Heart of the Ocean (9 page)

He walked inside to see the disarray of the kitchen. He
thought of Eliza here, of the night that she’d come stumbling out of the
cottage, injured and frightened. It all seemed dreamlike in the harsh light of
day.

“We’ll start at the top, in the attic,” the constable said.
He and Mr. Doughty disappeared up the stairs.

Jon walked about the rooms on the main floor. He picked his
way through the kitchen, pulling drawers and opening cupboards. Then he stopped
in the sitting room with its blackened hearth. A fire would make this room
cozy, but now it was silent and cold.

He ran his fingers along the hearth, feeling for any loose
bricks that might conceal a hiding place. The oak planks on the floor were
solid and well-worn. Nothing on the wall looked out of the ordinary. He felt
along the crevices of the sofa and discovered a forgotten handkerchief. Elegant
embroidered letters had been stitched in the corner, “E. M. R.” It had to be Eliza’s.
Without a second thought, he tucked the handkerchief into his coat pocket.

Leaving the sitting room, Jon paused before the open door of
the bedroom. This must have been Maeve’s room. He walked into the quiet
sanctum, stepping noiselessly on the rug. Trinkets sat upon a small desk in the
corner. The bedding had been stripped from the mattress tick. A quilt was
folded neatly on a chair in the corner. It was a patchwork, with intricate
hand-stitches securing the fabric swatches together. It reminded him of
something he’d see in Ruth’s house. A board covered part of the only window—glass
shards still lay on the floor where they had fallen.

“It’s not too late.”

Jon spun around and stared at the doorway—but no one was
there. Had the noise been merely the wind coming through the broken window? But
there was no breeze.

A draft brushed near his ankles; he must have left the front
door open.

“Mr. Doughty?” he called out. “Constable?”

They didn’t answer, so they must still be in the attic. He was
more tired than he thought. He walked out of the bedroom and heard the
constable and Mr. Doughty descending the stairs.

“Any luck?” the constable asked when they came into view.

“Nothing yet,” Jon replied, noticing that the front door was
shut tight. “And you?”

“Nothing.”

“Mind if I check up there myself?” Jon asked.

“Go ahead,” the constable said. “We’ll have a look around down
here.”

Jon climbed the narrow staircase and paused before the
bedroom door on the second landing. This must be where Eliza had slept. He
opened the door and was surprised by how large it was. The room was bright and
cheerful, although all personal effects had been removed. Only a bed, a sturdy
dresser and a washbasin on a stand remained.

Crossing to the window, he looked out the mottled pane of
glass at the lighthouse in the distance. Should he tell the constable about
discovering the empty box? The missing journal?

His thoughts were interrupted when the constable called out
to him, “We’re going to the barn.”

“All right,” Jon called back, then knelt and tested the
floorboards, checking to see if any of them were loose. He lifted the mattress
from the bed and patted it down. Nothing felt unusual. Checking behind the
dresser, he still found nothing. By the time he left the cottage, Doughty and
the constable were coming out the barn.

They stood in a circle for a couple of moments, talking.
“We’ll have to go with our backup plan,” Doughty said. “And hope it’s enough to
satisfy a British solicitor.”

Jon nodded. “It will have to be.” Claiming his inheritance
was the next step in his plan to marry and enter into politics.

“Thank you so much for everything,” Eliza said, standing in
the Prann kitchen.

Mistress Prann brushed off her flour-spotted hands and
pulled Eliza in for a tight hug. “Must thou leave so soon?”

“I’ve encroached on your hospitality long enough,” Eliza
said. “I’m staying at my aunt’s place until my mother arrives.”

“But dear, wilt thou be safe alone?”

Eliza’s stomach fluttered, but she ignored it. “They’ve
caught the criminal. He’s never coming here again.”

“If thou needest anything, we are here for thee,” Mistress
Prann said.

“I’ll be all right,” Eliza said. “As soon as my father
returns to New York, he’ll send my mother back on the next train. She wants to
look over the furniture to decide whether any of it will be of use in New York.
But I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed, as Aunt Maeve lived quite simply.”

“I know, dear. Thy aunt was unpretentious. She’ll always be
missed.” A frown creased Mistress Prann’s forehead. “I worry for thee.”

“Don’t worry,” Eliza said and smiled. One more embrace
followed, and Eliza stepped into the sunshine. The day promised to be a new
beginning. She was now a young woman of independent means and would be setting
foot on her own property.

Nathaniel helped Eliza into the front seat of the buckboard,
then climbed up and sat next to her. Traveling through the early-morning
countryside glistening with an early frost, Eliza breathed in the cool air. The
beauty of the autumn leaves and deep blue sky, combined with the invigorating
air, made her feel more alive than she had in a long time.

Nathaniel was unusually quiet on the way to Maeve’s house. Eliza
stole a glance at him and saw his eyes narrow as he stared straight ahead.

“Is something wrong?” Eliza asked.

At first Nathaniel didn’t seem to hear her, but then he
slowed the buckboard until it came to a stop.

She fiddled with a button on her skirt. Why was he acting so
strange?

“Eliza,” Nathaniel said, his voice hesitant. He released the
reins and turned. Then he took her hands in his and held them tight.

She had put off speaking to him, and now she realized she’d
waited too long. His hands were hot and sweaty, and beads of perspiration
dampened his forehead.

“Don’t say it,” she said. “Let’s leave things as they are.”

“I can’t wait another day, Eliza. From the time I first saw
you, I felt something inside. I love thee. And I want to marry thee.”

Marry? Hearing the word sent a dagger through her. This had
gone much farther than she’d thought. He looked so trusting, and she didn’t
want to hurt him.

“I—I have no intentions of marrying anyone soon, Nathaniel.
You’re young and have much to look forward to.”
And I don’t love you, and
you’re Puritan, and . . .

Nathaniel’s cheeks flushed. “My father has promised me a
parcel of land, and with thy aunt’s house, we’d have a place to live in the
beginning. I’ll build thee a new house, and we’ll farm the land. Thou can be
happy here—I know it. My parents married a year younger than our age, and I
wouldn’t make thee go to Meeting, unless thou wanted to . . .”

Eliza stared hopelessly at him, tears brimming. He viewed
life so simply, and now she had to break his heart.

“Surely there was a girl you had your eye on before I came,”
she said, hoping to make the moment cheerful—how things had always been between
them. “I’m more than satisfied being friends with you for many years to come.”

“Friends? Do you mean friends who marry?”

“No,” she said, her throat tight. “I don’t want to marry,
you or anyone. Not now.”

He stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe her.

She pulled her hands away from his grasp. “Please, take me
to my aunt’s.” She looked straight ahead, avoiding Nathaniel’s soulful eyes.

He scooted right next to her and pulled her into his arms. She
felt his lips on her neck as he kissed her.

Was kissing before marriage even allowed among the Puritans?
“Nathaniel, you’re—”

But then his mouth was on hers, his kisses soft and clumsy
at first, then hardening into deliberate urgency.

It was not horrible, but she knew she couldn’t allow him to
kiss her. “Stop,” she said, pushing him away.

Nathaniel fell back, his face red. “Forgive me,” he
whispered.

“No, forgive me, for letting you think I’d welcome a
marriage proposal.” His face went ashen, and Eliza felt like she might be sick
with guilt. How could she have led Nathaniel to believe she’d want to marry
him? Was there something wrong with how she communicated with men? First
Thomas, now Nathaniel. She climbed down from the buckboard and went to the back
to retrieve her traveling case.

“Please don’t, Eliza,” came his voice, clear and strong
again. “I’ll take thee to thy house, and I swear I’ll not touch thee again.”

She hesitated. If Nathaniel was anything, he was honest. Knowing
it would be quite impossible to drag her belongings the remaining distance, she
secured the case onto the buckboard again and climbed into the rear seat,
relieved at Nathaniel’s promise.

He didn’t turn to look at her. Instead he urged the horse
into a trot, and before long, Aunt Maeve’s house came into view.

After Nathaniel pulled the horse to a stop, Eliza climbed
down to fetch her traveling case. In an instant, he was by her side and lifted
it down. When his arm brushed hers, a faint smile crossed his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He followed her into the house and
set the case down, waiting for further instructions.

“Thank you,” Eliza said, dismissing him with a half-hearted
smile. But he didn’t make a move to leave.

Instead, Nathaniel gazed at her, confidence in his eyes. She
glanced away, not sure what to say.

“I’ll wait for thee, Eliza, as long as it takes.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he turned and walked
outside. She heard him whistling as he climbed into the buckboard and snapped
the reins.
Don’t wait for me, Nathaniel Prann. I’ll be gone before you know
it.

Sinking onto the sofa, she couldn’t picture herself living
out her days in this complacent Puritan town. Then she began to laugh. Maybe
she should accept his proposal and insist he move, to New York City. His
innocent eyes would be assailed by all the evil-doers. He’d turn and run at the
first sight of a misdeed.

She sighed, not knowing what to think of Nathaniel. After
all, he had just kissed her—passionately. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as
she thought.

***

Eliza spent the afternoon cleaning the cottage. A layer of
dust had settled over the floors and furniture. Her mother would be arriving in
a couple of days, and there was a lot of work to be done before she arrived.
When the place was presentable, Eliza ventured into the garden. Aunt Maeve had
kept an immense herb collection, growing lavender, comfrey, and rosemary. Eliza
gathered a variety of the stubby plants and took them into the kitchen, and
hung them upside down to dry.

In the late afternoon, Eliza heard the sound of an axe
splitting wood. She left the kitchen and walked around the house towards the
sound. A man with a shirt tied about his waist stood in front of the shed,
chopping wood. Eliza found herself staring at the man’s back and its mass of
heavy scarring, as if he had been whipped multiple times. The color of his
rust-red hair told her who it was.

He turned. “Good day, miss.”

“Hello, Gus.”

He started to split the wood again, raising the axe over his
head then brought it down with an earsplitting thud.

Before the next chop, Eliza asked, “What are you doing?”

He paused and relaxed his grip on the axe. “Chopping Mistress
O’Brien’s wood.”

“Remind me what she pays you.”

“Eggs. Sometimes she gives me a whole basketful.”

Eliza watched him chop for another moment. Did he not know
that Maeve had died? He acted like Maeve had recently asked him to chop the wood.
He really was a strange man.

Eliza would have to see about some eggs. She walked into the
barn to check on the chickens. They perched in the coop, their feathers
fluttering with each cluck. A sack of feed had been opened, and its contents
were spilled onto the dirt. At least they hadn’t gone hungry.

 She reached under one hen that protested loudly and
collected its egg from the nest, then moved onto the next hen. When Eliza had
filled a basket, she left the barn and went to hand them over to Gus. But he
was no longer at the chopping block. He was stationed by the well, drinking
water in large gulps from a ladle.

Placing the basket of eggs on the edge of the well, Eliza
said, “Thank you.”

Gus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank ’ee,
Miss. But where’s Maeve?”

Eliza took a breath. “She . . . died last week.”

Gus’s eyes widened. “She died? But ’ow?”

“She was . . . killed. But they’ve found the one who did it.”

Gus’s eyes watered, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He
brushed away the tears and looked past Eliza. “I have to go.” He scrubbed at
his face, took the basket of eggs, and walked away. She watched him go, baffled
that he hadn’t known about Maeve’s death, and feeling bad about being the one
to tell him.    

Jon cursed again as the ink smudged the paper. The train
ride didn’t make writing easy. He poised his dip pen over the half-filled page
and scanned the first paragraph:

Miss Robinson,

I was pleased to find you safe and sound upon my return
trip to Maybrook. I appreciate the aid you gave me after the constable’s
unfeeling words. But as I said, not everything in Maybrook is painful to me.

He scratched the words out, then wadded up the paper, and
started fresh on a new paper.

Miss Robinson,

I was pleased to find you safe and sound upon my return
trip to Maybrook. I hope you are recovering from the past week. Mr. Doughty
mentioned that as a lawyer, he’d be happy to help you with any matters
regarding your new inheritance.

There. That was a better start. Formal, yet concerned. Not
too personal.

If you happen to find my mother’s journal, could you
please write to me at the address below? I will come personally to Maybrook to
fetch it.

He signed the letter and added his address, then sealed it
into an envelope. He’d post it as soon as he reached New York. The signed affidavits
were in Mr. Doughty’s carrying case; they’d been able to get four signatures
from Maybrook townspeople who remembered his mother’s pregnancy and Jon’s
birth. At least that business was over, and he could move forward in claiming
his inheritance.

Jon wouldn’t have to return to Maybrook ever again . . .
unless he received a letter from Eliza about the journal. That would be the
only reason he’d return. He leaned into his seat, glancing at Mr. Doughty, who
dozed across the aisle. There was no Henry Robinson sharing their compartment
this time. But Mr. Doughty had procured the Robinsons’ New York address, which
would come in handy if Jon had to follow up on the journal after Eliza returned
to New York.

He closed his eyes, hoping to get some rest. The nights in
Maybrook had proved difficult to sleep through, but that should be remedied
with the absence of Eliza. He didn’t have to worry about running into her. He
allowed himself to admit that he was drawn to her—quite unexpected, but he
decided it was due to the unusual circumstances in which they’d met and her
connection to his mother’s house.

He’d also been drawn to her innocent beauty, but what man
wouldn’t be? It was only a natural appreciation, nothing more than that. Jon
had no intention of changing any of his marital plans. He’d committed himself
to Apryl, and she was his future.

He dozed, the image of Eliza on his mind, making his sleep
quite restless. What seemed like only moments later, the train came to a halt, and
Jon awoke with a jolt.

“We’re here,” Doughty said.

Jon gathered his things, and the two men stepped off the
train together and shook hands.

“I’ll send the witness documents right away,” Doughty said. “And
I hope to hear back within a month.”

Jon blinked, still trying to clear the fog of the nap from
his mind. “I look forward to it.” As he moved into the milling crowd, he felt
lighthearted. Things were beginning to fall into place. He would soon claim his
inheritance, and, with Eliza on his side, he hoped to solve the puzzle of his
mother’s death. But that was as far as his acquaintance with her would go. He
was looking forward to seeing Apryl again, and getting Eliza off of his mind. Jon
hailed a carriage to take him straight to Apryl’s. He wanted to tell her the
news.

When he arrived at the Maughans, he climbed the steps and
rang the bell. But Apryl wasn’t home. According to the housemaid, the family was
gone and wouldn’t return for two days; they were still enjoying the country
life at the Beesley estate. Jon left feeling confused. Had she not been anxious
about staying at the Beesleys without him—so why had she prolonged her visit?
She must be enjoying Jessa’s company more than she’d expected. By the time he
reached home, Jon had decided to repack his bags and take up Thomas’s
invitation after all.

Time to get to know the man who Eliza turned down.

Just as the sun was sinking below the horizon, Jon arrived
at the long driveway leading to the Beesley estate. The house was a stately
two-story, surrounded by sprawling lawns and gardens. The carriage pulled
around the circular driveway, and Jon alighted with his overnight bag and stood
before the house, ablaze with lights and music flowing from the open doorway.

A butler must have heard the carriage and now waited as Jon
ascended the front staircase. He removed his overcoat and hat, placing them on
the outstretched arms of the butler. “I’m Mr. Jonathan Porter.”

The butler bowed and said, “I was told you might arrive. Mr.
Beesley is in the garden, but you’re welcome to wait for him inside.”

So they were expecting him? Certainly that was evidence of
Apryl’s optimism. Jon stepped into the grand hallway and looked at the
chandelier lit with hundreds of candles, blazing their welcome. To his right,
the music poured from the drawing room, but no one was dancing. In fact, except
for the musicians, the room was vacant.

He walked back to the butler. “I’ll find them in the garden,
I suppose.”

The butler dipped his head. “It’s this way, sir.”

Jon found the garden path easily enough, which was lit with
oriental lanterns. The heavy scent of blooming roses assailed him as he walked,
reminding him of Apryl.

He came to a clearing, expecting it to be filled with
several guests, including Apryl and her parents. But on the bench on the far
side, only Apryl and Thomas sat together.

Their shoulders were touching, and their hands intertwined.
Jon’s throat tightened. The bench was rather small, but they appeared as
intimate confidantes. It might be nothing, but the longer he stood there
unobserved, the more he doubted his own thoughts.

Apryl saw him first. Her mouth fell open, and she rose,
practically stumbling over her white gown of lace and ribbons. “Jon!” Her face
paled two shades. Behind her, Thomas rose and clumsily straightened the velvet
vest over his generously cut shirt.

Jon walked forward, pretending that everything was normal.
He even shook Beesley’s hand, which he found to be quite damp. The man was
perspiring—had he been all along? Or just now at the sighting of Jon?

 “Welcome, welcome,” Thomas said, removing a handkerchief
from his breast pocket and wiping his nose.

Jon could have broken that nose.

Apryl smiled and gave Jon a kiss on his cheek. “You’ve
returned early. I’m so delighted you decided to join us. I was hoping you’d
come.”

Even though Jon felt like decking Thomas, he smiled at the two. “I
didn’t expect Apryl to still be here, but when I learned of her extended stay,
I decided to join the fun.”

“W—well, of course,” Thomas stuttered then cleared his
throat. “Perhaps I’d better see if your parents have made themselves
comfortable in the library.” He hesitated as he met Jon’s gaze. “And when you’re
ready, I’ll have the butler, Mr. West, show you your room.”

Jon offered a mock bow and watched Thomas waddle down the
garden path. Jon turned and looked at Apryl, whose face had grown quite
flushed. Holding out his arm, he asked, “Care for a stroll?”

“Let me fetch my wrap,” she said, turning back to the bench.

No “love” or “dear.” It made him sick to think of what was so
obviously transpiring between his fiancée and Thomas.

Jon guided Apryl along the trails of the garden in the
gathering shadows. When he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, he stopped
and faced her. “Do you want to break our engagement so you can court your
bloated host?”

Apryl’s eyes widened, filling with tears. “Of course not,
Jon. I—I wouldn’t dream—”

“I saw the two of you together, pressed together like fish
in a tin—”

“It was nothing. He’s easy to talk to, and he’s fun to be
around, but he’s not like you. You’re . . .” Her voice broke.

“What am I, Apryl? Easy to talk to? Fun to be around? I
thought we had an understanding, a commitment.” Frustration boiled inside of
him. “I don’t want a wife who will always be looking for the next entertaining party,
or the next man who romances her—who’s
not
her husband.”

Tears trickled down her cheeks. But even in the rising moonlight,
her eyes blazed, her cheeks aflame.

“Why can’t you tell me, Jon?” she asked, her voice
trembling.

His eyes hardened. “Tell you what?”

“That you love me. Why won’t you say it?”

Because I don’t know if I do.
Jon gaped then watched
her face dissolve into sobs. How had this suddenly become his fault? “Did I not
ask you to marry me? Have I not shown you every courtesy? Just because I’m not
a dandy, or some tripe that composes poems.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Thomas doesn’t compose poems. But he
doesn’t hold back his affections, either.”

Jon stared at her, his face heating up. “Are you saying
you’ve kissed him? Have you been intimate with him?”

She gasped and turned from him, her shoulders shaking.

Jon needed a man to punch. Had Eliza and Thomas . . .? He
couldn’t let himself think about that. The thought of them together was
mortifying. He had no desire to comfort her, to tell her the words she wanted
to hear.

“So you’ll not tell me you love me.” Her voice trembled. “Your
silence is my answer.”

“You won’t answer me about Thomas, yet you make
proclamations about my intentions and my feelings?”

“Jon,” Apryl said, her voice pleading. “Tell me if you love
me.”

He opened his mouth to say it, but something stuck in his
throat. He’d never said those words to someone else. What did they mean anyway?
He swallowed at the dryness in his throat, but try as he might, he couldn’t
bring himself to say what she wanted to hear. “Isn’t my anger at seeing you
with that beast of a man enough?”

Apryl wiped furiously at new tears coming down her cheeks. “Jonathan
Porter, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever known.” She turned and fled
along the path.

Call her back. Tell her you love her, that you want to
marry her and that you forgive her.
But his words froze as he watched her
disappear into the trees.

When Jon entered the Beesley home, the musicians had stopped
playing. He found Mr. and Mrs. Maughan in the library, who greeted him
pleasantly. He was surprised to see Apryl sitting near the fire, leafing
through the pages of a book. She watched him as he came into the room. He’d
have thought she would have run to Thomas. Jon waited for her eyes to offer
welcome, but she lowered her gaze and ignored him.

Mr. Maughan asked, “How was your trip to Massachusetts?”

“I didn’t find what I needed, so I’m working on another
solution.” Jon thought he saw Apryl raise her head.

Mrs. Maughan nodded. “I’ve heard the coast there is lovely this
time of year.”

“Yes.” Although the loveliness that he had experienced had
nothing to do with the landscape.

“Why don’t you read us something, Apryl?” Mrs. Maughan
asked, breaking into Jon’s thoughts.

Apryl looked down at the book she was holding, turned a few
pages, and began to read aloud. Jon relaxed in the wing-backed chair and lit
one of Thomas’s imported cigars, listening to his fiancée’s melodic voice
reading Bryant’s “Green River.”

When breezes are soft and skies are fair,

I steal an hour from study and care,

And hie me away to the woodland scene,

Where wanders the stream with waters of green;

Jon closed his eyes, picturing Maybrook. In his mind he was
walking through the woodlands bordering the fields near Ruth’s house. Then he
saw Eliza. She stood near the edge of the trees, waiting for him. As he
approached, she walked towards him, smiling.

And gaze upon thee in silent dream,

For in thy lonely and lovely stream,

An image of that calm life appears,

That won my heart in my greener years.

The poem ended, and Jon opened his eyes, surprised to see Apryl
looking at him expectantly. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Very nice.”

A slight smile crossed her lips. It appeared peace had been
made, which was just as well for him.

***

The following morning, Thomas appeared at the breakfast
table, dressed in a riding habit. The tight jodhpurs and narrow riding boots
only accentuated the man’s poor figure in the worst possible manner. Jon nearly
choked on a bite of cold ham. He wondered how Apryl could even pretend to be
entertained by him—let alone kiss him, if that’s all that had happened.

Thomas tossed a newspaper onto the table. “It’s finally
happened. My foolish partner has broken the last straw with his increasingly
poor reputation. His daughter landed herself in jail earlier this week.”

The Robinsons.
Before Jon could read the article, Mr.
Maughan snatched the newspaper and scanned the front page.

“No, it didn’t make front page news,” Thomas said in a snide
tone, “but there it is on page two, all right, by the gossip section. See for
yourself.”

Mr. Maughan turned the page and began to read. “‘Mr. Henry
Robinson, well-known furniture dealer and connoisseur, has again disgraced
himself in high society. It appears that his daughter, Eliza Robinson, has
become independently situated, but only on the occasion of her aunt’s murder.’”

Apryl let out a small gasp and looked over at Thomas. “You
did well to distance yourself from the family.”

Thomas’s smile was triumphant. Jon set his mouth in a firm
line, ordering himself to stay silent.

Mr. Maughan read on. “‘While Eliza Robinson enjoys her new
property, her poor aunt is barely cold in the grave. Perhaps she was an
accomplice in her aunt’s unfortunate death, and therefore did not need anyone’s
hand in marriage to secure a fortune.’”