by Amy Harmon
Questions whirled through Eliza’s mind. Her aunt’s words were far from comforting, and with such a wild storm outside, it took everything in her not to start at every sound. She retrieved her cup with trembling hands and took another sip of the tea, hoping the hot liquid would put some calm into her. Another piece of debris hit the window, and the cup shook in her hand.
“She was about your age, and her name was Helena Talbot,” Maeve went on, oblivious to the tempest outside.
“Who?” The ghost? Eliza’s mind added the second question. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear this story on such an awful night. She couldn’t very well excuse herself. And do what, stay awake in the dark? Listen to the frightful storm alone?
“His name was Jonathan Porter,” Maeve continued. “Some say he was ten years her elder. I suppose he could have been even older than that, for all the places he’d seen.”
A shrill whistle knifed its way through Eliza’s chest as the wind vibrated the clapboard walls. She huddled against the sofa, wishing that the fire were brighter and the storm had already passed.
“It’s been twenty years since Helena was lost. Some say she’ll come back.” A soft smile spread across Maeve’s face. “Others say they can hear her voice on nights like this.” She paused as the wind screeched in confirmation.
The voice. The one she’d heard on the cliffs. Eliza tried not to tremble.
“Scandal surrounded Helena, and Helena’s mother never forgave her, never even visited her daughter’s illegitimate baby,” Maeve said. “It’s said that ol’ Mistress Talbot went mad from hearing her daughter’s tortured spirit cry during the night.”
Tortured spirit? “What happened?”
“Helena disappeared. Then her mother lost her mind. The townspeople said that Helena had thrown herself off the cliff, but a body was never found.” Maeve smoothed the apron on her lap and began to rock slowly. “Ole Mistress Talbot used to comb the cliffs looking for her daughter. One night during a terrible storm she climbed upon a horse, driven to search for her daughter yet again, but she plunged off the cliff and fell to her own death. Mother and daughter were both gone in the same year.”
Why had Mistress Talbot mounted a horse in such a storm? The woman had been mad indeed. Had she heard her daughter’s voice at the edge of the cliff? Eliza could very well imagine the absolute terror of the mother. Eliza’s eyes stung as she imagined the poor woman, lost, cold, wet, falling to her death.
“I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, after Jonathan Porter returned to England, Helena discovered she was with child.” Maeve’s voice brought Eliza back to the story. “Mr. Porter was a wealthy bachelor, and he should have married her properly. Weeks passed with no word from him, and eventually the minister and town authorities banned Helena and her growing belly from public sight.”
“She was banned from sight?”
“Helena’s shame was so great, she couldn’t even accept visitors,” Maeve said, her expression grave. She sipped at her tea, closing her eyes briefly. “The poor dear lived alone—couldn’t face her own family or any of the townspeople for the disgrace of it.”
A pang twisted inside Eliza. Alone. Pregnant. Disgraced. “Wasn’t there anyone she could turn to?”
“Oh, some took pity and left baskets of food at her doorstep, but only on the darkest of nights.” Maeve looked past Eliza as the candles in the room flickered. “The night of her son’s birth, there was a violent storm—the townspeople had never experienced such a one. By morning, Helena’s place was hardly recognizable, yet she’d delivered a healthy boy despite it all. She stayed away from town for the first year. Her mother never came to visit the baby.”
What sort of mother refuses to see her own grandchild? Eliza wondered. The madness of Mistress Talbot must have been a mixture of grief and guilt.
“I still remember his dark locks and black eyes… He was only three years old when his mother disappeared.” Maeve stared at the fire as if seeing it all in her mind. Her voice quavered, and after a deep breath she said, “Someone found the boy wandering the edge of the cliff all alone, looking for his mother. Many think his mother drowned.”
Thinking of a little boy out in the dark all by himself, made Eliza feel ill. She twisted her hands, trying to comprehend the incredible tragedy—for Helena, for her mother, for her baby. “What happened to the boy?”
Maeve folded the apron she’d been mending. “Little Jon? Reared by the old spinster Ruth. The boy was a quiet lad. He moved to the big city some years back, and the town hasn’t seen him since.” She rose and busied herself with collecting the tea things.“I found Helena’s journal in the lighthouse a few weeks ago. Strange that it would show up after all of these years. Maybe you can help me read it since my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“Can I see it now?” Eliza asked.
“Later. I left it in the lighthouse. It seemed disrespectful to move it. For all I know, I found it exactly where she put it.”
Eliza wanted to know what was in the journal. The wind outside had mellowed, but it was still raining hard. Rising to help Maeve clean up, Eliza said, “Maybe her journal will tell us what really happened to her.”
“Perhaps.” Doubt crossed Maeve’s face. “It may answer why her spirit can’t rest, but I don’t know if that’s such a good thing.”
“Why not?” Eliza felt a bit lightheaded.
Maeve hesitated. “Because, my dear, this is the house where Helena delivered her poor child and where she lived the three years until her disappearance. Was it an accident? I don’t know. But I do know that her sorrow of raising a fatherless son must have been inconsolable, because each time a storm rolls in, people claim they can still hear her crying.”
Chapter Two
After Maeve retired for the night, Eliza lay curled in her bed underneath a heavy goose-down cover. What had become of Helena Talbot? And why had her lover never returned? The voice Eliza had heard had to be Helena. Had the woman thrown herself off the cliff? And if so, was her spirit now obsessed to make another person to do the same? The thoughts rocked through her.
Eliza burrowed deeper into the covers, but warmth wouldn’t come. She closed her eyes, desperate to take her mind off of the deep chill that Maeve’s story had brought. What would her parents think about the sordid details of a despairing ghost? Eliza’s parents had decided that if she spent a few months with her aunt, it would give the gossip columns a chance to cool over Eliza’s rejection of the pompous Mr. Thomas Beesley. When he had made his intentions clear, and she turned down his marriage proposal, her family was spurned by the inner circles of New York society.
Eliza’s face grew hot with familiar indignation. It hadn’t happened all at once, but with subtle nuances here and there. A dropped invitation, a neglected garden party. It isn’t fair. Why should she have to marry a forty-plus-year old man, because he was her father’s business partner and very wealthy? She cringed at his image in her mind. Thomas was shorter than Eliza by several inches, and his middle so large that she wondered how he laced his shoes in the morning. What appalled her most was his constantly running nose—and commentary to match.
When rumors circulated that Thomas was about to ask for her hand, Eliza had brushed them off. Her parents had always respected and spoke highly of the man, but they had never alluded to a possible union. To her dismay, a short time later at the company’s annual charity picnic, he proposed on bended knee. Over the sound of exploding fireworks, he took her hand and asked, “Miss Eliza Robinson, will you bestow upon me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She had stared at him, wondering if she had heard right. Her mind spun as Thomas smiled with hope and waited patiently.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza began, but quickly stopped when she saw his reddened complexion deepen to purple. She had made a fool of him. He left in a hurry, and by the next morning Eliza discovered that it was too late to make her apologies. Thomas had already confronted her father, who apologized profusely, then came s
traight up to lecture her. But Eliza refused to change her mind, and by evening, the gossip columns were in full swing, painting her as a heartless flirt.
At least, she thought as her eyes grew heavy, Helena never had to worry about printed gossip columns in Maybrook.
* * *
The sound of shattering glass startled Eliza awake. Head pounding, she bolted out of bed and grabbed her robe. The windows in her bedroom shook from the howling wind—ready to burst. Had her aunt broken something? Fallen? Eliza slipped on her shoes before hurrying out of her room.
“Aunt Maeve?” she called. She nearly stumbled as she descended the stairs in the dark. When she reached her aunt’s room, she found the door locked. Eliza pounded on the wood. “Are you all right in there?” A burst of cold air hit her bare ankles as she shook the handle. “Aunt Maeve!”
The whining grew louder—or was it crying? Gooseflesh on her arms spread to her neck until the hair on her head prickled. Something was wrong. Her aunt couldn’t be sleeping through all of this commotion.
Eliza frantically kicked at the heavy door, but there was no give. She dashed into the kitchen and scrambled in the dim light for anything to use to break the door handle. Finding a cast iron skillet, she hurried back to her aunt’s room.
She froze. The door now stood ajar.
“Aunt Maeve?” she called again in a shaky voice. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?” As she stepped into the room, a cold wind cut through her muslin nightgown. Shards of glass lay haphazardly on the plank floor. Eliza’s gaze moved to the broken panes of her aunt’s bedroom window. And then Eliza looked toward the bed. Maeve lay motionless, her face turned away, hidden in the shadows.
Eliza gripped the skillet in one hand and walked to the bed. “Aunt Maeve?” There was no answer.
As she circled the bed, terror caught in Eliza’s throat. Maeve’s head was facing her, eyes closed. Eliza reached out and touched her aunt’s hand. It felt like cold clay.
Eliza felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She backed away from her aunt, staring in horror at the still figure.
Aunt Maeve was dead.
She slowly backed out of the bedroom. As she passed through the doorway, she turned, her hands stretched out before her. She made her way down the hall until she reached the kitchen. Her foot caught on the rug, and she fell headlong into the sideboard.
She cried out. Her forehead burned with pain and her ankle throbbed. But she couldn’t stop to examine or tend to her injuries—she had to find help. She took several breaths then pulled herself up by holding onto the sideboard.
Dizziness stunned her, and she sank to the ground, pain pulsing through her. She exhaled as tears burned her eyes. This wasn’t the moment to give into the pain. I have to get help. Eliza crawled to the front door. She had to get to the barn and saddle the horse. When she reached the front door, she pulled herself up by the handle, and opened it. Debris swirled everywhere outside.
Rain drove nearly sideways in the fierce wind. Limping precariously on her injured foot, Eliza made her way through the yard. She was soaked in seconds and wished she’d put on her coat.
Her head pounded, and she realized that the sound she thought was in her head was really that of an approaching horse. She turned to face the horse as the animal grew closer, shielding her face from the driving rain to see.
The rider reined in his mount, stopping mere inches away from where Eliza stood. She stretched out her arms. “Help me,” she gasped.
* * *
Eliza awakened with a start. White curtains above her billowed in the soft breeze. Where am I? She rose to her elbows and groaned. Her head throbbed something fierce, and her mouth was parched. Sinking back into the pillow, she carefully touched her forehead, finding it covered with a bandage. The sleeve of her nightgown was different, and she realized she was wearing someone else’s, faded but clean. What had happened to her own clothing? She turned her head and saw that she was in a small simple room. A rocking chair stood in the corner, with a patchwork quilt thrown over the back. Her gaze roamed to the opposite corner, where a lone basin sat atop a washstand.
The sound of lowered voices reached her ears. It was his voice—the man who had saved her last night. As Eliza strained to hear the words, the memory of the previous night returned.
She squeezed her eyes shut at the images—finding her aunt’s body, falling against the sideboard, crawling through the house, facing the storm, a man riding into the yard on a horse. Despite the chaotic weather, the man’s face was etched in her memory—dark eyes and black hair as wild as the storm’s surf. Opening her eyes again, Eliza stared at the white curtains fluttering above her. Where was she? The voices from the other room had fallen quiet. A door shut.
“Don’t leave,” Eliza whispered. She wanted to find out who had helped her. Pulling herself out of bed, she stepped onto the wooden floor. She gasped in pain when her foot touched the ground, but she gritted her teeth and hobbled to the window. A horse came into view, and for a brief moment, Eliza saw the man’s profile before he turned and galloped away from the house. It was him—the man who had found her.
“Up already, love?” came a voice from the doorway.
Startled, Eliza turned and looked at the wizened woman who had walked into the room. “Where am I?”
The woman’s blue eyes peered through delicate folds of aging skin. “Thou are in my house.”
“And who are you?”
“Ruth.” The woman flashed a nearly toothless smile. “Thou hast had quite a night. Why don’t thou climb back into bed, dear, and I’ll bring thee a hot cup of tea.”
Eliza obeyed and drew the covers around her. She would ask more questions of the Puritan woman when she returned. Tears burned as she thought about her aunt. What had happened to her? Was Maeve’s body still in the cottage?
“Here thou are.”
Eliza took the cup of tea gratefully.
“Jonny said he found thee outside Maeve’s cottage.”
Perhaps the woman didn’t know that her aunt was dead. “Maeve is my aunt. Last night I found her…” She bit her lip.
“I know about Maeve. Thou told us last night. And I knew Maeve had her niece, Eliza Robinson, staying with her.” Ruth placed a gnarled hand over Eliza’s arm. “I’m sorry we haven’t met until now.”
Eliza blinked back tears. She was sorry too, sorry for a lot of things.
“Don’t worry, dear. Jonny went to fetch the constable,” Ruth said. “Has Mistress Maeve been ill, dear?”
“No,” she whispered, finding it difficult to speak. She took a sip of tea. The flavor was strong and burned her throat as she swallowed, making her eyes water more.
Ruth patted Eliza’s shoulder and said, “It’s my special medicinal tea. Thou wilt gain thy strength back quickly.”
Eliza blew on the tea before taking another scorching sip.
“We’ll have to make arrangements for thy aunt.” Ruth’s voice was kind. “Doest thou know what her last wishes were?”
“No,” Eliza said, new tears forming. “I have no idea.”
Ruth sighed. “She never did want to outlive her husband.”
Eliza thought of her uncle, who had died a few years back. He was a quiet man with a warm and steady manner. Maeve and her husband had come to visit her family in New York once or twice, but their simple ways were out of place there. The Sunday activities were unbearable for them, and they had spent the day in the guest room, reading the Bible. Later, her father explained that laughing and speaking in a loud voice was prohibited on the Sabbath for Puritans, along with other worldly activities.
Ruth crossed the room and opened the window wider, letting in the morning breeze.
“Is Jonny your son?” Eliza asked.
Ruth turned, a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. “In a manner of speaking, yes. His mother died when he was young, and I took him into my care.”
And then Eliza knew. Jonny was… “His mother was Helena Talbot?”
A sh
adow passed over Ruth’s face. “Thou hast heard of her, I see. Aye, Helena was her name.” She pursed her lips and fell silent. She seemed reluctant to say more.
Exhaustion pulled at Eliza; she closed her eyes. Ruth murmured something about sleeping, and Eliza was grateful to oblige, as she allowed herself to sink into nothingness.
* * *
Someone touched her shoulder, and Eliza startled awake.
An elderly woman stood over her. Eliza remembered it was Ruth and that she was in the woman’s house because of the awfulness of the night before.
“The constable’s arrived,” Ruth said. “He’ll want to ask thee a few questions.”
Eliza smoothed her hair as Ruth left to answer the door. She sat up, adjusting the quilt about her. Her head throbbed, and her throat felt thick. A few moments later, Ruth led the constable into the bedroom. He bore a striking resemblance to Thomas, with a plenty wide girth. Eliza swallowed nervously.
“Good mornin’ miss. Sorry t’ hear about thy aunt.”
The constable’s dark eyes glinted in the morning light, and his mouth worked beneath his heavy mustache. It was his nose that reminded her most of her rejected beau—it twitched and sniffed persistently.
“About what time didst thou find her?” the constable continued, shuffling a step closer.
Eliza clasped her hands to steady their trembling. “I’m not certain. The sound of breaking glass woke me. It wasn’t very late, but with the storm, we went to bed earlier than usual. Her door was stuck… and when it opened, I found her…”
The constable frowned. “Did thou hear any other sounds coming from her room?”
“Only the wind and…” She paused.
“And?” the constable prompted.
Eliza stared past him. “The wind sounded so strange. I thought I heard someone crying.”
A sudden movement from Ruth caught Eliza’s attention. Ruth’s hands were gripped into a tight ball and her face had drained of color. “Crying?” she whispered.
