by Amy Harmon
“Canst thou sleep?” A quiet voice spoke behind her.
“No… I had a bad dream.”
Rachel was quiet for a moment. “About thy aunt?”
Eliza nodded.
“I’m very sorry.”
Tears dropped from Eliza’s eyes, making round wet circles on the quilt in her lap. “I need to send a telegram to my parents. They’ll undoubtedly come to fetch me.” She felt a warm hand on her shoulder, offering comfort. Rachel had risen to sit next to her.
“Doest thou want me to come with thee to gather thy things tomorrow?”
Eliza felt overwhelmed at the kindness from her new friend. “That would be nice.”
“We’ll bring your things here. Thou cannot stay in that empty house, not after what happened. Thou must stay with us until thy family arrives.”
“Thank you,” Eliza whispered. It was another hour before she fell into a fitful sleep, trying to keep the nightmares from returning.
* * *
When Eliza finally aroused from her troubled sleep soon after dawn, the house below was in full motion. She changed into the dress Rachel had lent her the day before. Smoothing the dark brown cotton fabric over her narrow hips, she noticed a row of starched bonnets hanging on the wall. She walked over to them and fingered the ties on one, remembering her aunt. Maeve had let Eliza wear a straw hat on weekdays, but on the Sabbath insisted she wear a Puritan bonnet to Meeting, out of respect for the townspeople.
Descending the stairs, Eliza was surprised to see Nathaniel at the table, cracking walnuts.
Mistress Prann greeted her cheerfully. “Good morning, dear. Nathaniel stayed home from the fields so he could take thee back to thy aunt’s house and gather thy belongings.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said.
“Rachel said she would like to help too,” Mistress Prann continued. “She will be in shortly with the eggs.”
The day was overcast, as if it couldn’t let go of the storm, fitting with Eliza’s somber mood. As they rode in the Pranns’ buckboard, she couldn’t help but wonder what the house would be like with her aunt gone. Rachel and Nathaniel kept up a light chatter, and Eliza joined in only when necessary to be polite. For the most part, she was content to watch the changing landscape as they traveled the narrow road. The brilliant-colored leaves seemed to whisper to her from their branches.
“Turn back.”
It was the voice again. Eliza looked behind her. Rachel and Nathaniel were quiet. Had they heard it too? Eliza’s breath stuttered—she didn’t dare ask them. Wouldn’t they say something if they’d heard it? She hadn’t heard the voice since leaving her aunt’s, but now it was back. What did it mean? Tears stung her eyes, and she rapidly blinked them back.
As they approached the clapboard cottage, the events of the last few days seemed dream-like. She expected to see Aunt Maeve’s bustling form fill the doorway upon the sound of the approaching wagon. But no one came out to greet them, and when Nathaniel reined the horse to a stop, they sat in silence for a moment until Nathaniel jumped from the buckboard and helped the girls to the ground.
Eliza looked at the mud beneath her. It hadn’t dried completely from the storm, and its twisted rivulets mirrored the feeling in her stomach. Nathaniel hovered near her, as if he wasn’t sure whether to follow.
“You should check on the horse,” she said.
Nathaniel nodded, seemingly relieved to be given direction, and he headed toward the barn.
Eliza stepped carefully around the more sodden parts of the ground and headed for the house, with Rachel close behind. As she reached the front door, Eliza realized that the last time she’d entered this door, she was running to get out of the storm, with Maeve right beside her.
“Do you want me to go in first?” Rachel asked.
Eliza shook her head then turned the doorknob and pushed the heavy door. The first thing she noticed was a set of muddy footprints on the oak-planked floor. They were large—the size of a man’s boots. Eliza hesitated, staring at the footprints. Could they be the murderer’s?
Rachel spoke behind her. “They probably belong to the constable.”
Relieved at the thought, Eliza nodded in agreement and looked at the sideboard cabinet that stood its ground, silently taunting her to trip against it again. She scanned the room, her pulse a nervous flutter. Nothing had been moved. The hearth was dark and still, the water in the iron kettle quiet, and the air stale.
Everything reminded her of Aunt Maeve—the quilt thrown over the rocking chair, the forgotten ball of yarn and needles, the painting of a lighthouse, and the stack of brittle firewood. But the house felt empty—empty of her aunt’s spirit, the woman who had once loved and laughed within its walls.
Eliza continued into the kitchen and stopped, staring at the disarray, caused either by herself on the night of the storm or the constable searching for evidence. The table had been moved, cupboards left open, with pots strewn about. She took a deep breath, turned and walked to her aunt’s bedroom door. Images of that night surfaced. Taking a deep breath, she decided she wasn’t ready to enter Maeve’s room and ascended the stairs to her own bedroom instead. She removed the traveling trunk from under the bed and loaded her belongings. The room seemed to grieve for Maeve; even the patchwork quilt on the bed, made by her aunt, seemed sorrowful. Eliza lifted the quilt and tucked it into her trunk.
“Can I help?” Rachel asked from the doorway.
Eliza wiped a stray tear.
“I’ll carry it out,” Rachel said. “Take the time thou needest.”
Listening to Rachel’s retreating footsteps, Eliza sank onto the bed. She tried to memorize every detail of the room, knowing this might be the last time she’d see it. It was furnished with only a dresser, washbasin and bed. The curtains covering the narrow window were of plain, homespun fabric. She rose and opened them, letting the sunlight warm the room.
Finally she descended the stairs and paused, glancing again at her aunt’s bedroom door—it seemed to beckon to her. Eliza resisted, not able to bear seeing the room where her aunt had taken her last breath.
The sound of an approaching wagon came from outside, and Eliza hurried to the porch. The constable had arrived and sat perched on top of his black horse, a disapproving look on his face. He blew his nose haughtily into a handkerchief, which made his bulging paunch vibrate.
“Thou shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This house is still under investigation.”
Eliza opened her mouth to answer, but Nathaniel came out of the barn and said, “We’ve come to gather Miss Robinson’s things.”
The constable looked at the three people before him, and then his gaze focused on Eliza. “Thou should have notified me before coming. Best be on thy way.”His eyes narrowed for a moment, and his mouth formed a thin line. “Tuesday after the funeral, thy aunt’s will is to be read, and thy presence is expected. It will be in the Meeting House.”
“Thank you, sir,” Eliza said, though she didn’t feel entirely grateful. Under the constable’s gaze, she climbed onto the Pranns’ buckboard, settling next to Rachel. She clasped her hands together to conceal their trembling.
Nathaniel set the horse into motion and turned the buckboard around. Eliza stared straight ahead as they passed the narrow-eyed constable. She felt his gaze on her back, and although it made her cheeks burn to be stared at, she held her head high.
“Too bad the previous constable died,” Nathaniel said. “Master Perry was an agreeable man.”
Rachel squeezed Eliza’s hand. “Master Perry was gentle-mannered and would have never treated thee so harshly.”
Eliza’s shoulders sagged as she remembered something. “I must post a telegram to my father. Could we pass through town?”
“I thought thou mightest desire to do something like that,” Rachel said. “I brought an extra bonnet just in case.”
Nathaniel chuckled. “My sister thinks of everything.”
Eliza smiled. The gloom the constable had brought with him had diss
ipated. She donned the bonnet. Once they reached Main Street, Nathaniel pulled the buckboard to a stop in front of the post office. Eliza descended, followed by Rachel, and together they entered the oblong room. A dour-faced clerk looked up as they walked in. He looked like he was straight out of the 1600s, wearing a heavy English wool jacket, a leather hat, with an over-starched white collar.
“Good day,” he said in a voice worn with years.
“My friend would like to send a telegram,” Rachel said.
The postmaster’s eyes widened. “An unusual request for such a young lady. Perhaps thou hast better ask thy father to come in.”
“The telegram is to her father, who lives in New York City. He must be notified of his sister’s recent death,” Rachel said.
Eliza was more than grateful that Rachel had taken the lead in this strange conversation.
“Ah. Thou are Maeve O’Brien’s niece? I was sorry t’ hear the news.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said.
The postmaster left the counter and returned a moment later with a card to fill out.
Eliza accepted the dip pen and ink well and began writing the brief message. Both the postmaster and Rachel read each word as she wrote. Eliza tried not to let their prying eyes bother her. When finished, she handed over the money, and the postmaster double-checked the message.
When they left, Eliza asked, “Is that man always so nosey?”
“Yes,” Rachel said with a laugh. “But he’s sending the message, so he would be reading it anyway.”
It seemed nothing was private in this town. By the time they arrived at the Prann homestead, Eliza felt restless. She knew she should offer to help with the chores, but she wanted to be alone. Mistress Prann noticed her troubled face and offered consolation.
“I’d like to take a walk, if that’s all right,” Eliza said.
Mistress Prann nodded. “Doest thou want Rachel to walk with thee?”
“No, thank you. I need some time alone.” She thanked her hostess again and stepped into the front yard. One of the younger boys was chasing a chicken. When he saw her, he waved merrily. Eliza smiled and waved back.
The afternoon shadows stretched across the rutted road. For a moment she thought about borrowing a horse but then thought better of it. The Pranns didn’t ride horses for pleasure. Without planning her destination, she headed east toward the shoreline. She reached the jagged cliffs and realized she was only about a mile from her aunt’s lighthouse. Had it only been two days ago that she had stood on this same rocky shore, facing the incoming storm?
Eliza shuddered. The changing sky above her brought new clouds, swallowing up the shadows cast by the sun. Gone were the brilliant golds, reds, and yellows of the tree-rich landscape. In their place stood muted browns and grays.
The wind began to stir the wispy grass beneath her, and the long, green fingers whipped her ankles. It was time to head back. The tip of her ears had grown cold, and her feet ached. Maybe tomorrow she would take one last look at the old lighthouse. She was about to turn away from the incoming tide when she heard a whisper in her ear.
Don’t leave me.
Eliza spun and looked behind her. It was the same voice—the one she’d heard on the night Maeve was murdered. Now, as then, no one was in sight.
Chapter Six
The dance was underway in the Maughans’ newly remodeled ballroom. Jon took the first number with Apryl, but he paid careful attention to Thomas Beesley, who danced quite close to them with another partner. Apryl chatted about the shops she would have to visit to obtain a proper riding habit, and Jon was only required to nod from time to time.
More than once, he caught Thomas gazing at Apryl. When the first dance ended, Jon asked Thomas’s sister, Jessa, to dance. She remained quiet as they danced and nodded at Jon’s occasional comment. Thomas ensnared Apryl and waltzed her around the dance floor. Surprisingly, Beesley was light on his feet despite his bulk. Laughter floated from their direction. Jon frowned, looking at Jessa.
“How long has your family known the Maughans?” he asked.
Jessa looked up at him. “My brother has mentioned them once or twice, but this is the first time we’ve been invited for dinner.”
What intentions did Thomas have about Apryl to make him pay such particular attention to her? She was not a wealthy heiress. Her family came from new money procured in the financial markets. Any future son-in-law would well know the risk of such a volatile industry.
Because of his own recent inheritance, Jon would be far wealthier than Mr. and Mrs. Maughan. It would be only a matter of time before his future father-in-law would pose the indelicate question of what his estate in England was worth. Of course, as the fiancé to Mr. Maughan’s daughter, Jon expected the questions. After all, New York society marriages were often based on assets, not love.
Jon didn’t expect to be in love with his wife, but he did expect mutual affection and respect with his future wife. Most of the women he had been introduced to were too self-centered for his taste. That’s why, when he met Apryl, he was pleasantly surprised. The size of her figure told him she didn’t care for the conventions of the corset fashion, though her clothing was designed after the latest Parisian styles. And her animated eyes and vivacious conversation kept him entertained. She would make a lively wife. More than ever, Jon wanted to produce an heir for his imminent fortune.
“Have you been engaged long?” Jessa asked, interrupting his thoughts, her pale brown eyes studying him.
Jon answered, “A month. We met only a short time ago through a mutual friend. Apryl is hard to ignore.”
The corners of Jessa’s mouth twitched. It was the most animated Jon had seen her all night. “That she is.”
Mr. and Mrs. Maughan retired after an hour, letting the younger guests continue to enjoy themselves. It was after midnight when Jon left the house, amid enthusiastic farewells from the guests.
Apryl followed him out to the carriage and kissed his cheek. “You’ll call tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Jon said, tipping his hat. “Unless you would rather see Mr. Beesley.”
Apryl lowered her gaze. “Oh, don’t tease me about him. I thought he was rather too forward tonight.”
Jon snorted. “You didn’t seem to mind.” When he saw Apryl’s irritated expression, he softened his comment by saying, “You were the belle of the evening and naturally the center of attention.”
“You’re not angry?” Apryl’s gaze was hopeful.
He took her hands then kissed each one. “How could I be angry with a cherub such as you?”
Apryl laughed. She pressed against him and gave him a rather illicit kiss on the mouth.
Jon’s resentment toward Beesley faded. Jon might not be in love with his fiancée, but he could still enjoy her. He was tempted to stay a bit longer to explore the depth of her kisses, but his carriage driver was all eyes, and there were still guests in the house. He drew away from her. “Tomorrow, then.”
Apryl smiled up at him. Jon climbed into the waiting carriage and lifted his hand in a wave. As the driver pulled away from the walk, Jon saw Thomas exit the house and step behind Apryl, placing his hands over her eyes in some sort of game.
* * *
The following afternoon, a formal invitation to the Beesley country estate arrived by post. Jon opened the card in the hall. As he read the details, he knew he would have to attend, if only to thwart Thomas’s advances toward his fiancée. A note from Apryl was in the stack of correspondence.
Dearest Jon,
I assume you’ve received the Beesley invitation by now. Would you like to travel with my parents and me in our carriage? We leave Friday at 3:00 p.m. Don’t forget your riding habit.
All my love,
Apryl
Jon folded the scented note. There was no mention of meeting before then, although she had asked him to call on her today. Seeing her flirt with Beesley the night before created a sour pit in his stomach; he decided not to make the call. Maybe it woul
d be good for Apryl to wonder and worry about him. He’d wait until tomorrow to reply. Meanwhile he wrote a hasty note to the Beesleys, accepting the invitation to their country home.
The next letter in the mail stack troubled him. It was from his deceased father’s lawyer, informing him that the original production of his birth record was required by law to claim his father’s estate in England. Damnation. It was as he thought, and the reason he’d traveled to Maybrook in the first place. The last thing he wanted to do was return to Maybrook and face the volatile constable again. Maybe there was a loophole that a solicitor well-versed in estate and property law could uncover.
Donning his hat, Jon selected a polished mahogany cane. The afternoon was still warm as dusk descended. He began the stroll to the solicitor’s building. When Jon arrived at the office front, he noticed the sign hanging over the entrance: Doughty, Franklin, and Harmon, Solicitors at Law—very formal and impressive. He hoped their services would be equally so.
A man with well-oiled hair greeted him at the front entrance. “Do you have an appointment, sir?”
Jon sized up the fellow and determined that he looked too shabby, what with his soiled silk cravat and threadbare jacket, to be one of the lawyers. “I have but a small matter to discuss with…” He thought of the first name on the marquis. “Mr. Doughty.”
The man nodded. “Who may I say is calling?”
“Jonathan Porter.”
The man spun on his heels and ascended the narrow staircase to the left of his desk. Moments later he returned and motioned for Jon to follow. He was led into a dim office, where books were stacked everywhere. The two bookcases were stuffed as well. A balding man looked up as Jon entered. The man’s gray-blue eyes surveyed him over spectacles.
Jon offered his hand. “Jonathan Porter, sir.”
The man waved his hand away. “Christian Doughty. Please be seated and state your business.”
Jon scanned the cramped space for a place to sit.
