by Amy Harmon
The constable looked at Ruth, then back to Eliza, his thick eyebrows raised. “Most likely the wind, ma’am. Or perhaps the poor woman was crying right before her murder.”
“Murder?” Eliza whispered.
His eyes hardened. “That’s right, miss. Thy aunt was murdered. God rest her soul.”
It took Eliza a moment to comprehend. “How?”
He looked from Ruth to Eliza as if unsure what exactly to say. In a quiet voice, he said, “Thou must tell me, Miss Robinson.”
“How would I know?” Surely the constable didn’t think that she…
His eyes bore into hers, and she shuddered involuntarily.
“You can’t think that I…” She looked to Ruth for help.
Ruth folded her thin arms. She stared straight at the constable. “Now, sir. You can’t believe this poor girl is a murderer.”
He turned his gaze on her. “Maeve O’Brien’s skull was crushed. I aim to find who did it to her, even if I have to imprison a few people to do it.”
Eliza covered her mouth with her hand. Ruth rushed to her side and spoke quietly, as heaving sobs tore at Eliza’s chest. “How could this happen?” Eliza cried out. Disbelief and anger and horror coursed through her. Hours before, Maeve had been telling her a ghost story, cozy in the hearth room, sewing on her lap.
Ruth sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around Eliza. “Hush, dear. The constable will find whoever did this.”
“Thou are correct. I will find the culprit.” He cleared his throat. “Thou wilt have to come with me, miss.” He took a step forward. “Thou are under arrest for the murder of Maeve O’Brien.”
Ruth rose from the bed. “Sir, is that really necessary?”
The constable said nothing, merely stared Eliza down.
Ruth reached out and patted Eliza’s hand. “Go along now. Thou wilt be cleared soon.” But her trembling voice betrayed worry.
In a daze, Eliza rose from her bed. This can’t be happening. She stepped on the cold floor, and pain shot through her sore ankle.
“Wear these,” Ruth said, handing over the shoes that Eliza had been wearing the night before. They looked like they’d been cleaned.
“This way,” the constable said.
Eliza followed him, her mind numb as they left the house and walked to the waiting buckboard. Ruth followed and placed a cloak about Eliza’s shoulders before she climbed in.
“Thou are making a mistake, sir,” Ruth said. “The girl’s harmless.”
The constable turned and faced the woman. “Are thou willing to stake thine own reputation on it, woman?”
Eliza’s heart sank as Ruth took a step back, shaking her head. Eliza hadn’t really expected Ruth to risk anything for her, but the woman knew the town and the law better than Eliza did—where would she be without her?
“Jonny will tell thee—” Ruth began.
“Jon has to worry about his own neck right now,” the constable interrupted. “Until I know why he was at the O’Brien house last night, he’s a suspect as well.”
Eliza stared at the constable. He’d arrested that man who’d helped her too? Panic shot through her. She couldn’t go with the constable. Her parents knew nothing about this. She had to send a message to them. How could she face jail? She gripped the seat and made a move to stand, but the constable climbed in next to her and urged the horse into motion.
She fell back against the seat. It was too late.
Chapter Three
Eliza stared through the dark iron bars. The cold cellar was damp, with water dripping from the ceiling in a rhythmic fashion. This crude jail is no place for a woman, she imagined her father saying. She pulled the cloak given to her by Ruth around her shoulders. Shivering, she thought of how last night she was snuggled in her warm bed; tonight she was surrounded by concrete walls.
A low curse from the next cell reached her ears. It had to be Jonny. When she arrived at the jail, she’d been led past his barred cell, feeling his eyes watching her. The constable already arrested Jonny before going to Ruth’s place.
Eliza let out a breath, gathering her courage. “Are you all right?” she called.
Silence greeted her.
She tried again. Maybe he hadn’t heard. “Are you ill?”
“I’m in jail,” he said with a scoff. His deep voice seemed to fill the small space with an echo.
Eliza bit her lip. It was her fault he was here. “I’m sorry.”
He spoke again. “Did you kill her?”
She drew a breath in sharply. “No.” How could he accuse her? Because she lived with her aunt? How did he arrive so fast at the cottage—how had he known to come? Suspicion knotted inside her. “Why were you riding by the cottage in such a storm?”
There was a brief moment of silence, as if Jonny had realized what she was accusing him of. “I thought I could make it all the way to Ruth’s in the storm, but it grew worse than I expected. I knew Mistress Maeve lived nearby, so I planned to take shelter in the barn until the worst passed.”
She didn’t know this man. Could she believe him?
“It’s God’s truth,” he said.
Exhaling, Eliza realized she did believe him. She couldn’t explain why, but she decided to trust her instincts.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your aunt. She was a good friend to Ruth over the years, although I didn’t know her well.” There was a shuffling sound from the other side of the wall, and then he spoke again. “As soon as my father’s lawyers find out, the constable is going to be sorry.”
This surprised Eliza. If Jonny was Helena’s son, then… “Your father’s alive?”
“I see you’ve heard the local gossip.” Bitterness was evident in his voice.
“Only from my aunt—” She cut herself off.
A door banged in the distance, and soon a man appeared with a trencher of gruel. He slipped the wooden dish through the bars and set it on the floor in Eliza’s cell. “Thank you,” she said. The man grunted and shuffled to Jonny’s cell. There was no spoon with the gruel, so she had to sip the nourishment.
Night came and along with it, inky blackness. Eliza huddled on the moldy cot and hugged her arms against her body. Her heart seemed to beat in tandem with each passing second. The occasional sound of a door banging reached her. Otherwise the jail was silent as a grave, and she heard no sound from Jonny.
She had almost forgotten the companion adjacent to her when he spoke.
“I’m Jon Porter, by the way,” he said in the quiet stillness. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”
Eliza swallowed. “I’m Eliza Robinson, niece to Maeve. My parents sent me here for a while to… help my aunt.”
He said nothing for a moment, then, “My father recently died. I never met him. He sent money to pay for my education, but there was never a personal letter or an invitation to meet him. You can pass that onto the townspeople.”
A rebuttal caught in Eliza’s throat. She didn’t know what to say. Seconds turned into minutes, and presently she smelled the sweet, robust scent of cigar smoke. She knew it would be futile to try to explain things to him. He must hate her, and it was her fault.
Quiet tears slipped onto her cheeks. Soon her body trembled. How long would she have to remain in this dreadful place? It wasn’t until dawn began to invade the cell that Eliza at last fell into an uneasy slumber.
* * *
“Wake up, girl.”
Eliza opened her eyes. As the cloudiness of sleep disappeared, she recognized the figure standing over her.
The constable studied her with ill-concealed contempt. “Thou are free to go.”
“How—”
“The evidence against thee isn’t strong enough yet. Therefore I must let thee go, but thou wilt have to stay in town until the charges can be formally cleared.” The constable turned and left, leaving the barred door wide open.
Eliza listened to his footsteps echo down the corridor. She licked her cracked lips. Glancing around the damp cell for the
last time, she rose from the cot and adjusted the cloak about her shoulders. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair as she walked out of the cell, still limping. The corridor was quiet as she passed by Jon’s cell, which now stood empty. When she reached the stairwell, she paused, sensing someone behind her. She turned to see a rat scurry past.
She walked up the stairs, her legs stiff and cold from the night in the cell. A jail guard waited for her at the top and motioned for her to follow him outside. Heavy clouds discolored the sky, looking pregnant with rain, although not a drop fell now. She followed the guard around the building and stepped through another doorway into a narrow room with a bench and two desks. A grizzled man was seated at one of the desks.
The guard said nothing, and Eliza stood in front of the desk for a moment, waiting until the man looked up. Finally, he noticed the visitors and peered at her through his spectacles. “Thou must be the young lady who was released.”
“Yes, have they found my aunt’s murderer?” Eliza clenched her hands in front of her.
The man shook his head. “The constable is still investigating.”
Eliza blew out a breath, disappointment filling her.
“After you sign this release, thou are free to go,” the man said, pushing a piece of parchment toward her. “When Mr. Porter was released, he petitioned for thy freedom as well.”
“He freed me? But how?”
“Why, turns out he’s a lawyer.” The man grunted. “And he told the constable, ‘You can’t keep that girl without evidence.’ Thou had best be going, miss, before the constable finds another excuse to keep thee ’ere. Mr. Porter left for the city and won’t be available to help again.”
Relieved she was free, yet disappointed she couldn’t thank Mr. Porter properly, Eliza bent and signed her name on the parchment. “Thank you.”
The old man nodded, then said in a gruff voice, “May God keep thee.”
The guard stepped aside as she passed through the doorway. The last few hours seemed like a dream. Had she really spent the night in a jail cell? She clasped the rough woolen cloak about her and started toward the road that led to Maeve’s. She dreaded going back to the place where her aunt had died.
Yet she had no choice but to return. The main road passed right through the commons, and as luck would have it, today was market day. People stared at her as she hurried by. At least the adults averted their eyes, but the children watched her with open, curiosity. Untidiness was a disgrace to the Puritans, and she must be a sight to behold, in addition to the fact that she’d exited the jail. She wished she could disappear inside her cloak.
Skirting around the market stalls, Eliza thought she heard someone call her name. But when she turned, no one was looking at her. At least it wasn’t the voice of the woman from the cliff. That voice had been silent since the night before.
Eliza watched two plump boys battling with sticks next to their father’s bread cart, making her realize how hungry she was. She wouldn’t be able to eat for a while, since the walk back to her aunt’s was nearly an hour. Wishing she had paid more attention to her aunt’s acquaintances, she approached the cart. Perhaps the man would give her some food on credit.
She dodged a rather large puddle to reach it. “Good day, sir. I don’t have money today, but I’ll repay you tomorrow if you could be so kind to give me a bit of bread.”
The merchant’s eyes appraised what was sure to be a dirty face and a stained nightdress beneath her borrowed cloak. Not to mention uncovered hair. Finally he nodded. “I cannot turn away a beggar.”
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t a beggar, but instead she kept silent, deciding it was best not to argue with the man.
Making grand gestures, he eyed his neatly arranged loaves and scratched his head. Then he elaborately chose a loaf that looked a bit over-baked and handed it to Eliza, wrapped in a cloth.
She took the bread and thanked the merchant. This wasn’t a time to be choosey.
“Good morrow, Eliza,” a voice spoke behind her.
She turned and saw Nathaniel Prann, a young, blond man whom she’d met during Sabbath services on her first visit to the Meeting House.
He looked her up and down, as if he couldn’t believe her appearance. “Art thou well?”
The merchant squinted at them with curiosity. “Thou knowest this girl?”
“Of course. She’s Maeve O’Brien’s niece.”
“Ah. I didn’t recognize thee,” the merchant said. “I am sorry to hear about thy aunt.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said, feeling completely mortified that Nathaniel was seeing her in this state.
“What happened to thy aunt?” Nathaniel asked, his usually merry blue eyes somber.
The words stuck in Eliza’s throat. The merchant was only too eager to supply the information that Maeve had died. Nathaniel turned his concerned gaze back to Eliza.
“I didn’t know.” He led her away from the peering merchant. “What can I do? Doest thou need a place to stay?”
Hot tears filled her eyes. “I haven’t been back to the house since… I spent the night in jail.” She nearly choked on the last sentence.
Nathaniel’s eyes widened. “Thou must come to our place. Mother will help thee clean up. I’m on my way home now. I came into town to pick up the post.”
Eliza was too exhausted to turn down such a kind offer. She followed Nathaniel to his horse, sure that all eyes of the market were watching. Nathaniel Prann was the eldest of a large family. He had been friendly right away, but she knew she could never become like him. A Puritan.
Nathaniel helped her onto the horse, then took the reins in hand and guided the horse down the road. “My house is up the coast from thy aunt’s. We don’t get the post delivered yet—too out of the way, I suppose.”
He chatted most of the way back to his place, but Eliza wasn’t listening. Her mind churned with thoughts of her aunt’s death and the night in a cell, with Jonathan Porter on the other side of the wall. He’d saved her twice. It seemed that beneath his aloofness was a caring man.
“—it would be a fine place to live,” Nathaniel was saying.
Nodding absently, Eliza murmured, “Mm-hmm.”
He pulled the horse to a stop and stared up at her. “Thou thinkest so too?” The grin on his face was broad.
Eliza reddened when she realized the trap she had stepped into. What had she agreed with? She knew that look, had seen it in opportunist’s eyes—yet Nathaniel was not much more than a boy.
Nathaniel continued, his voice a happy lilt. “I’m nearly twenty-one, not so much older than thou are. Perhaps… perhaps thou wouldst consider allowing me to court thee?”
Eliza opened then closed her mouth. Speechless.
Nathaniel chuckled. “I have shocked thee. I apologize.” His eyes were trained on her, though with a boldness much older than his age. His hand grasped hers. “Perhaps a kiss would make my intent more clear.”
Before she could protest, Nathaniel lifted her hand and kissed it.
Trying to hide her shock, she said, “Are you sure that’s not a sin, Mr. Prann?”
He laughed. “’Tis not, I assure thee.”
Eliza smiled at his laughter. He was misguided in his quick attachment to her, but that was sure to fade as quickly as it had bloomed. After all, she wasn’t even Puritan. Surely there was some law about marrying outside the faith, and she wasn’t willing to convert like her aunt had.
Nathaniel tugged at the horse’s reins. Eliza’s smile faded when she realized she couldn’t share this amusing experience with her aunt. A lump tightened in her throat. Who could have harmed her aunt, and why? She was glad Nathaniel was looking straight ahead and didn’t notice the quiet tears slipping from her eyes. As they neared the Prann homestead, the sun broke through the clouds and a gentle breeze lapped at the hem of Eliza’s nightdress.
“Here we are,” Nathaniel said, obvious pride in his voice.
Before them stood a plain two-story clapboard house with a p
orch that wrapped around the entire front, substantial by Puritan standards. Eliza hadn’t been this far up the coast before. When she’d taken the horse out, her aunt had cautioned her to stay near. Nathaniel extended his hand and helped Eliza to the ground. “What doest thou think?” he asked, his gaze eager.
Eliza hesitated. “Why, it’s so large, I thought—”
“My parents have eight children, so the size of our house is quite prudent.”
“I didn’t mean…”
He winked. “Of course I’ll build my bride her own house.”
“Nathaniel, I don’t think you should—”
“There thou are,” a merry voice called from the side of the house. A stout woman appeared, carrying a basket of sun-dried laundry. She wore a blue scarf tied about her head, although pale strands of hair had fallen out, framing her round face.
Nathaniel went to greet his mother while Eliza lagged behind. But Mistress Prann would not tolerate timid behavior. After hugging her son, she wrapped Eliza into her ample arms and squeezed. Now Eliza knew where Nathaniel had inherited his friendliness. “I’ve heard about thy aunt and the trip to jail. How ghastly. Thou must have had such a dreadful night. Come inside, and we’ll give thee a proper bath.”
Eliza drew away from the woman. “It can wait until later. I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Nonsense, child. The water only takes a moment to heat.” She turned to her son. “Nathaniel, find Rachel and tell her to bring a change of clothes to the kitchen.”
Eliza followed Mistress Prann into the warm room, where a metal tub sat in the corner, next to a parted curtain. Mistress Prann moved the butter churn away from the tub then dragged it forward and poured water into it from two buckets stationed in the corner. She added a kettle full of steamy water. Then she refilled the kettle and waited for the water to heat. When several inches of water covered the bottom of the tub, Mistress Prann instructed Eliza to undress.
Eliza pulled the curtain closed and removed her soiled nightgown.
“Give me thy clothes to clean,” Mistress Prann said.
Eliza handed the garment through the opening, then gingerly stepped into the fast-cooling water. She sat down and ladled water over her skin.
