Heart of the Ocean (3 page)

Ruth sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around Eliza.
“Hush, dear. The constable will find whoever did this.”

“Thou are correct. I will find the culprit.” He cleared his
throat. “Thou wilt have to come with me, miss.” He took a step forward. “Thou
are under arrest for the murder of Maeve O’Brien.”

Ruth rose from the bed. “Sir, is that really necessary?”

The constable said nothing, merely stared Eliza down.

Ruth reached out and patted Eliza’s hand. “Go along now.
Thou wilt be cleared soon.” But her trembling voice betrayed worry.

In a daze, Eliza rose from her bed.
This can’t be
happening.
She stepped on the cold floor, and pain shot through her sore
ankle.

“Wear these,” Ruth said, handing over the shoes that Eliza
had been wearing the night before. They looked like they’d been cleaned.

“This way,” the constable said.

Eliza followed him, her mind numb as they left the house and
walked to the waiting buckboard. Ruth followed and placed a cloak about Eliza’s
shoulders before she climbed in.

“Thou are making a mistake, sir,” Ruth said. “The girl’s
harmless.”

The constable turned and faced the woman. “Are thou willing
to stake thine own reputation on it, woman?”

Eliza’s heart sank as Ruth took a step back, shaking her
head. Eliza hadn’t really expected Ruth to risk anything for her, but the woman
knew the town and the law better than Eliza did—where would she be without her?

“Jonny will tell thee—” Ruth began.

“Jon has to worry about his own neck right now,” the
constable interrupted. “Until I know why he was at the O’Brien house last
night, he’s a suspect as well.”

Eliza stared at the constable. He’d arrested that man who’d
helped her too? Panic shot through her. She couldn’t go with the constable. Her
parents knew nothing about this. She had to send a message to them. How could
she face jail? She gripped the seat and made a move to stand, but the constable
climbed in next to her and urged the horse into motion.

She fell back against the seat. It was too late.

Eliza stared through the dark iron bars. The cold cellar was
damp, with water dripping from the ceiling in a rhythmic fashion.
This crude
jail is no place for a woman,
she imagined her father saying. She pulled
the cloak given to her by Ruth around her shoulders. Shivering, she thought of
how last night she was snuggled in her warm bed; tonight she was surrounded by
concrete walls.

A low curse from the next cell reached her ears. It had to
be Jonny. When she arrived at the jail, she’d been led past his barred cell,
feeling his eyes watching her. The constable already arrested Jonny before going
to Ruth’s place.

Eliza let out a breath, gathering her courage. “Are you all
right?” she called.

Silence greeted her.

She tried again. Maybe he hadn’t heard. “Are you ill?”

“I’m in jail,” he said with a scoff. His deep voice seemed
to fill the small space with an echo.

Eliza bit her lip. It was her fault he was here. “I’m
sorry.”

He spoke again. “Did you kill her?”

She drew a breath in sharply. “No.” How could he accuse her?
Because she lived with her aunt? How did he arrive so fast at the cottage—how
had he known to come? Suspicion knotted inside her. “Why were you riding by the
cottage in such a storm?”

There was a brief moment of silence, as if Jonny had
realized what she was accusing him of. “I thought I could make it all the way
to Ruth’s in the storm, but it grew worse than I expected. I knew Mistress
Maeve lived nearby, so I planned to take shelter in the barn until the worst
passed.”

She didn’t know this man. Could she believe him?

“It’s God’s truth,” he said.

Exhaling, Eliza realized she did believe him. She couldn’t
explain why, but she decided to trust her instincts.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your aunt. She was a good
friend to Ruth over the years, although I didn’t know her well.” There was a
shuffling sound from the other side of the wall, and then he spoke again. “As
soon as my father’s lawyers find out, the constable is going to be sorry.”

This surprised Eliza. If Jonny was Helena’s son, then . . .
“Your father’s alive?”

“I see you’ve heard the local gossip.” Bitterness was
evident in his voice.

“Only from my aunt—” She cut herself off.

A door banged in the distance, and soon a man appeared with
a trencher of gruel. He slipped the wooden dish through the bars and set it on
the floor in Eliza’s cell. “Thank you,” she said. The man grunted and shuffled to
Jonny’s cell. There was no spoon with the gruel, so she had to sip the
nourishment.

Night came and along with it, inky blackness. Eliza huddled
on the moldy cot and hugged her arms against her body. Her heart seemed to beat
in tandem with each passing second. The occasional sound of a door banging
reached her. Otherwise the jail was silent as a grave, and she heard no sound
from Jonny.

She had almost forgotten the companion adjacent to her when
he spoke.

“I’m Jon Porter, by the way,” he said in the quiet
stillness. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”

Eliza swallowed. “I’m Eliza Robinson, niece to Maeve. My
parents sent me here for a while to . . . help my aunt.”

He said nothing for a moment, then, “My father recently
died. I never met him. He sent money to pay for my education, but there was
never a personal letter or an invitation to meet him. You can pass that on to
the townspeople.”

A rebuttal caught in Eliza’s throat. She didn’t know what to
say. Seconds turned into minutes, and presently she smelled the sweet, robust
scent of cigar smoke. She knew it would be futile to try to explain things to
him. He must hate her, and it was her fault.

Quiet tears slipped onto her
cheeks. Soon her body trembled. How long would she have to remain in this
dreadful place? It wasn’t until dawn began to invade the cell that Eliza at
last fell into an uneasy slumber.

***

“Wake up, girl.”

Eliza opened her eyes. As the cloudiness of sleep
disappeared, she recognized the figure standing over her.

The constable studied her with ill-concealed contempt. “Thou
are free to go.”

“How—”

“The evidence against thee isn’t strong enough yet. Therefore
I must let thee go, but thou wilt have to stay in town until the charges can be
formally cleared.” The constable turned and left, leaving the barred door wide
open.

Eliza listened to his footsteps echo down the corridor. She
licked her cracked lips. Glancing around the damp cell for the last time, she
rose from the cot and adjusted the cloak about her shoulders. She ran her
fingers through her tangled hair  as she walked out of the cell, still limping.
The corridor was quiet as she passed by Jon’s cell, which now stood empty. When
she reached the stairwell, she paused, sensing someone behind her. She turned
to see a rat scurry past.

She walked up the stairs, her legs stiff and cold from the
night in the cell. A jail guard waited for her at the top and motioned for her
to follow him outside. Heavy clouds discolored the sky, looking pregnant with
rain, although not a drop fell now. She followed the guard around the building
and stepped through another doorway into a narrow room with a bench and two
desks. A grizzled man was seated at one of the desks.

The guard said nothing, and Eliza stood in front of the desk
for a moment, waiting until the man looked up. Finally, he noticed the visitors
and peered at her through his spectacles. “Thou must be the young lady who was
released.”

“Yes, have they found my aunt’s murderer?” Eliza clenched
her hands in front of her.

The man shook his head. “The constable is still
investigating.”

Eliza blew out a breath, disappointment filling her.

“After you sign this release, thou are free to go,” the man
said, pushing a piece of parchment toward her. “When Mr. Porter was released,
he petitioned for thy freedom as well.”

“
He
freed me? But how?”

“Why, turns out he’s a lawyer.” The man grunted. “And he
told the constable, ‘You can’t keep that girl without evidence.’ Thou had best
be going, miss, before the constable finds another excuse to keep thee ’ere.
Mr. Porter left for the city and won’t be available to help again.”

Relieved she was free, yet disappointed she couldn’t thank
Mr. Porter properly, Eliza bent and signed her name on the parchment. “Thank
you.”

The old man nodded, then said in a gruff voice, “May God
keep thee.”

The guard stepped aside as she passed through the doorway. The
last few hours seemed like a dream. Had she really spent the night in a prison
cell? She clasped the rough woolen cloak about her and started toward the road
that led to Maeve’s. She dreaded going back to the place where her aunt had
died.

Yet she had no choice but to return. The main road passed
right through the commons, and as luck would have it, today was market day.
People stared at her as she hurried by. At least the adults averted their eyes,
but the children watched her with open, curiosity. Untidiness was a disgrace to
the Puritans, and she must be a sight to behold, in addition to the fact that
she’d exited the jail. She wished she could disappear inside her cloak.

Skirting around the market stalls, Eliza thought she heard
someone call her name. But when she turned, no one was looking at her. At least
it wasn’t the voice of the woman from the cliff. That voice had been silent since
the night before.

Eliza watched two plump boys battling with sticks next to
their father’s bread cart, making her realize how hungry she was. She wouldn’t
be able to eat for a while, since the walk back to her aunt’s was nearly an
hour. Wishing she had paid more attention to her aunt’s acquaintances, she
approached the cart. Perhaps the man would give her some food on credit.

She dodged a rather large puddle to reach it. “Good day,
sir. I don’t have money today, but I’ll repay you tomorrow if you could be so kind
to give me a bit of bread.”

The merchant’s eyes appraised what was sure to be a dirty
face and a stained nightdress beneath her borrowed cloak. Not to mention
uncovered hair. Finally he nodded. “I cannot turn away a beggar.”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t a beggar, but instead she
kept silent, deciding it was best not to argue with the man.

Making grand gestures, he eyed his neatly arranged loaves
and scratched his head. Then he elaborately chose a loaf that looked a bit
over-baked and handed it to Eliza, wrapped in a cloth.

She took the bread and thanked the merchant. This wasn’t a
time to be choosey.

“Good morrow, Eliza,” a voice spoke behind her.

She turned and saw Nathaniel Prann, a young, blond man whom
she’d met during Sabbath services on her first visit to the Meeting House.

He looked her up and down, as if he couldn’t believe her
appearance. “Art thou well?”

The merchant squinted at them with curiosity. “Thou knowest
this girl?”

“Of course. She’s Maeve O’Brien’s niece.”

“Ah. I didn’t recognize thee,” the merchant said. “I am
sorry to hear about thy aunt.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said, feeling completely mortified that
Nathaniel was seeing her in this state.

“What happened to thy aunt?” Nathaniel asked, his usually
merry blue eyes somber.

The words stuck in Eliza’s throat. The merchant was only too
eager to supply the information that Maeve had died. Nathaniel turned his
concerned gaze back to Eliza.

“I didn’t know.” He led her away from the peering merchant.
“What can I do? Doest thou need a place to stay?”

Hot tears filled her eyes. “I haven’t been back to the house
since . . . I spent the night in jail.” She nearly choked on the last sentence.

Nathaniel’s eyes widened. “Thou must come to our place.
Mother will help thee clean up. I’m on my way home now. I came into town to
pick up the post.”

Eliza was too exhausted to turn down such a kind offer. She followed
Nathaniel to his horse, sure that all eyes of the market were watching.
Nathaniel Prann was the eldest of a large family. He had been friendly right
away, but she knew she could never become like him. A Puritan.

Nathaniel helped her onto the horse, then took the reins in
hand and guided the horse down the road. “My house is up the coast from thy
aunt’s. We don’t get the post delivered yet—too out of the way, I suppose.”

He chatted most of the way back to his place, but Eliza
wasn’t listening. Her mind churned with thoughts of her aunt’s death and the
night in a cell, with Jonathan Porter on the other side of the wall. He’d saved
her twice. It seemed that beneath his aloofness was a caring man.

“—it would be a fine place to live,” Nathaniel was saying.

Nodding absently, Eliza murmured, “Mm-hmm.”

He pulled the horse to a stop and stared up at her. “Thou
thinkest so too?” The grin on his face was broad.

Eliza reddened when she realized the trap she had stepped
into. What had she agreed with? She knew that look, had seen it in
opportunist’s eyes—yet Nathaniel was not much more than a boy.

Nathaniel continued, his voice a happy lilt. “I’m nearly
twenty-one, not so much older than thou are. Perhaps . . . perhaps thou wouldst
consider allowing me to court thee?”

Eliza opened then closed her mouth. Speechless.

Nathaniel chuckled. “I have shocked thee. I apologize.” His
eyes were trained on her, though with a boldness much older than his age. His
hand grasped hers. “Perhaps a kiss would make my intent more clear.”

Before she could protest, Nathaniel lifted her hand and
kissed it.

Trying to hide her shock, she said, “Are you sure that’s not
a sin, Mr. Prann?”

He laughed. “’Tis not, I assure thee.”

Eliza smiled at his laughter. He was misguided in his quick
attachment to her, but that was sure to fade as quickly as it had bloomed.
After all, she wasn’t even Puritan. Surely there was some law about marrying
outside the faith, and she wasn’t willing to convert like her aunt had.

Nathaniel tugged at the horse’s reins. Eliza’s smile faded
when she realized she couldn’t share this amusing experience with her aunt. A
lump tightened in her throat. Who could have harmed her aunt, and why? She was
glad Nathaniel was looking straight ahead and didn’t notice the quiet tears
slipping from her eyes. As they neared the Prann homestead, the sun broke
through the clouds and a gentle breeze lapped at the hem of Eliza’s nightdress.

“Here we are,” Nathaniel said, obvious pride in his voice.

Before them stood a plain two-story clapboard house with a
porch that wrapped around the entire front, substantial by Puritan standards. Eliza
hadn’t been this far up the coast before. When she’d taken the horse out, her
aunt had cautioned her to stay near. Nathaniel extended his hand and helped Eliza
to the ground.  “What doest thou think?” he asked, his gaze eager.

Eliza hesitated. “Why, it’s so large, I thought—”

“My parents have eight children, so the size of our house is
quite prudent.”

“I didn’t mean . . .”

He winked. “Of course I’ll build my bride her own house.”

 “Nathaniel, I don’t think you should—”

 “There thou are,” a merry voice called from the side of the
house. A stout woman appeared, carrying a basket of sun-dried laundry. She wore
a blue scarf tied about her head, although pale strands of hair had fallen out,
framing her round face.

Nathaniel went to greet his mother while Eliza lagged
behind. But Mistress Prann would not tolerate timid behavior. After hugging her
son, she wrapped Eliza into her ample arms and squeezed. Now Eliza knew where Nathaniel
had inherited his friendliness. “I’ve heard about thy aunt and the trip to jail.
How ghastly. Thou must have had such a dreadful night. Come inside, and we’ll
give thee a proper bath.”