by Amy Harmon
Jonathan Porter
He set the pen down. It was done. Now he could forget about her and attend to more important matters. He would begin the day with a trip to the flower shop and purchase a bouquet for Apryl.
Late in the morning, Jon emerged from the flower shop, a bouquet of white lilies for Apryl in his hand. A couple approached him, and he stepped to the side to let them pass.
“Good morning, Mr. Porter,” the man said.
“Ah, Mr. Robinson,” Jon said, noticing who it was for the first time. “What a pleasant surprise.”
The woman at Mr. Robinson’s side regarded him with interest. She was fair-haired and stately.
“This is my wife, Grace.”
“Pleased to meet you ma’am.” Jon briefly clasped her hand.
She seemed to radiate pleasure. In her smile, Jon recognized the likeness of her daughter, although Eliza’s eyes and coloring came from her father.
“Haven’t we met?” Mrs. Robinson asked.
Jon smiled. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
“Grace, Mr. Porter is the young man whom I met on my journey to Maybrook,” Mr. Robinson said.
She smiled politely, but distaste crossed her features. “A quaint town I must say. I returned from there yesterday.”
A carriage rattled past, and Jon waited for the noise of it to fade before saying, “Did you enjoy your visit, ma’am?”
Mr. Robinson broke in. “Mr. Porter was raised in Maybrook. He was the one who helped Eliza get out of jail.”
Mrs. Robinson brought a hand to her throat, as if she didn’t want to be reminded of something so distasteful.
“Is your daughter quite recovered from her ordeal?” Jon asked.
Mr. Robinson chuckled, and Mrs. Robinson pursed her lips together.
“Our daughter is a stubborn one, but she will eventually come around to her mother’s more civilized ways,” Mr. Robinson said.
Jon looked from husband to wife. What was Eliza being stubborn about?
“She refused to return with her mother and remains in Maybrook for the time being,” Mr. Robinson continued.
Jon gripped the bouquet tightly. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Amusement leapt into Mr. Robinson’s eyes. “Obviously you don’t know my daughter well, Mr. Porter, or you would know that she doesn’t concern herself with the conventional.”
“Even when her life might be in danger?” Jon asked.
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Robinson’s voice rose in pitch.
“You haven’t heard?” Jon said. “The man who they thought killed Mrs. O’Brien turned out to be the wrong man, which means the real killer hasn’t been caught.”
Mrs. Robinson gasped and gripped her husband’s arm.
“My humble apologies. I thought you knew,” Jon said. “I sent a telegram to the constable in Maybrook so that he could reopen the investigation.”
Mr. Robinson had grown pale.
“Let’s find a place to sit down.” Jon led the way a short distance past the row of shops, and they sat together on a bench. “Is your daughter still staying at the Pranns’ house?”
“No,” Mrs. Robinson whispered. “She’s alone at Maeve’s.”
“That obstinate girl,” Mr. Robinson said. “I’ll drag her back here if that’s what it takes.”
“Perhaps the constable has already informed her, and she’s taken protective measures,” Jon suggested. But worry had already burrowed inside him.
“Let’s hope.” Mr. Robinson’s jaw was set firm. “We should go, dear. I need to catch the afternoon train to Maybrook.”
The couple rose from the bench and hastened away.
Jon stared after the Robinsons, thoughts of Eliza in danger tumbling through his mind. But what could he do? At least her father was on the way to Maybrook now. After several minutes, Jon finally walked back home. As he reached the doorstep, he realized that he still held the bouquet of flowers in his hand. A note from Apryl lay on the hall table—an invitation for dinner that night. Drained, Jon tossed the fresh flowers onto a table and scratched an acceptance reply.
* * *
Hours later, Jon found himself seated at the grand table in the Maughan’s massive dining room. Thomas Beesley and his sister, Jessa, were present, although they weren’t seated next to him this time. It was like a recurring nightmare. Apryl sat on his left, resplendent in a scarlet dress trimmed in velvet. Jon thought of Thomas’s words from the night with disdain, about being able to provide the lavish lifestyle Apryl was accustomed to.
Jon caught a glimpse of Thomas watching Apryl, and the familiar ill feeling returned. Last night’s visit wasn’t about representing Thomas in some legal matter against Mr. Robinson. Thomas was sizing up his competition. He’d probably laughed the whole way home. Jon’s eyes narrowed in Thomas’s direction.
May the best man win.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, my love,” Apryl purred next to him.
Jon shrugged and took another sip of wine. He was feeling reckless, moody, and was on his third glass. The over-confident beast of a man across the table would soon be sorry he interfered. Jon had no intentions of representing Thomas against Mr. Robinson.
“Let’s play charades,” someone suggested.
“Oh, let’s do,” Apryl squealed and took Jon’s arm. He followed her into the drawing room, where the guests chattered excitedly.
“Thomas should start us off,” his sister said.
Thomas stepped forward, awesome in gaudy attire that would have made a king pale in comparison. Clapping greeted him, and he immediately delved into character. The charades had begun.
* * *
Eliza gaped at the broken glass scattered across Maeve’s floor.
“Is everything all right?” Ruth called from the porch.
“Someone… broke in. The side window is shattered.” She and Ruth had come to check on Maeve’s cottage. It was apparent that Eliza had made the right decision in not staying there the night before.
Ruth came in and stood next to Eliza, staring at the mayhem strewn about Maeve’s hearth room. Ashes and torn pages from books covered the fireplace. The lighthouse picture had been ripped down, and a long gash punctured the front of the painting.
Arm in arm, the two women proceeded cautiously toward the kitchen. The sturdy table was upturned, and the drawers dangled open.
“What were they looking for?” Eliza whispered in dismay.
A cupboard door had been torn from its hinges. Others had been scarred with knife marks. Eliza felt frozen in place. Whoever it had been had given no mercy.
“We should check thine aunt’s room.”
Eliza exhaled. They walked to Maeve’s room, where Ruth pushed open the door, which stood ajar. The bedding had been pulled off and lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Whoever it was is not going to give up easily.” Ruth pointed at the chest of disheveled drawers in Maeve’s room. “It’s a blessing you didn’t stay here last night.”
Eliza could hardly comprehend the destruction as fear iced through her. They moved back into the hallway. The stair-boards leading to the second level had been pried open.
Shivering at the thought of the intruder making another appearance, Eliza said, “Let’s go. We must notify the constable immediately.”
“Yes,” Ruth agreed.
They left the house, and Eliza felt like she was stepping out of a dark hole into the light. But still she shivered. The women climbed into the wagon and headed for town.
* * *
After the constable had finished his investigation of the house, he brought Ruth and Eliza inside. “Have a seat,” he instructed.
Both women sat on the sofa, on top of the stuffing protruding from slashes.
“Did Maeve have anything in her possession that might be of value to someone else?” he asked.
“Nothing I know of,” Eliza said.
“Everyone knows how simply Maeve and her husband lived,” Ruth added. “Why, this land was the
only thing of value they owned.”
The constable looked past the ladies as if he was in deep thought. When he focused back on them, he said, “There must be something more to this. Thou must try to think of something Maeve might have had that someone else would desperately want.”
“Secret recipes?” Ruth offered.
The constable’s mouth pulled down. “Thou wilt have to try harder than that.”
“If my aunt had a deposit of money, it would have been stated in her will, wouldn’t it?” Eliza asked.
“I would assume so,” the constable said. “But let’s say it’s not money. What else could Maeve have had that would be of value?”
“Eliza?” A male voice boomed from outside.
Her father. Her heart nearly burst at the sound of his voice. She hurried outside, having never before been so glad to see him in her life. It was truly him, in his dark suit, his hat askew. She rushed over and embraced him.
Her father held her tightly. “I’ve come to take you home,” he said, then pulled away. “Are you all right?”
She took a steadying breath. “Someone broke in and destroyed everything.”
“Were you hurt?” he asked.
“No, I stayed at Ruth’s last night… she’s the woman who raised Jon Porter.”
Her father put his arm about her shoulders as Ruth and the constable appeared on the front porch.
The constable spoke first. “We’ll board up the place until the murderer is found.” He looked at Eliza’s father. “I’d like to ask thee a few questions about thy sister. Come see what’s been done to the place.”
“Certainly,” her father said and followed the constable inside.
Ruth moved to Eliza’s side, grasping her hand. “Perhaps it’s better to return to New York where it’s safe.”
Eliza nodded in agreement. Every bit of stubbornness inside her had fled. The gossip columns could do their worst, but Eliza couldn’t remain in Maybrook any longer.
“Thou are both welcome to stay with me tonight.”
Chapter Seventeen
Long after Ruth and her father had retired for the night, Eliza lay in bed awake, thinking about Helena Talbot. She hadn’t yet finished reading the journal, and tomorrow she would be on a train back to New York with her father. Then she’d have to return the book to Jon. Lighting a candle on the nightstand, she pulled the trunk from under her bed and removed the journal, deciding to finish reading it tonight. She climbed back into bed, pulling the covers high, and began to read.
December 5, 1815. Any day my child will be born. I have felt a few pains over the past days. As thou seest, my handwriting is somewhat shaky. I am weak and alone. But I am not afraid. This is a challenge from God, and I will meet it. Ruth said she would look in on me from time to time. I hope she takes it upon herself to come soon, for I feel my time growing nigh.
December 12, 1815. I can finally see the light. I gave birth to a healthy son on December 6th. Praise God. During the labor, a hurricane hit the coast and most of my windows were blown out. Ruth arrived just in time. She settled me into the room under the stairs, and Little Jonny was born. He is strong and perfect in every way. Ruth cleared the debris around the house and ordered new window panes. She showed me how to care for my baby. For a woman with no children of her own, she knows a lot.
January 2, 1816. I’ve written a letter to Jonathan telling him of his son’s arrival. I pray he will receive it and come for me soon. I pray for the letter’s safe journey across the ocean—the ocean that divides our hearts. The townspeople have left small gifts at the doorstep after learning of the birth. I am overawed by their kindness. Little Jonny changes every day. His eyes are bright and inquisitive. It’s such a joy to have someone to love who doesn’t judge me. At night I watch him sleep. His soft breaths are so trusting and innocent. Sometimes I can’t hold him close enough, trying to ease the pain I feel in missing his father. Ruth is the only one whom I have seen, unless thou countest the lighthouse keeper, Gus. He is widowed with a young son. He’s an odd sort, nice enough, but something in his eyes reminds me of a hunted fox.
Even my own mother will not come see her grandchild.
March 18, 1816. Gus has been helping me a lot lately in the evenings. On those nights, I fix him supper, and we sit together in the evenings and watch our sons. His company helps to pass the time. Little Gus is awkward and clumsy, but gentle and loving with my son, something I admire. Even though Gus doesn’t go to Meeting, the townspeople seem to respect him.
I haven’t received a reply from Jonathan. The wait is almost unbearable. I wonder if his reply was lost in its travels. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.
The candlelight sputtered then dimmed. Eliza lit another and turned the page, surprised to see the next date—more than a year later.
July 23, 1817. I’ve decided to go to England. I’m raising chickens and selling eggs to anyone who will buy them, to raise money for the fare. I often attend market day, and some of the townspeople have been quite friendly. My father stopped by the other night and gawked at Jonny. When he picked up my son, he had tears in his eyes, and he held the baby for a long time. He promised that Mother would eventually visit. I doubt she ever will. I told Father I want to go to England, and he seemed concerned for my well-being. That made me sad, but I told him that at least I could hide my past there. After a quiet pause, he said that he would try to help with the fare.
September 1817. Gus comes over every night. I have been watching his son during the day while he’s working. Little Gus is slow-witted, but sweet. Gus chops wood, keeps the house in good repair, and gives me money for food. I have found some comfort in his presence. I can’t help but compare him to Jonathan. As the days pass, memories of Jonathan seem to grow ever more distant. As I watch little Jonny toddle about the house, I think of his father and wonder why he hasn’t replied to my letters. Many nights I have soaked my pillow with tears.
October 12, 1817. My father came to the market today. He said he heard that Jonathan was married last summer. The anger in his eyes betrayed his concern for me. I turned away, trying to hide my tears. I think maybe my father, too, hoped that Jonathan would return and make an honorable woman out of me. I feel worthless and used. I bore and am rearing Jonathan’s son, yet he has forgotten what we were to each other.
I have been so foolish letting my heart rule my head. I used to think the ocean was the only thing dividing our hearts; now I know that my heart has drowned in the deep waters.
Eliza wiped away a stray tear, feeling the pain in Helena’s words.
October 28, 1817. My heart is heavy with grief. If only I could see Jonathan and know for myself whether he has married. Is his wife carrying his child? Gus came over last night, and I decided to tell him of my burden. He was sympathetic and comforted me. I found myself feeling secure and appreciated in his strong arms. I let him share my bed.
I awoke this morning and felt worse than ever for sharing my bed with Gus. When he left, I ran outside and vomited. What have I become? The very thing my mother called me. A whore.
November 2, 1817. I have sunk into the depths of misery. My heart is dead, but I continue to act as a mother and a mistress. After Gus leaves each morning, I pretend that Jonny and I are waiting for his father to come home after a hard day’s work. It is only when I hear Gus’s heavy step on the front porch that my dream is crushed yet again. It is as if I am trying to climb a cliff but keep sliding back.
The only one who knows about me and Gus is Ruth. But I’m not worried about her telling the townspeople, because she seems quite fond of both Gus and little Gus.
Eliza wondered if Jon remembered playing with little Gus, and of having the elder Gus staying at the house. What a strange twist of events.
February 13, 1818. I am leaving this hell I’ve created. I loathe Gus’s touch, knowing it may be all I have for the rest of my life. His clumsy hands repulse me, and I can no longer pretend it is Jonathan caressing me. I’ve saved enough money for the
fare to England. If Gus finds out, he’ll be furious. I’ll have to pack in secret for Jonny and me, and somehow get away. Maybe I could leave little Gus at Ruth’s house and hope that I’m not found missing for a long time. I’ve gone into town to see about the train schedule and plan to leave in a few weeks.
February 20, 1818.Yesterday, Gus found the train ticket. When my lies didn’t satisfy him, he hit me so hard, I fear my nose will never look the same. Sobbing, I confessed the whole plan. But my tears couldn’t coax mercy from him. He stripped my clothes off and bruised me with his passion. I pretended to faint, and he finally climbed off of me and left the room. I stayed in bed for a long time, waiting for him to leave the house, but he didn’t. Sometime in the middle of the night, he brought me tea and watched me drink it. Then he began to kiss me. I had to do everything possible not to retch. Finally this morning, he left. I am so bruised and sore that I can hardly walk. I don’t know where he went, but I’m afraid of what he’ll do next. He took little Gus with him, so maybe he’ll stay in his own house from now on. Jonny lies in bed with me, stroking my face—my sweet angel.
Eliza fought back the tears. She turned the page with trembling hands and found page after page blank.
Helena Talbot never wrote in her journal again.
Eliza squeezed her eyes shut at the horrible images she’d read. Gus entering the house, and stomping into Helena’s room, demanding her affection, angrily stripping her dignity away.
A breeze stirred the pages of the journal, and the hairs on her arm rose. “Ruth?” she called, peering into the darkness beyond the glow of the candle.
Silence.
“Father?”
A whisper sounded in her ear. “Help Maeve.”
Eliza turned her head, her eyes searching frantically in the darkness. The voice was back. Eliza climbed out of bed. “Helena?” The beating of Eliza’s heart was the only answer.
She stole out of Ruth’s house, running blindly, stumbling over the uneven earth, until she collapsed onto the ground. Helena had been murdered. Eliza felt it. Her jealous lover, Gus Senior, must have done it. There was no other explanation, and it was up to Eliza to discover the truth.