would not be too pleased.”

Her father smiled. “No, she would not.”

It was good to see him smile at a time like this. Her father
didn’t seem to care too much for the fashions of the day; he was more
interested in turning out fine furniture.

“Nathaniel is bringing around the buckboard now,” her father
said.

She heard it before she saw it. Even Nathaniel looked
properly somber. They rode in silence to town, and when they arrived at the
Meeting House, the place was nearly full.

Eliza linked arms with her father, and they walked inside
the building together, taking their places near the front. Her wood casket was
at the front of the room, closed.

The place didn’t feel much like a church. The benches were
made of rough oak boards, and the clapboard walls rattled as the wind persisted
outside. Eliza noticed the Tithingman’s discipline rod propped in the corner. Attached
to one end was a squirrel’s tail—a light brushing of the squirrel’s tail was
meant to rouse a sleeping woman during services, whereas a rap from the rod was
meant to rouse a dozing man.

Eliza had dutifully attended Sabbath meetings with her aunt.
It was strange to be here not for services, but for her aunt’s funeral. Behind
her, the boys sat separately from the rest of the congregation, like they did
on Sabbath. The Tithingman’s rod hung from a peg on the side of the room. At
least the Tithingman wasn’t strolling the aisles and looking for anyone not
paying attention.

Eliza remembered asking Aunt Maeve about the patrolling Watchman.
She told her that he walked the streets on Sundays, making sure no one broke
the Sabbath by laughing or worse.

The Puritans attended their services all day, with a short
break to eat, when everyone gathered in the Sabbath house for a meal of cod and
pottage. The sermons were heavy and solemn; the room felt as solemn now. Eliza
was used to the fact that even young children respected the importance of
sitting quietly.

When everyone was settled, the Reverend stood and read the
eulogy. Eliza was surprised by its short length. It seemed that Aunt Maeve had
lived a very simple life. The audience murmured, “Amen,” and then everyone
rose.

Eliza and her father followed the pall bearers to the cemetery
behind the Meeting House, where an iron fence surrounded the modest grave markers.
Many were wooden, while some were made of stone. She slowed as she passed a
grave dated from the 1620s, marked by a grisly death head.

Her father noticed it too. “Thank heaven they’ve done away
with that tradition.”

Eliza nodded, eyeing another grave marked by a winged skull.
When they reached the corner of the cemetery where her uncle was buried, she began
to relax. This was the newer section. Here, the grave markers seemed more
ethereal, with winged cherubs, urns and willows.

     As the coffin was lowered into
the ground, the Reverend spoke a few simple words. “Here rests the body of
Maeve O’Brien, wife of Edward O’Brien. May God have mercy on her soul.”

***

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the magistrate said in
his gravelly voice, standing at the pulpit. “Thanks to all for attending this
meeting in such short order. We’ll commence immediately to read the last will
and testament of the recently deceased Mistress Maeve O’Brien. God rest her
soul.”

Eliza glanced about the Meeting House, surprised to see how
many townspeople had remained after the funeral and were now sitting behind
them. The Pranns had stayed, but that had been expected. She clutched her
father’s hand, and he squeezed hers in return. She was relieved to be out of
the cemetery and back in the Meeting House, but wasn’t the reading of a will
only family business?

Eliza focused on the robed men before her, wearing their
white wigs and lace cravats—as if they were living in the eighteenth century. Tomorrow
she would accompany her father to the constable’s office and make sure all of
the charges against her had been cleared. Then perhaps this business would be
done.

Oh, Maeve, I miss you so.

The magistrate cleared his throat and read. “‘I, Mistress
Maeve O’Brien, daughter of Philip and Rebecca Robinson, do hereby bequeath all
my earthly possessions and property to my niece, Elizabeth May Robinson.’”

Eliza gasped. Aunt Maeve had left the house and property to her.
It was supposed to have gone to her father. She covered her mouth with her hand
then stole a glance at her father, expecting his face to be red in anger or
disbelief. But he was smiling. Smiling! He reached over and patted her hand.

Oh, did she have questions for him.

After the reading, Eliza and her father rose, as they’d been
instructed beforehand. They walked before the judge and signed their names on
the witness forms. Eliza’s signature was shaky, just like her hand that held
the pen. The magistrate handed another document to Eliza.

“This is the deed to the O’Brien estate. You will sign your
name here.” He pointed to the bottom, below some beautiful calligraphy.

Eliza took a steady breath and put the pen to the paper,
then signed her name. She was now a woman of property.

Her father rested a hand on her shoulder and said in a quiet
voice, “Congratulations. Maeve left her property in the best hands possible.”

Eliza looked up at her father, a dozen questions on her
mind. But here wasn’t the place to ask them, especially with the stern-faced
magistrate listening in.

She thanked the magistrate, who barely gave her a nod, then
turned to face the people. Many stepped forward and congratulated her, but most
wore looks of disapproval. She was an outsider, that was for certain, and not
one of them.

When they were nearly alone in the Meeting House, Eliza said
to her father, “It should have gone to you.”

His smile was genuine. “Nonsense, I am established in life
and have a successful business. But you’re young and have a whole future ahead
of you. Maeve knew what she was doing.”

“Father—” Eliza began.

Two men strode into the Meeting House. Eliza looked over to
see Jonathan Porter and another man. Her father crossed the room easily and
warmly greeted both gentlemen while Eliza followed behind.