by Amy Harmon
“Set the books onto the floor and excuse the clutter,” Doughty said. “Mr. Franklin’s office is being renovated. I’m housing his books until the work is completed.”
After creating a space, Jon took a seat. “I was hoping you could help me reconcile my father’s estate. He passed away recently, and I am the sole heir.”
Mr. Doughty nodded gravely. “My condolences on your father’s passing. Being the sole heir will make settling the estate simple.”
“My father’s estate is in England, and I was born in Massachusetts.”
“No problem.”
Jon continued. “England requires a birth record, which I don’t have.”
“Was it lost or destroyed?”
“I don’t know.” Jon shrugged. “My mother died when I was young, and my father never met me. You see, he was supposed to come back for us in Massachusetts, but he never did. I was raised by a neighbor.”
“Did you check the church records?”
“Nothing is recorded there. My mother was an outcast in the town. She and my father weren’t married… She was from a staunch Puritan family that—” He broke off.
Mr. Doughty was silent for a moment. “Puritans won’t bite, son. My grandfather was a Puritan. Even if your birth was swept under the carpet, there should be at least a private record at the Meeting House, if not a public one.”
Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Because of other circumstances, I’d rather not return to the town to pursue the matter. Is there another way?”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Porter?”
“Litigation.”
“Ah, an-up-and coming profession. Had any luck?”
Jon relaxed a bit and smiled. “Actually, with my training, I was able to get myself out of jail.”
Mr. Doughty raised his eyebrows. “Interesting!”
“I traveled to Massachusetts last week and went to my mother’s former home to search the place. Unfortunately I walked into a murder scene and was thrown into jail with another suspect. The next morning I freed myself and haven’t looked back.”
Mr. Doughty smiled. “Those are words you may have to swallow. Despite your wish not to do so, you’ll have to return to find recorded evidence of your parentage.”
Jon leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “There must be another way. Look at all these books.” He waved his hand.
The solicitor chuckled. “What are you afraid of, getting thrown in jail again? Won’t happen. Unless… you did have something to do with that murder.”
“Of course not.” Jon leaned back.
“Then there’s nothing to fear,” Mr. Doughty said in a mellow voice. “If you want your father’s money, you’ll return to Massachusetts.”
Jon blew out a breath. “Isn’t there another choice?”
“Not unless you want to travel around your birth town and ask acquaintances to sign affidavits, testifying to your parentage.”
Jon hesitated. Ruth was the only one who’d probably be willing to sign something like that. And her friend, Maeve, who was no longer alive. “If I hire you to represent me, will you accompany me to Maybrook?”
Mr. Doughty gave a curt nod. “I can leave Tuesday.”
* * *
On Monday morning, Jon scrawled a brief note to Apryl and a second to Thomas Beesley, declining the invitation to Beesley’s estate, citing important business that couldn’t wait. By afternoon, he’d cleared his appointment book. Once he collected the inheritance, he could live a gentleman’s life and pursue politics if he chose. Maybe he would refer his current clients to Mr. Doughty.
His father, Jonathan Sr., had paid for his college education at Yale. Yet the older Jon became, the more tortured he felt knowing that his father had been alive and well, but refused to meet his own son. What had his father been afraid of? Was the idea of facing his past really so awful?
Upon graduation, Jon had purchased a steamship ticket to England, determined to meet his father and discover why he’d abandoned his mother. But the day before departure, Jon had received notice of his father’s death.
The door to his past had been cruelly slammed shut. Then an envelope arrived with a copy of his father’s will, and Jon learned he would be financially independent. That was when he decided to propose to Apryl.
A knock sounded at the library door around 3:00 that afternoon. “Mr. Porter?” Richards said. “Miss Maughan is here to see you.”
“Send her in, please.”
Apryl entered with a flurry of rustling yellow silk. Ringlets protruded beneath the delicate straw hat she wore, tilted jauntily on her head. Jon crossed the room and kissed her cheek.
“You’ve come alone?” he asked.
“My maid is in the carriage, but I don’t want her to overhear,” she said, her eyes watering.
“What’s wrong?”
She glanced at the floor then met his gaze. “Can’t your business wait a week?”
Jon tried to conceal a smile. “Is that what you’re upset about?”
A stray tear fell onto Apryl’s flushed cheek. Surely she couldn’t be this upset over his business trip. “You look tired.” Jon took her arm and guided her to a chair next to the window. “Would you like a drink?”
Apryl bit her lip. “No. I can’t stay long. My parents are going to a violin performance, and I must accompany them.” She folded her arms. “It won’t be any fun in the country without you.”
Jon tried to suppress a smile. Apryl could be absolutely childlike sometimes. “I seriously doubt that. Thomas seems to be the most accommodating host.”
Apryl grabbed Jon’s hand. “Please, Jon, you must come with us.”
He looked at her in surprise. She had never acted so distressed before. “Has Thomas done something to make you reluctant to visit him?”
Apryl lowered her eyes, her face flushing. “No.”
So there was something between them—some sort of attraction, it seemed. But Jon didn’t want to drag it out of her. “Then what is it?”
She gave him a coy look. “I’ll just miss you, I guess.”
Perhaps that was all it was. That could be a good sign.
Suddenly, she reached for him and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him on the mouth. Jon returned her kiss, but did so with a bit of reluctance. If he kissed her as fervently as she was kissing him, they would certainly cross the line of propriety, one that he dared not cross. Scandals abounded in New York City, and Jon had had his share of that in Maybrook. He would never want her to face any sort of speculation, not knowing what his mother had gone through. No matter how Apryl tempted him, or how her curves pressed against him, he must keep a level head.
He drew away from Apryl’s ardor and placed his hands on her shoulders, keeping his distance. “I won’t be gone that long, my dear.”
“Oh, Jon,” she said, her mouth trembling. “I want to know how much you truly care about me.”
Instinct made Jon want to laugh—she was like a toddler. He refrained from teasing her, saying, “Of course I truly care for you. How can you think otherwise?” He gently lifted her hand that sported her engagement ring. “Are you not my fiancée?”
“Of course.” She blinked rapidly. “I have been silly.”
Jon squeezed her hands. “I am doing this for us. My inheritance depends upon this business trip, and I can’t put it off any longer.” He lowered his voice. “It will do you good to be in the country. You look quite pale today. Go enjoy yourself. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Her face brightened. “I guess it won’t be so bad. Although his sister, Jessa, seems a little boorish.”
Jon chuckled. “You, my dear Apryl, can make any situation lively.”
She raised a hand to his cheek and stroked it. Moments later she was out the door.
When she was gone, Jon let his smile fade and began to pace the room. He had never seen this side to her before—unsure, pleading, throwing herself at him. He was the one who should have been insecure about their separatio
n. Maybe he should cancel the trip to Massachusetts. But once he had his inheritance secured, not even Thomas Beesley could measure up.
Chapter Seven
The following morning, Jon met Mr. Christian Doughty at the train station. Amidst the noise of fond farewells of other passengers and train signals, they entered the passenger section and found an empty compartment.
“Did you bring a copy of the will?” Mr. Doughty asked as soon as they were settled.
“Yes.” Jon reached into his traveling bag and pulled out the document.
As the train rolled into motion, the compartment door flew open. A tall man in a brown tweed entered. “Sorry for the interruption. Is this seat taken?”
Mr. Doughty shook his head. Jon placed the will back into his bag and watched in amusement as the stranger removed his overcoat and hat, methodically folding the coat before placing it in the rack overhead. The man sat next to him and stretched out his legs. Jon noticed the dull polish on the man’s expensive shoes. He was probably well-to-do, but didn’t invest much time in the upkeep of his appearance.
Across the aisle, Mr. Doughty was scrutinizing their new guest too. “Business in Plymouth, Mr.—?”
“Philip Robinson,” the man said, leaning across the aisle and extending his hand. “I’m traveling to my sister’s funeral.”
Mr. Doughty expressed his condolences, and Jon murmured in agreement.
But Mr. Robinson was eager to expound. “Sent my daughter there for a couple of months to stay with my sister, Maeve. A few nights ago, my sister died.” He paused and rubbed his face. “Murdered.”
“How dreadful,” Jon said. This must be Maeve O’Brien’s brother. Thinking about the poor woman reminded him of Eliza. He’d barely caught a glimpse of her as he transported her to Ruth’s house that night, and from there, Ruth had taken over. Eliza Robinson had seemed to be quite young, and thin, and extremely distressed. And this man was her father.
“I don’t know any details,” Mr. Robinson said, as if he needed to talk to someone about his situation. “Received the telegram yesterday and decided to catch the first train out.”
Mr. Doughty stared at the man. “We wish you all the best in finding the person responsible.”
“Thank you. It’s quite baffling. A quiet town and all.”
Jon stared out the window at the passing scenery, growing more and more uncomfortable. He had to know for sure if this man was who he thought he was. “What town did your sister live in?”
Mr. Robinson cleared his throat. “Maybrook. It’s probably not even on a map. It’s a secluded Puritan settlement that managed to survive all these years. My sister fell in love with a Puritan and decided to convert.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. My parents would have turned in their graves…”
Mr. Robinson was Eliza’s father, without a doubt.
“We’re traveling to the same town,” Mr. Doughty said.
Jon groaned inwardly and cast Doughty a warning glance. Please don’t tell Mr. Robinson our names.
Interest brightened Mr. Robinson’s face. “Do you have family there?”
“My client and I,” Doughty said, tilting his head in Jon’s direction, “are on a business trip.”
“May I ask what line of work you are in, sir?”
“Christian Doughty, estate lawyer, and my client…” He paused.
“I’m in litigation,” Jon said, trying to decide what exactly he wanted this man to know.
“Litigation? Interesting,” Mr. Robinson said.
Jon desperately wanted to change the direction of the conversation. “And what is your profession, sir?”
“I’m a furniture dealer.” At the surprised expressions, he laughed. “Heard of Robinson-Beesley & Trade Co.?”
Mr. Doughty rubbed his chin. “I think my wife ordered a bedroom set from your company several years ago.”
“Could very well be.”
As the two men talked, Jon stared out the window, thinking about this man, who was Eliza’s father. He seemed to be a reasonable sort. Too bad he’d gotten caught up with Thomas Beesley. Soon the conversation took another turn.
“I hope my daughter has come to her senses since living in Maybrook,” Mr. Robinson said. “Eliza is quite heady for a young lady and doesn’t appreciate the opportunities she’s been given.”
Jon listened to every word, his pulse quickening at the mention of Eliza. It was entirely possible he’d see her again now, especially after meeting her father. The town was just too small.
“It was quite an honor when my partner, Mr. Beesley, asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage. To tell you the truth, I was flattered, and my wife was excited to see our daughter settled with a secure future.”
“I can imagine,” Mr. Doughty murmured.
“I had no idea that Eliza would be fool enough to turn the man down.”
Jon bit his lip, wondering if he could keep himself from laughing. He knew very well why Mr. Robinson’s daughter would turn away a man like Thomas Beesley. Even with his brief encounter with Eliza, Jon could tell the delicate young woman was no match for Thomas. How old was she anyway? Seventeen?
Why was he thinking about her so much? With Mr. Robinson also in Maybrook, Jon might run into Eliza as well. What would her reaction be to seeing him again? She probably despised him—he hadn’t been able to keep her out of jail and had spent a dismal night being abrupt with her. She wouldn’t want to see him and be reminded of his rudeness.
One thing was certain: Apryl would find this story amusing.
* * *
After helping Mistress Prann with morning chores, Eliza set out across the fields on horseback. Mistress Prann had been worried about the swirling clouds overhead and told her to take the chestnut mare. Eliza was more than happy to be riding again and even more important, it allowed her to go to the coast. She hoped to find Helena’s journal in the lighthouse.
Maeve’s funeral was being planned by the town, and Eliza’s father was on his way, which meant she’d be returning home to New York soon. Today might be the last chance she had to find out more about the ghost, as long as she could find the journal. The voice hadn’t spoken to her since her last visit to her aunt’s place. It seemed the woman only spoke in the area of the lighthouse or Maeve’s home. If what Maeve had believed was true—that Helena Talbot’s spirit had never left—then the voice belonged to her.
Eliza heard the ocean surf before it came into view. She rode the mare right up to the cliffs, and at the noise below, it became jittery. Eliza urged the mare south, toward the lighthouse. When she neared it, she stopped near a lone tree and tied the horse to the trunk.
The lighthouse towered above her. It had seen better days, but the size and construction were still awe inspiring. Eliza ran her hand along the side of the rough, chipped wall—the coats of whitewash had long since been faded by the weather. Grasping the rusted latch, she was surprised to find that it wouldn’t budge. The door was locked. She circled the building, looking for another entrance. Then she stopped in front of the door again and frowned. Had her aunt locked it the night of the storm?
Eliza remembered only the mad dash toward the house. Aunt Maeve couldn’t have taken time to lock the door. Eliza fingered the giant keyhole—there was no lock mechanism inside.
The door had to be stuck. Eliza pushed hard then used her shoulder against it. Finally it flew open. A couple of roosting doves fluttered at the movement and flew past her.
Stepping inside, Eliza realized she’d never really inspected the old structure. A thick layer of dust seemed to cover the walls, but when she moved closer, she realized it was mold. In the middle of the floor, a winding staircase rose to the landing above, as if reaching to the heavens. One by one, she ascended the steps, passing narrow windows on the way. At the top, she was surprised to find how cozy the loft was. A hay-stuffed chair stood in the middle of the circular room, and a stack of books sat on the floor.
Eliza picked up a leather volume and traced the title—Fran
kenstein, by Mary Shelley. Interesting. Not something her aunt would probably choose to read. The buzzing of a lazy fly caught her attention, probably the last one of the year. She leafed through the remaining books, but none were journals. Checking beneath the chair, she found only dust and a lone cobweb. Eliza felt along the crevices of the wall, but nothing was loose, and the floorboards underneath her feet seemed solid enough.
The door to the lighthouse banged. Eliza froze—was it the wind? Then she heard footsteps on the stairs below.
Eliza turned with a start. Someone had entered the lighthouse. She walked to the head of the steps, heart hammering, trying to decide what to do. Please don’t be the constable. Then she realized that she had as much right to be here as anyone. After all, the lighthouse used to be run by her uncle.
She stepped into the stairwell and called, “Who’s there?”
No one answered, but she heard the footsteps continue up the staircase. She moved behind the chair, waiting to see who came into view, her breath coming fast.
A shock of rust-red hair appeared first, then a young man’s ruddy face covered in pockmarks. Eliza found herself staring at the most brilliant blue eyes she’d ever seen.
“What’re ’ee doing ’ere?” The man spoke with a thick and garbled tongue.
Perhaps he was older than she was, or younger by a year or two; it was difficult to tell.
“I’m visiting. Who are you?”
He took a step forward. “I’m the lighthouse keeper. I never see’d thee before.”
A dank stench coming from the man reached Eliza. She tried not to breathe in too deeply. “I’m Maeve O’Brien’s niece. My uncle used to own this lighthouse.”
He shifted his stance awkwardly. “I liked ole Mr. O’Brien, tho’ his wife was too nosey.”
Eliza hid a smile. “I didn’t know there was a lighthouse keeper. I’ve never seen you here before either.”
“Don’t need to come much since they closed it. But I reckon I should keep an eye on the place, all the same,” he said.
Something about his movements weren’t quite right. He licked his lips a couple of times, and his arms hung heavily at his sides. “What’s your name?” she asked.
