Heart of the Ocean (10 page)

“Serves the girl right,” Mrs. Maughan blurted out.

“Oh my goodness, Thomas,” Apryl crooned. “You poor man. Do
you think they’re referring to you?”

Jon’s stomach felt as heavy as lead.

Thomas’s eyes gleamed as he loaded his plate with sausage,
toast and marmalade. “Wouldn’t it be something if she went to trial for
murder?” A low chuckle rumbled from somewhere deep inside him.

Apryl leaned forward, her eyes intent on Thomas as he took
the seat across from her. “She must have coveted her aunt’s property all along,
and was only waiting for the perfect opportunity get rid of the woman.” Her
face flushed as Thomas smiled at her.

“I believe so,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, his eyes
not shying away from Apryl’s bold gaze. “I will have to terminate my partnership
with Mr. Robinson, of course.”

“Most definitely.” Apryl nodded. “Please read the rest,
Father.”

Mr. Maughan cleared his throat. “‘Mr. Robinson could not be
reached for comment, but sources close to him say that he’s grieving over his
daughter’s involvement, and that Mrs. Robinson has left home, with no word of
her return or her whereabouts.’”

“I never did like her mother,” Mrs. Maughan interjected,
rosy circles forming on her cheeks. “Too snooty for me.”

“Do you know the family, then?” Jon asked, genuinely curious
as to how the Robinsons were connected to the Maughans.

“Not well, but I’ve seen Mrs. Robinson at social functions,”
Mrs. Maughan said.

Amid the speculating, Jon pulled the paper in his direction,
his anger rising. It was all slander and gossip. Who could be idiot enough to
believe any of it? Unfortunately he was in a room full of people who were doing
just that.

“She didn’t kill her aunt,” he said sharply above the
conversation. The talking stopped, and everyone looked at him. “Eliza didn’t
kill Maeve O’Brien.”

“Who in damnation is Maeve O’Brien?” Thomas asked.

“Henry Robinson’s sister. Maeve Robinson married a Puritan
man named Edward O’Brien and settled with him in Massachusetts.”

Apryl was staring at Jon now, twisting her napkin. “And how might
you know this, Jon?”

He hesitated, but he suddenly didn’t care about protecting
his past anymore. All he wanted to do was see Thomas Beesley eat his words.
“Because I grew up in Maybrook. Maeve O’Brien was my neighbor, and I know Eliza.”

With two hours of daylight left, Eliza decided to take a
walk to the lighthouse. She scanned the area for any signs of Gus, but seeing
none, she continued on her way. When she reached the lighthouse, she pushed
open the door and called out, “Anyone there? Gus?”

She glanced behind her, but saw only trees swaying gently in
the breeze. Entering the lighthouse, she watched the flecks of dust float in
the air, illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the narrow window
behind her.

She examined the steps to find the one Jon had said was
loose. Nails were missing on the third step. She lifted up the board.

Beneath was the same wooden box Jon had told her about. She
lifted it out of the step, finding it weighted. According to Jon, it had been
empty. With her anticipation mounting, she opened the lid. Inside sat a worn,
leather-bound book. She carefully opened the cover and read
Helena Talbot,
January 1815
.

 Jon had said the journal was missing. How did it get back
in the box? She replaced the now-empty box into the step, then left the
lighthouse, clutching the journal to her chest. She ran the entire way back to
the cottage in the growing dusk.

Eliza locked the front door of the cottage behind her and
hurried into the kitchen. She lit two tapered candles with a trembling hand,
deciding that supper would have to wait. She reverently placed the volume on
the table, hoping she’d made the right choice by bringing it home. Turning to
the first page, she stared at the long arched handwriting.

She skimmed the first few pages, where Helena had written
about ordinary things—doing chores, sewing samplers, attending Meeting. Then
Eliza stopped on the page dated January 8. It was the first mention of
something different happening in her life.

January 8, 1815. A stranger came into town last week—he’s
a traveling salesman for the ship industry. He recruits sailors who travel the
world, and he’s been to the West Indies and to Australia, even China. The
stories he shares are amazing and almost unbelievable. Father offered him a
room at our house, and I can hear them talking long into the night about the
many adventures he’s had. I’m not allowed to sit with them after supper,
because Mother doesn’t want me to hear anything heathen. His name is Jonathan
Porter. Doesn’t that sound nice?

Nice, indeed.
Little did Helena know that this was
the man who’d abandon her. No wonder the Talbots had kept close watch on their
daughter. A shiver traveled along Eliza’s back, making her wonder if she should
be reading Helena’s words. But the journal was in front of her . . . waiting to
be read. She turned the page. The next entry was written more than a month
later.

February 15, 1815. Mother is an absolute tyrant. I’ve
been doing my chores, attending Meeting, and keeping the Sabbath perfectly
holy, so there should be no room to complain—although Mother always finds
something to criticize. Jonathan is still staying at our house, though he is
not around very often—until today. He came home early from someplace and stood
in the doorway, staring at me. Finally I asked if he needed anything. I know
Mother would have never left to visit the widow Goodwife Harttle if she’d known
Jonathan would be returning so early in the day.

I offered to fix him a meal, but he shook his head and
continued to watch me work. Finally he went upstairs. I could hear him pace the
floor like a caged animal. Then he came back down and asked if I would take a
walk with him. You can imagine my surprise. A tall, handsome man wanting me for
company—and he even knowing that I am only seventeen.

What he said to me I dare not write, but I discovered
that Jonathan Porter does not see me as a child. Rather, he said that I’m a
“beautiful woman.” Those words are now etched in my memory.

It was all so sweet, but Eliza knew the bitter was about to
come. Imagine being so proper, or so Puritan, that Helena couldn’t even write
out a conversation.

March 1, 1815. Perhaps I should burn this journal. But
for now, I’ll pour out my heart upon these pages. I have become used to
Jonathan’s kisses. Aye, he has kissed me. I suppose I feel bold in saying so. I
have to write it down, or it won’t seem real. I cannot stop thinking about him,
nor stop my cheeks from flaming when I am in his presence. The private kisses
are not enough for him, or for me. I yearn for his touch every hour I am not
with him, and that is most of the day. When I hear his footstep upon the
threshold, I have to refrain from flinging myself into his embrace. I love him.
When we are secretly together, I chide him for looking at me the way he does in
my father’s presence. I’m surprised my parents haven’t noticed—for I am truly a
woman now that I’ve had a man’s love. Jonathan says he will marry me after his
job is completed. My parents will not want me to marry a non-Puritan, even one
so important as Jonathan Porter.

 The candles flickered rapidly. Eliza looked up and stared
at the dancing flames, realizing that a window must be open in the house
somewhere. She reluctantly left the table and went to the hearth room, but
everything was shut tight. Walking upstairs, she scanned the rooms, finding all
of the windows closed.

There was one last place to check for a draft—Maeve’s room.
Eliza went down the stairs to the main floor and stopped in front of the door.
The door was shut, and there was no draft coming from beneath. She took a deep
breath and opened the door. Sure enough, the broken window had been replaced,
and the room looked neat and tidy, as if waiting for its occupant to come home.
She shivered involuntarily. Then, as she shut the bedroom door, she thought she
heard a voice.

“Thank you.”

Eliza spun on her heels, her breath halting. The voice was
back.
No
, she decided.
It’s not a voice; it’s the blasted wind.
The way it wove around the house made it sound like a voice. Except that there
was no wind outside. Perhaps the sound was a lonely rat scurrying above,
searching for a morsel.

Her mother would arrive tomorrow, and Eliza found herself
looking forward to it. Being alone in the cottage was making her nervous. Feeling
chilly, she went to light the fire, which proved a dubious task with trembling
hands. When she had the fire roaring, Eliza brought the journal into the hearth
room and pulled the rocking chair close to the fire.            

 March 23, 1815. Jonathan’s contract is fulfilled, and he
leaves in two days. He is secretly trying to steal more time to spend with me,
and he’s promised to return as soon as he can to fetch me. Then we’ll leave
this dull place for England. His father owns a big estate and will welcome his
son’s new fiancée. But my monthly time is delayed. Constance Kinder told me it
is how one knows one is with child. Your monthlies stop. I feel ill just
thinking about it. Every hour I pray to God that my sin with Jonathan will not
be discovered. I am filled with anguish knowing I don’t deserve God’s
benevolence now. If I am with child, my sins will be a permanent stain. I wish
I knew for certain. Then I would tell Jonathan, and maybe he would take me with
him now. But what if I am not with child, and he becomes angry at my deceit?

March 30, 1815. Jonathan is gone. I’ve been trying not to
weep openly because Mother would guess what is wrong. I didn’t tell Jonathan
that my monthly was late, because I kept hoping it would start. But it hasn’t,
and I am so confused. Should I have told him? Am I with child? My breasts feel
tender to the touch, and I can smell the cows a mile away. Am I becoming ill
because of my sin? Will God ever forgive me?

Eliza stood and placed another log on the fire. She wiped a
stray tear off her cheek. How would it be to feel so alone in the world that
you couldn’t tell anyone you were having a baby? She curled up on the sofa,
pulling an afghan over her.

April 2, 1815. I write this inside my jail cell. Mother
discovered my condition. After seeing me vomit day after day without a fever or
chill, she guessed. On the fourth day of being sick, I was trying to pull some
weeds in the garden, but doubled over and vomited in a bucket. Mother stood
behind me, silently watching. Then she grabbed my hair and yanked my head back,
her gaze boring into me. She called me filthy vermin. And for once, I agreed.

I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. Her voice
sounded harsher than I’d ever heard her. She said I am carrying a devil child
and that I am being punished by God for my sins.

I sobbed and said that Jonathan would return and marry
me. She trembled and forbade me to speak his name again.

Then she called me a whore.

I reached out to her and clung to her skirts. But she
shook me off and spat in my face, forbidding me to enter the house.

She left me there, in the yard, lying upon the cold
ground, a sobbing mess. Even when my hysterics passed, I was too faint to arise
and clean myself.

When Father arrived home, he came immediately to my side.
Surprisingly, in his own way, he was compassionate and sorrowful. He apologized
for letting the devil himself reside within our walls.

He directed me to clean myself and climb into the
buckboard. I will be staying in jail until the day of my trial before the
magistrate.

Eliza shuddered at the image of going to jail and standing
trial because you became pregnant out of wedlock. Too bad Helena couldn’t have
been secreted away to a distant relative’s . . .
As I have done, but for
different reasons.
Eliza looked at the dying flames and closed her eyes
against the image of Helena being treated like an animal by her own family. She
pictured Jonathan Porter, Sr. and the beautiful and innocent Helena. Did she
become desperate enough to take her own life?

     What would Jon think when he
read this? Clutching the journal to her chest, Eliza soon fell asleep on the
sofa as the crackling flames faded to glowing embers.

***

Eliza stretched her cramped legs on the sofa. The journal
had fallen on her lap, and the fire had long since died. Rubbing her sore neck,
she sat up. The late-morning sun seemed to wink merrily at her through the
window. It was strange to be in Maeve’s house alone—to be anywhere alone. Stretching,
she rose and walked into the kitchen, remembering that she’d had no supper the
night before.

She found an apple and bit into it as she looked around the
room. The place looked presentable enough for her mother’s arrival, but she
knew it wouldn’t be what her sophisticated mother expected. Mrs. Robinson would
soon find out that having an independently wealthy daughter looked much better
on paper. With an amused eye, Eliza scanned the kitchen. Perhaps her mother
would like the drying herbs that hung so neatly in a row . . . or maybe she
would take a fancy to the hens in the barn . . . or perhaps she would want the
scarred kitchen table, with years of memories etched on the surface . . .
Puddles of candle wax were hardened on the table. Eliza would have to scrape
those off.

Laughing to herself, Eliza looked at the kitchen door and
was surprised to see an envelope on the floor. The post must have come early
this morning. She stooped to pick up the expensive-looking paper and examined
it—from New York. She tore the envelope open and scanned to the bottom of the
letter. Jonathan Porter? Her heart gave a jump before she realized it was from Jon,
the son of Jonathan Porter and Helena.

She skimmed the letter then sat at the table and slowly read
through it again, wherein he asked her to continue searching for his mother’s
journal.

I have it now, Jon. And I’ll send it to New York.
When
she picked up her mother today from the train station, she would post a return
letter to Jon. Eliza found some paper and a pen, and after rereading Jon’s
letter, she began her reply. It was easier to write to him than to talk to him.
Without his dark eyes and moody expression studying her, she felt able to
freely express herself.

Dear Mr. Porter,

Thank you for your recent letter of concern. I’m curious
to know when it was you discovered the box empty, as it was only yesterday that
I happened to find your mother’s journal, dates starting in 1815, in a box
underneath the same bottom stair. My mother is coming to Maybrook for a visit,
and she’ll be returning to New York in another week or so. I will send the
journal back with her.

Regards,

Eliza Robinson

P.S. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken the liberty to
read a few pages.

Eliza bit her lip then rewrote the letter, this time leaving
out the postscript.

***

In the early afternoon, Eliza opened the barn doors and
hitched up Maeve’s horse to the wagon, something her mother would likely detest
riding in. In fact her mother would be surprised she even knew how to prepare
the wagon and horse—thankfully Maeve had taught her that. But Eliza had no
other choice but to fetch her mother in the wagon. On the way into town, she
stopped at Ruth’s cottage. As expected, she was home, kneeling in her garden,
furiously tugging at weeds.

“They’ll die soon, won’t they?” Eliza asked.

Ruth turned and squinted against the glare of the sun.
“Well, on my soul, if it isn’t Maeve’s niece . . .”

“Eliza,” she filled in for her.

“Yes, a beautiful name. Thou hast recovered from thy ordeal,
I see. Jonny told me about what happened, and I’ve been praying for thee ever
since.”

“Thank you.”

Ruth continued, “He seemed quite interested in thee and
asked me several questions. I’m afraid I couldn’t answer him.”