Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  “There’s lye soap behind thee on a shelf, and some hair cleanser in a jar.”

  Locating the soap, Eliza began to scrub furiously. She poured a dollop of hair cleanser into her palm, smelling the scent of roses. It felt good to get clean. She did not even mind the draft that seeped through the curtain, causing gooseflesh to rise. The bath couldn’t warm her entirely from her night in a damp cell.

  “Here thou are.” Mistress Prann handed a large square of cloth through the curtain.

  “Thank you.” Eliza took the coarse fabric, stepped out of the tub, and rubbed herself dry.

  “Thou must spend the night here,” Mistress Prann’s voice came through the curtain. “I can’t bear the thought of thee sleeping in an empty house, especially after…”

  Eliza pulled on the petticoat that had been handed to her then dressed in a lightweight cotton dress. It was obvious the Prann family didn’t have warmer clothes to spare and had to bring out their summer wear to accommodate Eliza. “I’d appreciate the place to sleep.” She wasn’t ready to return to Aunt Maeve’s home yet. Tomorrow, with the storm clouds gone, she would make the journey.

  She stepped out from behind the curtain, pulling her damp hair into a bun. The Pranns’ kitchen was cramped, filled with a rough-cut square table, surrounded by four solid benches. The oven protruded from the bricked hearth, blackened by years of greasy smoke.

  “Girls,” Mistress Prann called to her daughters. “Eliza is dressed. Come prepare the meal.”

  Three girls bustled into the room, all Nathaniel’s younger sisters. One carried a baby, whom the girl strapped promptly to the highchair. The young child started to wail until a wooden rattle was fetched.

  Over the banging of the rattle, the eldest sister, Rachel, called out instructions. One sister descended through a trap door in the floor. She brought up a section of beef, then on her second trip she carried a basket full of sweet potatoes, parsnips, and carrots.

  “It’ll be stew tonight, dear.” Mistress Prann looked over at Eliza.

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  “Thou must rest. Sit at the bench and entertain little Prudence, who’ll be glad for the attention.”

  Eliza settled next to the baby. She was greeted by a toothless grin and loud babbling.

  Mistress Prann set a noggin of cider in front of Eliza. She smiled gratefully and took a sip. The Puritans in this small town were experts in making cider, and the Pranns’ was as good as her aunt’s.

  Eliza watched Rachel swing the iron kettle on its pothook, then lift the heavy lid and stir the contents. Not long after, the wafting aroma reached Eliza, making her realize how hungry she was. She’d only eaten jail gruel and a bit of bread over a day’s time. Before that was the tea at Ruth’s house.

  Rachel set out clean napkins on the table next to the porringers, which had been scrubbed and readied for the stew. She cast a sympathetic smile at Eliza.

  A commotion sounded at the door; the men were home from the fields. The deep voice of Master Prann filtered into the kitchen from the hall, speaking to his sons. “If you’ve pulled the last of the onions, then tomorrow we’ll start on the corn.”

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Mistress Prann said and ushered the boys into the room.

  At the sight of Eliza, Master Prann raised his eyebrows. He was similar in appearance to Nathaniel, tall, broad, white-blond hair, and Eliza felt as if she were looking at the future Nathaniel.

  “Thou rememberest Eliza Robinson, Maeve O’Brien’s niece,” Mistress Prann said. “She needs shelter and food tonight.”

  “Thou are welcome to stay here, Miss Robinson.”

  Eliza nodded politely, then caught Nathaniel’s eye. He’d come in right behind his father. His blue gaze soaked her in. She hid a sigh, knowing she’d have to deflate his hopes sooner rather than later.

  Following the prayer, Rachel and Mistress Prann served the food. Eliza was surprised at how quietly the family ate; there was little conversation as they passed the platters of food around and helped themselves. Even Nathaniel, who had been talkative every time they were together, remained solemn. Dinners in New York were always lively, often accompanied by music, and conversation was animated with the latest gossip. When the last porringer had been emptied, the girls rose to clear the table. As Eliza stood to join them, Mistress Prann motioned for her to remain seated.

  Eliza obliged and settled next to the contented baby.

  “Nathaniel will read tonight,” Master Prann said to no one in particular.

  Nathaniel’s face reddened at his father’s suggestion, and Eliza wondered why. Surely he had read for his family many times before. Seats were taken again, and the smaller children hushed. The older girls pulled out samplers to stitch. Eliza caught Nathaniel’s eye as he opened the large Bible in front of him and removed the marker. She offered an encouraging smile, but he broke the gaze and lowered his eyes.

  “Psalm 46. God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble…”

  Nathaniel read deliberately, enunciating each word. Master Prann closed his eyes and nodded in rhythm to the phrases. Mistress Prann and the two oldest girls bent over their embroidery, making even stitches in the dimming light. Eliza tried to focus on the holy words, but each verse sounded the same as the last.

  Her mind wandered. Soon she wondered what Nathaniel would be like if he’d been born in New York. He’d no doubt be an apprentice of some sort, and not under his parents’ eye, ever watchful for sin. Would he be the same man if he were able to express himself freely and have the opportunities afforded other American men?

  After the evening prayer, Rachel told Eliza, “Thou mayest sleep in my room.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and followed Rachel up the narrow staircase into the girls’ bedroom. Eliza put on her nightgown, which Mistress Prann had cleaned and repaired. Climbing into bed, Eliza moved close to the wall and kept her body straight, so as not to disturb Rachel. It was ages before she fell into a troubled slumber.

  Chapter Four

  Jonathan Porter stepped off the hissing train in New York City. Breathing a sigh of relief to be on familiar ground again, he walked briskly to the busy road and hailed a carriage to take him home. After settling into the bumpy ride, he thought about the previous night he’d spent in jail. It was a miracle he’d escaped Massachusetts without further interrogation. If it hadn’t been for his father’s death two months ago in England, he would have never returned to the Puritan town. Though it was nice to see Ruth, the only mother he’d ever known, he had returned only for one thing—his official birth record. He needed it to claim his inheritance from his father since he had other children, and Jon’s half-sister would inherit if Jon couldn’t produce proof of his parentage.

  But Ruth didn’t have the document, so he had risked bad weather to locate the magistrate. When the magistrate then denied having the document in the courthouse or the Meeting House, there was only one place left to look—the home his mother had last lived in, now Maeve O’Brien’s place. Perhaps the record was stored in the attic of the old house. But the storm had raged, and when he dared set out, he doubted if he’d make it in one piece to the O’Brien cottage.

  When he finally came into view of the cottage, he saw the distraught figure of a woman emerge from the front door. That’s where everything had all gone wrong. Of all the damned nights. She looked like a drowned waif and was obviously limping. He couldn’t just pass her by. And now he couldn’t very well go back to search through a crime scene. He’d be delayed again.

  The carriage lurched over a pothole, and Jon realized they were near his neighborhood. He tapped the driver in front of him. “Turn here.” The driver obliged and maneuvered onto a narrow street lined by two-story homes that were dated but elegant.

  “Number twelve, on the right,” Jon instructed. The carriage pulled to a stop, and he alighted. After unloading his single piece of baggage, he paid the driver.

  The front door opened as he started up the
stairs.

  “Oh, Mr. Porter, what a welcome surprise.” It was Sarah, the parlor maid. “You’ve arrived a day early.”

  Jon tipped his hat. “Are there any messages for me?”

  “The letters are on the hall table, sir.” Sarah bobbed her head then made herself scarce.

  Jon had the hallway to himself. On top of the letters was a familiar envelope. The pale pink seemed to wink at him. Jon smiled, knowing the letter was from Apryl, his fiancée.

  Walking into the library, Jon thumbed through the other envelopes—nothing but business. He settled into the over-sized leather chair, imported from England, and brought the pink letter to his nose. The faint scent of roses still remained. He opened the envelope and read the looped writing.

  Dearest Jonathan,

  I know you’re still away, but I’m anxiously awaiting your return. This Friday night my parents are hosting a dinner. It would be wonderful if you returned in time to attend.

  Yours truly,

  Apryl

  Jon was tempted to pay her a surprise visit then thought better of it. She hated anything unexpected. He remembered the day he had surprised her as she was walking in the park, only to discover that she was embarrassed about being seen wearing a hat from the week before. So he penned a reply, which he sent Richards, the butler, to deliver. Attending an extravagant dinner was what he needed to take his mind off the woman who had landed him in jail.

  He next turned his attention to the drawer of the heavy oak desk and removed his father’s will. Scanning the familiar words, he thought about how different things would have been if only his father had married his mother. He would have been brought up in a wealthy home. He would have attended the best private schools in England. And his mother would still be alive.

  Jon leaned back in his chair, thinking about the mother he could barely remember. Were the rumors true? That she drove herself mad with grief and took her own life? Had she truly drowned on that stormy night? The fierce storm of the other night in Maybrook had him realizing how easy it would have been for anyone to become disoriented.

  Ruth’s quiet words played in his mind. “Thy mother was unconventional for a Puritan. Oh, she went to Meeting and always obeyed the Sabbath. But some said she had a strong will—too strong. She learned to swim, and often in the early evening, she swam to the Old Rock. Of course, she never dared do so with anyone around. I’m set in my ways and believe in the good Bible, but I never believed that only witches could float in water. Not everyone believed that though, and she would have fallen under suspicion if anyone had seen her.”

  Whoever decided that only witches could float?

  Ruth had continued her story about how his mother had gone out for a swim on the night of the impending storm.

  Now, sitting in his leather chair, Jon furrowed his brow. That was the part of the story he didn’t understand. How could his mother not see billowing clouds gather, hear the wind pick up speed, or feel the swift raindrops? And if she did know the storm was coming, why did she still go swimming?

  Ruth had told him that his mother was lonely and often stared out to sea for hours at a time with a journal in her lap. “Your mother was unusually smart for a woman—could read and write with the best.” But Ruth said that when she cleaned out his mother’s house, she didn’t find any books, journals or letters. “No matter,” Ruth had said. “All the furniture was burned, and the house purged of sin.”

  Purged of sin. As if his mother was evil.

  Jon closed his eyes against the flickering candles. The town he grew up in was another world, a place he was glad to be rid of. If only he hadn’t stumbled into the mess at poor Maeve O’Brien’s house and found that girl staggering through the mud.

  And if he hadn’t then been thrown into jail!

  Otherwise, he might have searched the attic of his mother’s old house and found his birth record—something he believed still existed.

  * * *

  At six o’clock sharp on Friday evening, Jon rang Apryl’s bell. The door was opened by a straight-faced butler, whom Jon followed into the immense hall, where he shrugged off his overcoat. Mr. and Mrs. Maughan stood at the base of the stairs.

  “Jon, how good of you to come,” Mrs. Maughan purred, leaning her long face forward for a kiss. She wore her signature red tonight, setting off her gypsy-coloring, a low-cut bodice displaying her curves. She was a woman who had no problem competing with her daughter. And Apryl didn’t seem to mind one bit.

  Jon kissed the hostess’s cheek, his gaze straying to the drawing room.

  Mr. Maughan chuckled in his booming voice. “Apryl eagerly awaits you.”

  Jon shook his future father-in-law’s hand. “I’ll go to her, then.”

  Entering the drawing room, Jon was met with a dizzying array of finery, from the formal English furniture and the imported Italian tapestries, to the Persian rugs. But nothing could compare to the elaborate creature who greeted him.

  Apryl, a younger version of her curvy mother, rose. Her apple cheeks flushed, and her deep green eyes lit with pleasure. The tight-fitting bodice only accentuated her spilling bosom, supported by indigo brocade. The ribbons adorning her velvet sleeves fluttered as she crossed the room. “You’ve come, my love.”

  Jon took her jeweled hand and winked. Kissing the weighted fingers, he cocked his head to one side. “Miss me?”

  Laughing, Apryl tilted her Grecian hairdo, her coiled black ringlets swaying. “Of course.” She led him to the center of the room, where other guests were visiting.

  “May I introduce Mr. Thomas Beesley, and his kind sister, Jessa.”

  Jon bowed. “It’s an honor to meet you both.” Beesley was familiar, but Jon couldn’t place the name. The large man appeared to be about forty, and the fact that he was accompanied by his rather plain sister revealed that he was perhaps unmarried.

  When dinner was served at half past six, Jon was seated with Thomas Beesley to his right and Apryl to his left. Amid the animated conversation, Jon couldn’t help but notice intermittent sniffing coming from Mr. Beesley. Jon was about to offer his handkerchief when he noticed Thomas already clutched one in his meaty fingers.

  “Are you fighting a cold?” Jon asked his neighbor.

  “Ah yes,” Thomas answered, producing a prominent sniff. “It’s the confounded city air. I often retreat to my place in the country to find relief.”

  Perhaps the man was single and wealthy. “And is there a Mrs. Beesley who shares in the same relief?”

  The conversation around the table faded into awkward silence. Apryl placed a hand on Jon’s arm.

  “I gather you’ve been away on business,” Thomas said in a distressed tone.

  The tension was palpable. What had Jon said? Apparently it was the wrong thing, yet, how was he supposed to know the history of a man he’d never met? He’d been at Yale for the past few years and hadn’t been involved in society.

  “I was nearly engaged once,” Thomas said.

  Knowing murmurs of sympathy echoed around the table, and a few whispers were quickly suppressed by Apryl’s glare.

  Jon brought his hand up to his collar automatically, trying to loosen a tightness that had suddenly formed. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all over with now. I’m on to better things, right?” Thomas leaned forward over his girth and looked at Apryl.

  Jon was surprised to notice a blush creep up his fiancée’s neck. He looked back to Thomas, but the man had turned to his sister. The conversation resumed around the table, more hushed now.

  “We’d be so pleased if you could join us,” Apryl said.

  Jon looked at her. What had she been talking about?

  “What’s the matter, love?” she asked, patting his hand. “Too much wine?”

  “No, I…”

  “Then what do you think?” Apryl pressed.

  He adjusted his collar again. “About what?”

  She covered her mouth and stifled a giggle, then nudged him. “Spe
nding next weekend at the Beesleys’ country home?”

  His face warmed. “Of course. I’d love to.”

  Apryl beamed, and Jon smiled back. She really was quite beautiful, and he was once again grateful she’d bestowed her favor on him.

  Thomas clapped Jon on the shoulder. “It’s all settled, then. We’ll have a grand time in the fresh air. Be sure to bring your riding habits.”

  “I haven’t ridden since I was a girl,” Apryl said.

  “Then I’ll be your personal escort,” Thomas offered.

  She leaned forward to meet Thomas’s eye and laughed. “I guess I have some shopping to do.”

  Thomas’s appreciative gaze dipped to Apryl’s bosom.

  Jon’s hands clenched into fists. He was about to say something, but the servants appeared to clear the dinner plates. Jon scooted his chair forward to block Thomas’s direct line of vision toward Apryl. Jon didn’t entirely care for Mr. Thomas Beesley.

  Chapter Five

  Eliza ran into the dark room and saw the window open, wind gusting through it in sharp bursts. Pulling the window shut, she turned to see her aunt. Moonlight cast dancing shapes upon the bed. “Aunt Maeve, are you all right?” She stepped closer to the side where her aunt lay. “What happened?” Reaching over, she touched her aunt’s motionless shoulder. Just then, a shadow fell across the bed, causing Eliza to turn and stare at the dark form standing behind her. She tried to scream, but a heavy hand clamped down on her mouth.

  Eliza sat up in bed, perspiration soaking her hairline. She clutched the quilt to her chin, shivering. The room was still dark, and the faint sound of breathing came from Rachel. It was only a dream. Eliza tried to calm herself.

  But doubt crept over her. What if Jonathan Porter had come to seek revenge? What if he’d been making his escape when he heard Eliza calling for Maeve? He had definitely seemed bitter about the way his mother was treated and about how the town continued to gossip about the circumstances surrounding his birth.