Heart of the Ocean (8 page)

Jon was still here? He seemed to fill the room with his
presence, and Eliza forced herself to look away from him. Had he found his
mother’s journal in the lighthouse? She felt his gaze on her—and imagined his
brown eyes turned black.

“This is my daughter, Eliza,” her father was saying to the
men, “whom I told you about on the train. Eliza, this is Mr. Doughty and Mr.
Porter.”

Mr. Doughty smiled and extended his hand. Eliza turned
toward him and shook it.

“I’ve had the opportunity to meet your daughter already,
sir,” Jon said.

Eliza met his gaze for an instant. Something passed between
them—like familiarity—something Eliza couldn’t quite explain.

Her father glanced at her, then back to Jon. “Well, then,
all for the better. You must join us for supper at the dining hall.”

Mr. Doughty accepted at once. “Of course.”

Jon’s gaze went to Eliza. “Perhaps another time. We have
business to attend to.”

“It won’t take long,” Mr. Doughty said, smiling. “We’ll meet
you at the dining hall shortly.”

Something in Jon’s eyes flickered; was he annoyed with his
friend’s acceptance of the invitation?

“Very well then.” Her father shook their hands again. “We
have much to discuss tonight. My daughter has become a land owner.”

Eliza lowered her eyes, avoiding the questioning look from
Jon. Her cheeks burned at her father’s openness. But he was always open,
honest, and sometimes that was a detriment. As she left the Meeting House with
her father, she felt Jon’s gaze on her back.

Half an hour later, Eliza and her father were seated around
a well-worn table, opposite to Jon and Mr. Doughty. The dining hall was one of
the modern additions to the town. A pleasant-faced woman approached them with
four mugs of ale. “Here thou are,” she said, sloshing the overfilled mugs on
the table.

Eliza listened absently as the men talked, uninterested in the
subject of politics, until it turned personal.

“Eliza has inherited my sister’s estate,” her father said.

Doughty’s eyes went to her. “And will you take up residence
there, Miss Robinson?”

“Oh no,” Eliza said. “I have no plans to live in Maybrook. I
don’t think I could convince my parents to change locations to live with me.”

Doughty chuckled. “I suspect not.”

“So you will sell it then?” Jon said.

Eliza looked at Jon with surprise. He seemed genuinely
interested. “Eventually. I’d like to stay here for a few more weeks.” She
glanced at her father.

Her father nodded. “Yes, there are matters at home that are
a bit delicate for Eliza right now.”

She was thankful that neither of the men pressed for more
information.

“How did you meet my daughter, Mr. Porter?” her father
asked.

Eliza froze. How would he answer?

“Maybe your daughter should tell you the story,” Jon said.

She looked away from his intense gaze. It was strange to be
sitting across from him, having this conversation around her father, as if
everything was completely normal. But in truth, she’d just become a land owner.
She was sitting across from a man she never thought she’d see again, and she
was aware of every movement he made and ever look he gave her.

“He was visiting Maybrook too,” she said, knowing that
wasn’t the whole truth. Thankfully Jon didn’t add anything more.

Her father nodded. “We have important business to settle
tomorrow morning with the town constable.”

“Oh?” Mr. Doughty asked.

“When my sister died, the authorities put my daughter into jail.
Imagine that. Poor Eliza.” He patted her hand. “A lawyer was able to have her
released. If I could thank him . . .”

Eliza’s gaze met Jon’s across the table. He was waiting for
her to make the first move, she realized. “You can thank him now, Father. It
was Mr. Porter who argued my case.”

Her father looked at them in surprise. “You mean . . . but,
how?”

Knowing that the whole story would come out sooner or later,
Eliza took a deep breath. “On the night that Aunt Maeve was killed, I was
desperate for help. I hurried out of the house to saddle the horse, and there
was Mr. Porter.” She kept her eyes on the table, not wanting to see Jon’s
reaction.

“What were you doing there?” her father said to Jon.

“Actually, I was planning a visit to Maeve. I was seeking
documents that might have been left by my mother, who used to live in that
house.” Jon looked from her father to Eliza. “I was born there, and my mother
died when I was very young. Upon the recent passing of my father, I was
instructed to obtain a birth record.” He lowered his voice. “When I saw Eliza
staggering in the storm, I knew something was wrong. Before she fainted, she
told me her aunt had died.”

The memory of her fear and desperation that night
resurfaced. “Jon helped me to a safe house and warm bed.”

Her father put a hand on her shoulder. “What an awful night!
I’m grateful Mr. Porter was there to help.”

“I awoke in a neighbor’s house,” Eliza said, looking up into
Jon’s eyes. She well remembered his anger once they were in jail together. But
here, now, his face was gentle, his eyes kind. “The next thing I knew, I was
being arrested for the murder of my dear aunt.”

Jon gave a slight nod then summarized how they both ended up
in jail. Their eyes met again.

“When I was released,” Eliza said, “I discovered that Mr.
Porter was the gentleman who came to my aid—a second time.” As she spoke, she
realized Jon had come to her aid a third time, at the lighthouse that
afternoon.

“I’ll toast to that,” her father said, raising his mug.
“Since Mr. Porter already has experience defending my daughter, would you
gentlemen be willing to accompany us to the constable’s office in the morning?
I need to make sure the charges against Eliza are cleared and that the
investigation into my sister’s death is moving forward.”

“Certainly,” Mr. Doughty said. “We’d love to help.”

Jon’s eyes found Eliza’s before he said, “Of course.”

I’m going straight to hell. At least I would be if I were
Puritan.
Jon stared at the spreading light on the ceiling above him. He lay
in bed with his hands crossed behind his head, welcoming the chill of the
morning. He’d barely slept, and what little sleep he did get was consumed by
thoughts of Eliza Robinson.

She’d decided to invade his dreams, no . . . haunt them. The
soulful expression in her eyes when they’d talked about the night of her aunt’s
death seemed to burrow into his soul. He wanted to protect her, and wished he
could have protected her more.

Like a brother protects a sister.
He shook his head
at the notion. She was nothing like a sister, and she was completely different
than Apryl. Eliza was like an innocent spring day compared to Apryl’s full
summer flirtatious ways.

It didn’t help that last night, Eliza had looked at him like
he was some kind of hero.
She’s damned alluring, that’s what she is.
And
she didn’t even know it. Jon let out a breath of frustration. It wouldn’t do
him any good to keep thinking about her. After he returned to New York, he’d
never see her again. He’d be busy focusing on his future and planning his
wedding with Apryl.

As it well should be.

Cracks of light spread across his quilt; dawn was here. This
day he must find his birth record. He needed to concentrate on that, and only
that. Then he could clear his mind for his future as a wealthy man and husband.

After Eliza left the lighthouse the previous afternoon, he’d
discovered a stair with an unusual angle. It looked like someone had recently
tried to repair the step. As he’d fiddled with the wooden plank, it came loose
in his hands. Beneath the step was a hidden box. His heart had hammered as he
removed it, feeling almost as if his mother were watching him, whispering
encouragement.

But the box had been empty.

Jon sensed that the contents had been recently taken.
Perhaps Eliza had taken his mother’s journal and hadn’t told him about it—was
she capable of that? Was her innocence a ruse? Had Gus taken the journal? Jon
was determined to find out before the afternoon train. He didn’t want to stay
in Maybrook one more night.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to concentrate on his
fiancée, her laughing face and smiling eyes. He thought of how she’d pressed
against him, demanding that he kiss her, to which he had happily obliged. Then
the deep green eyes paled, and the dark hair lightened. What would it be like
to kiss Eliza? Did her innocence extend to men and kissing? Had she allowed
Thomas Beesley to touch her?

Jon opened his eyes in exasperation. His thoughts were out
of control. Why couldn’t he get Eliza off his mind? The answer was to return to
New York as soon as possible. He would never do what his father did to his
mother—abandon her and break his promises. No matter how distracted his
thoughts were about Eliza, he’d stay engaged to Apryl.

“Are you awake, Jon?” Mr. Doughty called through the door,
lightly knocking.

“I’ll be ready in a minute.” He’d told Mr. Doughty that he
wanted to get going at first light. He climbed out of the covers and drew on
his trousers. His shirt hanging over the back of a chair still looked
presentable. Peering into the scratched mirror over the basin, he realized he
needed a shave. It would have to wait until he returned to New York. Every
moment counted now. As he dressed, he caught himself humming as he thought of
Eliza. He immediately scolded himself.

At the breakfast table, Jon listened with half an ear to Mr.
Doughty. “We’ll have to search your mother’s home today. The constable might
have to come with us if it’s still closed for the investigation. If we can’t
find anything, we’ll round up some townspeople who lived here at the time of
your birth and get them to sign an affidavit as witnesses.”

Jon nodded, his thoughts moving again to Eliza. When Mr.
Doughty finished his breakfast, Jon pushed away his untouched plate and rose.

The short walk to the jail house brought back the memories
of the night he’d spent there with Eliza. He could have certainly been kinder
to her, more comforting. He doubted she’d ever spent a night in such dismal
conditions. At the front of the building, Mr. Robinson and Eliza stood waiting.
Jon’s pulse involuntarily quickened, and he silently cursed his reaction at
seeing her.

In the morning light, he was struck with how vulnerable Eliza
appeared, how her pale skin contrasted with the rich gold-brown of her hair,
and how there was a bit of a flush on her cheeks when their gazes met.

He cursed himself again. He had to stop thinking about
her—he should be more concerned about how Apryl was doing. But shadows played
under Eliza’s eyes, making him wonder if perhaps she’d slept as poorly as he.

“Good morning,” Mr. Robinson said.

Mr. Doughty shook his hand, and they talked as they entered
the constable’s office together.

Jon lagged behind so he could speak to Eliza. “I found a box
hidden under the lighthouse stairs.”

Her eyes flew to his face. “The journal?”

“It wasn’t there. You didn’t take it?”

“No.”

But it was too late to discuss the matter further. They’d
reached the doorway where the constable greeted everyone.

Instead of a grim face, Jon was surprised to see the
constable smile at his guests. “Welcome. I have some good news. We’ve found thy
sister’s murderer.”

Jon almost felt Eliza’s shock reverberate through him as she
grasped her father’s arm.

“Aye,” the constable continued. “We received a telegram
early this morning in regards to a transient arrested for a similar case in the
state of Connecticut. He all but confessed to the murder of Maeve O’Brien.”

“He’s in custody, then?” Mr. Robinson asked.

The constable nodded. “He’ll be tried in Connecticut, and, depending
on the sentence he receives, he may receive two death sentences. But he’ll
probably not need to be hanged twice.”

Everyone in the room chuckled, except for Jon. It was too
easy, too neat. “How can we find out what the sentence will be?”

“You can read the papers or telegram the Connecticut office,”
the constable said. “I’m grateful that it’s over.”

Jon wanted to question the constable further. Could the case
be closed so easily? Was the man not to be convicted in Maybrook also? But
everyone around him looked pleased, Eliza included.

“Well,” Mr. Doughty said amid the congratulations, “I guess
that clears Eliza and Jon as suspects.”

Mr. Robinson laughed, and even the constable chuckled with
relief.

“With that good news, we have another item of business,” Mr.
Doughty said. “Could you give us a few names of the townspeople who lived here
twenty-four years ago?”

“Why?” the constable asked.

“My client, Jonathan Porter,” he said gesturing in Jon’s
direction, “needs proof of his birth in this town.”

The constable surveyed Jon. “What were thy parents’
names?”

Jon wanted to laugh. Everyone knew everyone in Maybrook.
Surely the constable remembered him as well, but instead of arguing, he
obliged. “Jonathan Porter and Helena Talbot.”

The constable’s eyebrows arched. “Helena Talbot was thy
mother?” he said in a wary voice.

“Did you know her?” Jon asked.

The constable’s answer came rather quickly. “I heard about
her tragic ending. It was quite odd. Some said she could swim, so why she
drowned is beyond understanding.”

Jon stiffened. He hated this town. Hated the gossip. Hated
that this man was speculating about his mother’s death. He didn’t even notice
that Eliza had come to stand beside him until her hand brushed his. He
definitely noticed that.

The constable continued, his tone sympathetic now. “Aye, I
could come up with some names. But it does seem strange. That is, if she didn’t
drown, why a young mother would leave her only child.”

Rage pulsed through Jon. It was everything he could do not
to knock the man to the ground. The silence in the room was tangible. Jon
clenched his hands at his side. Eliza moved closer and touched his arm.

“Jon,” Eliza whispered. “Come outside with me.”

Her voice and touch seemed to pour some sanity back into
him. He became aware of everyone in the room staring at him.

Eliza turned to her father and Mr. Doughty. “Please bring
the names with you.”

Jon let her guide him out the door, where they stopped on
the side of the jail house beneath a group of maple trees. Eliza kept her hand
tucked beneath his arm. Jon focused on his breathing, each moment getting
easier. Eliza must think him a silly fool.

“I certainly don’t blame you if you despise everything in
Maybrook,” she said quietly.

Jon looked down at her, into those watercolor eyes, his
trance broken. “I don’t hate everything in Maybrook.”

The sides of her mouth lifted. “That’s good to hear. Ruth
seems like a good woman.”

“Ruth is,” Jon said, his breath calming, his body warming at
Eliza’s nearness. “And the ocean is quite beautiful.”

A smile escaped Eliza’s mouth. “Very true—in calm and in
storm.”

Jon couldn’t take his eyes from her. Her hair was pulled
back into a twist, but a strand had come loose, falling against her cheek.
Before he could consider what he was doing, he tucked it behind her ear. “And I
discovered another good thing in Maybrook . . . only recently.”

Her face flushed, and Jon decided it was one of the most
charming things he’d ever seen.

 “Jon . . .” Her breath seemed to shorten, but she didn’t
say anything more, and let his name hang in the air between them. Yet she
didn’t move away from him, and he found he liked having her at his side, her
hand tucked in his arm. It felt comfortable, natural.

“Maybrook seems to be a nice sanctuary for you though,” he
said. “I heard about why you left New York.”

Her face paled. “I hate the gossip columns.”

“It wasn’t the gossip columns, Eliza,” he said. “I’m only
telling you this because I think you should know. I met Thomas Beesley at a
dinner the other night. He told me about it himself, and when I met your father
on the train, I put it together.”

“Thomas is still talking about me?” Her eyes flickered away.
“Why does the man persist? He’s already made things difficult for my father.”

Jon felt something inside his heart stir. Again he wanted to
protect Eliza, and the more he learned about Beesley, the more he didn’t like
the man. “I don’t blame you for turning him down.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, gratitude reflected in her
expression. “Really?”

He nodded, unsure if he should say more. They fell into a
silence for a moment. Finally, he said, “I don’t have the answers about my
mother, and neither does the town. The constable was right—how could a mother
abandon her baby?” He studied Eliza, lost in her closeness. He felt like he
could talk to her with frankness, ask her anything. “Would
you
abandon
one you love, Eliza?”

She blinked and looked away. Were those tears in her eyes?

“Jon, you can’t think of your mother like that. Whatever
happened, I know she loved you and didn’t want to leave you.” Her eyes were
back on his, and for a moment, he believed her.

But how could Eliza know?

Voices belonging to Mr. Robinson and Mr. Doughty reached
them. “We’ve plenty of names to go on,” Mr. Doughty said confidently when he
spotted the couple.

“Very well,” Jon said. Eliza released his arm and folded her
hands together. He noticed the distance immediately, like a warm blanket being
drawn away on a cold morning. He regretted that their privacy was over. “Let’s
go.”

“It’s been nice to see you folks again,” Mr. Doughty said.
“We’re grateful things are resolved with your sister, Mr. Robinson. Perhaps
we’ll cross paths again in New York.”

“We would like that,” Mr. Robinson said, shaking Mr.
Doughty’s hand.

Jon felt Eliza’s gaze on him, but when he looked over, she
was walking toward her father and Doughty. “Thank you, Mr. Doughty, it’s been a
pleasure,” she said.

After Eliza and her father left, Jon stared after them.

“What a nice family,” Mr. Doughty said. “Too bad they’ve had
to endure such a tragedy.”

“Yes,” Jon said. Why had he let himself become so wrapped up
in her? It wasn’t like he was living in Maybrook, and she was the best thing it
had to offer. He lived in New York City, and there were many women, not to
mention his lovely fiancée. Maybe it was because she was so different than the
socialites he knew.

The constable appeared in the entryway. “Ready, gentlemen?”

“The constable will let us into Maeve’s home and help us
search for documents, and if none are to be found, we’ll seek out the
townspeople,” Mr. Doughty explained.

Jon followed them to the constable’s buckboard. He didn’t
want to be in the constable’s presence, but there was no help for it. The
sooner it was over, the better. He hoped that Maeve had forgotten that she’d
brought the journal to her home, and then he’d be able to find it. After that,
he’d leave Maybrook and never return.

The ride to Maeve O’Brien’s house was short but bumpy. The
recent storms had left gouging ruts in the country road. Jon caught himself
watching Mr. Doughty, who seemed unperturbed by the turn of events and was
conversing easily with the constable.

Am I the only one who is worried that Maeve O’Brien’s
murderer was found so easily?
Jon shook his head. The solution to her
untimely death was too simple.

Arriving at the deserted cottage, the three men climbed off
the buckboard. The constable unlocked the door and entered, but Jon hung back
for a moment, letting Doughty enter first. Jon couldn’t remember any details of
this particular childhood home. He had left it when he was three and moved into
Ruth’s home.