by Amy Harmon
“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.
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.
Chapter Ten
“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.
Chapter Eleven
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.