by Amy Harmon
When he arrived at the Maughans, he climbed the steps and rang the bell. But Apryl wasn’t home. According to the housemaid, the family was gone and wouldn’t return for two days; they were still enjoying the country life at the Beesley estate. Jon left feeling confused. Had she not been anxious about staying at the Beesleys without him—so why had she prolonged her visit? She must be enjoying Jessa’s company more than she’d expected. By the time he reached home, Jon had decided to repack his bags and take up Thomas’s invitation after all.
Time to get to know the man who Eliza turned down.
Just as the sun was sinking below the horizon, Jon arrived at the long driveway leading to the Beesley estate. The house was a stately two-story, surrounded by sprawling lawns and gardens. The carriage pulled around the circular driveway, and Jon alighted with his overnight bag and stood before the house, ablaze with lights and music flowing from the open doorway.
A butler must have heard the carriage and now waited as Jon ascended the front staircase. He removed his overcoat and hat, placing them on the outstretched arms of the butler. “I’m Mr. Jonathan Porter.”
The butler bowed and said, “I was told you might arrive. Mr. Beesley is in the garden, but you’re welcome to wait for him inside.”
So they were expecting him? Certainly that was evidence of Apryl’s optimism. Jon stepped into the grand hallway and looked at the chandelier lit with hundreds of candles, blazing their welcome. To his right, the music poured from the drawing room, but no one was dancing. In fact, except for the musicians, the room was vacant.
He walked back to the butler. “I’ll find them in the garden, I suppose.”
The butler dipped his head. “It’s this way, sir.”
Jon found the garden path easily enough, which was lit with oriental lanterns. The heavy scent of blooming roses assailed him as he walked, reminding him of Apryl.
He came to a clearing, expecting it to be filled with several guests, including Apryl and her parents. But on the bench on the far side, only Apryl and Thomas sat together.
Their shoulders were touching, and their hands intertwined. Jon’s throat tightened. The bench was rather small, but they appeared as intimate confidantes. It might be nothing, but the longer he stood there unobserved, the more he doubted his own thoughts.
Apryl saw him first. Her mouth fell open, and she rose, practically stumbling over her white gown of lace and ribbons. “Jon!” Her face paled two shades. Behind her, Thomas rose and clumsily straightened the velvet vest over his generously cut shirt.
Jon walked forward, pretending that everything was normal. He even shook Beesley’s hand, which he found to be quite damp. The man was perspiring—had he been all along? Or just now at the sighting of Jon?
“Welcome, welcome,” Thomas said, removing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his nose.
Jon could have broken that nose.
Apryl smiled and gave Jon a kiss on his cheek. “You’ve returned early. I’m so delighted you decided to join us. I was hoping you’d come.”
Even though Jon felt like decking Thomas, he smiled at the two. “I didn’t expect Apryl to still be here, but when I learned of her extended stay, I decided to join the fun.”
“W—well, of course,” Thomas stuttered then cleared his throat. “Perhaps I’d better see if your parents have made themselves comfortable in the library.” He hesitated as he met Jon’s gaze. “And when you’re ready, I’ll have the butler, Mr. West, show you your room.”
Jon offered a mock bow and watched Thomas waddle down the garden path. Jon turned and looked at Apryl, whose face had grown quite flushed. Holding out his arm, he asked, “Care for a stroll?”
“Let me fetch my wrap,” she said, turning back to the bench.
No “love” or “dear.” It made him sick to think of what was so obviously transpiring between his fiancée and Thomas.
Jon guided Apryl along the trails of the garden in the gathering shadows. When he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, he stopped and faced her. “Do you want to break our engagement so you can court your bloated host?”
Apryl’s eyes widened, filling with tears. “Of course not, Jon. I—I wouldn’t dream—”
“I saw the two of you together, pressed together like fish in a tin—”
“It was nothing. He’s easy to talk to, and he’s fun to be around, but he’s not like you. You’re…” Her voice broke.
“What am I, Apryl? Easy to talk to? Fun to be around? I thought we had an understanding, a commitment.” Frustration boiled inside of him. “I don’t want a wife who will always be looking for the next entertaining party, or the next man who romances her—who’s not her husband.”
Tears trickled down her cheeks. But even in the rising moonlight, her eyes blazed, her cheeks aflame.
“Why can’t you tell me, Jon?” she asked, her voice trembling.
His eyes hardened. “Tell you what?”
“That you love me. Why won’t you say it?”
Because I don’t know if I do. Jon gaped then watched her face dissolve into sobs. How had this suddenly become his fault? “Did I not ask you to marry me? Have I not shown you every courtesy? Just because I’m not a dandy, or some tripe that composes poems.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Thomas doesn’t compose poems. But he doesn’t hold back his affections, either.”
Jon stared at her, his face heating up. “Are you saying you’ve kissed him? Have you been intimate with him?”
She gasped and turned from him, her shoulders shaking.
Jon needed a man to punch. Had Eliza and Thomas…? He couldn’t let himself think about that. The thought of them together was mortifying. He had no desire to comfort her, to tell her the words she wanted to hear.
“So you’ll not tell me you love me.” Her voice trembled. “Your silence is my answer.”
“You won’t answer me about Thomas, yet you make proclamations about my intentions and my feelings?”
“Jon,” Apryl said, her voice pleading. “Tell me if you love me.”
He opened his mouth to say it, but something stuck in his throat. He’d never said those words to someone else. What did they mean anyway? He swallowed at the dryness in his throat, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to say what she wanted to hear. “Isn’t my anger at seeing you with that beast of a man enough?”
Apryl wiped furiously at new tears coming down her cheeks. “Jonathan Porter, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever known.” She turned and fled along the path.
Call her back. Tell her you love her, that you want to marry her and that you forgive her. But his words froze as he watched her disappear into the trees.
When Jon entered the Beesley home, the musicians had stopped playing. He found Mr. and Mrs. Maughan in the library, who greeted him pleasantly. He was surprised to see Apryl sitting near the fire, leafing through the pages of a book. She watched him as he came into the room. He’d have thought she would have run to Thomas. Jon waited for her eyes to offer welcome, but she lowered her gaze and ignored him.
Mr. Maughan asked, “How was your trip to Massachusetts?”
“I didn’t find what I needed, so I’m working on another solution.” Jon thought he saw Apryl raise her head.
Mrs. Maughan nodded. “I’ve heard the coast there is lovely this time of year.”
“Yes.” Although the loveliness that he had experienced had nothing to do with the landscape.
“Why don’t you read us something, Apryl?” Mrs. Maughan asked, breaking into Jon’s thoughts.
Apryl looked down at the book she was holding, turned a few pages, and began to read aloud. Jon relaxed in the wing-backed chair and lit one of Thomas’s imported cigars, listening to his fiancée’s melodic voice reading Bryant’s “Green River.”
When breezes are soft and skies are fair,
I steal an hour from study and care,
And hie me away to the woodland scene,
Where wanders th
e stream with waters of green;
Jon closed his eyes, picturing Maybrook. In his mind he was walking through the woodlands bordering the fields near Ruth’s house. Then he saw Eliza. She stood near the edge of the trees, waiting for him. As he approached, she walked towards him, smiling.
And gaze upon thee in silent dream,
For in thy lonely and lovely stream,
An image of that calm life appears,
That won my heart in my greener years.
The poem ended, and Jon opened his eyes, surprised to see Apryl looking at him expectantly. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Very nice.”
A slight smile crossed her lips. It appeared peace had been made, which was just as well for him.
* * *
The following morning, Thomas appeared at the breakfast table, dressed in a riding habit. The tight jodhpurs and narrow riding boots only accentuated the man’s poor figure in the worst possible manner. Jon nearly choked on a bite of cold ham. He wondered how Apryl could even pretend to be entertained by him—let alone kiss him, if that’s all that had happened.
Thomas tossed a newspaper onto the table. “It’s finally happened. My foolish partner has broken the last straw with his increasingly poor reputation. His daughter landed herself in jail earlier this week.”
The Robinsons. Before Jon could read the article, Mr. Maughan snatched the newspaper and scanned the front page.
“No, it didn’t make front page news,” Thomas said in a snide tone, “but there it is on page two, all right, by the gossip section. See for yourself.”
Mr. Maughan turned the page and began to read. “‘Mr. Henry Robinson, well-known furniture dealer and connoisseur, has again disgraced himself in high society. It appears that his daughter, Eliza Robinson, has become independently situated, but only on the occasion of her aunt’s murder.’”
Apryl let out a small gasp and looked over at Thomas. “You did well to distance yourself from the family.”
Thomas’s smile was triumphant. Jon set his mouth in a firm line, ordering himself to stay silent.
Mr. Maughan read on. “‘While Eliza Robinson enjoys her new property, her poor aunt is barely cold in the grave. Perhaps she was an accomplice in her aunt’s unfortunate death, and therefore did not need anyone’s hand in marriage to secure a fortune.’”
“Serves the girl right,” Mrs. Maughan blurted out.
“Oh my goodness, Thomas,” Apryl crooned. “You poor man. Do you think they’re referring to you?”
Jon’s stomach felt as heavy as lead.
Thomas’s eyes gleamed as he loaded his plate with sausage, toast and marmalade. “Wouldn’t it be something if she went to trial for murder?” A low chuckle rumbled from somewhere deep inside him.
Apryl leaned forward, her eyes intent on Thomas as he took the seat across from her. “She must have coveted her aunt’s property all along, and was only waiting for the perfect opportunity get rid of the woman.” Her face flushed as Thomas smiled at her.
“I believe so,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, his eyes not shying away from Apryl’s bold gaze. “I will have to terminate my partnership with Mr. Robinson, of course.”
“Most definitely.” Apryl nodded. “Please read the rest, Father.”
Mr. Maughan cleared his throat. “‘Mr. Robinson could not be reached for comment, but sources close to him say that he’s grieving over his daughter’s involvement, and that Mrs. Robinson has left home, with no word of her return or her whereabouts.’”
“I never did like her mother,” Mrs. Maughan interjected, rosy circles forming on her cheeks. “Too snooty for me.”
“Do you know the family, then?” Jon asked, genuinely curious as to how the Robinsons were connected to the Maughans.
“Not well, but I’ve seen Mrs. Robinson at social functions,” Mrs. Maughan said.
Amid the speculating, Jon pulled the paper in his direction, his anger rising. It was all slander and gossip. Who could be idiot enough to believe any of it? Unfortunately he was in a room full of people who were doing just that.
“She didn’t kill her aunt,” he said sharply above the conversation. The talking stopped, and everyone looked at him. “Eliza didn’t kill Maeve O’Brien.”
“Who in damnation is Maeve O’Brien?” Thomas asked.
“Henry Robinson’s sister. Maeve Robinson married a Puritan man named Edward O’Brien and settled with him in Massachusetts.”
Apryl was staring at Jon now, twisting her napkin. “And how might you know this, Jon?”
He hesitated, but he suddenly didn’t care about protecting his past anymore. All he wanted to do was see Thomas Beesley eat his words. “Because I grew up in Maybrook. Maeve O’Brien was my neighbor, and I know Eliza.”
Chapter Twelve
With two hours of daylight left, Eliza decided to take a walk to the lighthouse. She scanned the area for any signs of Gus, but seeing none, she continued on her way. When she reached the lighthouse, she pushed open the door and called out, “Anyone there? Gus?”
She glanced behind her, but saw only trees swaying gently in the breeze. Entering the lighthouse, she watched the flecks of dust float in the air, illuminated by the sunlight filtering in through the narrow window behind her.
She examined the steps to find the one Jon had said was loose. Nails were missing on the third step. She lifted up the board.
Beneath was the same wooden box Jon had told her about. She lifted it out of the step, finding it weighted. According to Jon, it had been empty. With her anticipation mounting, she opened the lid. Inside sat a worn, leather-bound book. She carefully opened the cover and read Helena Talbot, January 1815.
Jon had said the journal was missing. How did it get back in the box? She replaced the now-empty box into the step, then left the lighthouse, clutching the journal to her chest. She ran the entire way back to the cottage in the growing dusk.
Eliza locked the front door of the cottage behind her and hurried into the kitchen. She lit two tapered candles with a trembling hand, deciding that supper would have to wait. She reverently placed the volume on the table, hoping she’d made the right choice by bringing it home. Turning to the first page, she stared at the long arched handwriting.
She skimmed the first few pages, where Helena had written about ordinary things—doing chores, sewing samplers, attending Meeting. Then Eliza stopped on the page dated January 8. It was the first mention of something different happening in her life.
January 8, 1815. A stranger came into town last week—he’s a traveling salesman for the ship industry. He recruits sailors who travel the world, and he’s been to the West Indies and to Australia, even China. The stories he shares are amazing and almost unbelievable. Father offered him a room at our house, and I can hear them talking long into the night about the many adventures he’s had. I’m not allowed to sit with them after supper, because Mother doesn’t want me to hear anything heathen. His name is Jonathan Porter. Doesn’t that sound nice?
Nice, indeed. Little did Helena know that this was the man who’d abandon her. No wonder the Talbots had kept close watch on their daughter. A shiver traveled along Eliza’s back, making her wonder if she should be reading Helena’s words. But the journal was in front of her… waiting to be read. She turned the page. The next entry was written more than a month later.
February 15, 1815. Mother is an absolute tyrant. I’ve been doing my chores, attending Meeting, and keeping the Sabbath perfectly holy, so there should be no room to complain—although Mother always finds something to criticize. Jonathan is still staying at our house, though he is not around very often—until today. He came home early from someplace and stood in the doorway, staring at me. Finally I asked if he needed anything. I know Mother would have never left to visit the widow Goodwife Harttle if she’d known Jonathan would be returning so early in the day.
I offered to fix him a meal, but he shook his head and continued to watch me work. Finally he went upstairs. I could hear him pace the floor l
ike a caged animal. Then he came back down and asked if I would take a walk with him. You can imagine my surprise. A tall, handsome man wanting me for company—and he even knowing that I am only seventeen.
What he said to me I dare not write, but I discovered that Jonathan Porter does not see me as a child. Rather, he said that I’m a “beautiful woman.” Those words are now etched in my memory.
It was all so sweet, but Eliza knew the bitter was about to come. Imagine being so proper, or so Puritan, that Helena couldn’t even write out a conversation.
March 1, 1815. Perhaps I should burn this journal. But for now, I’ll pour out my heart upon these pages. I have become used to Jonathan’s kisses. Aye, he has kissed me. I suppose I feel bold in saying so. I have to write it down, or it won’t seem real. I cannot stop thinking about him, nor stop my cheeks from flaming when I am in his presence. The private kisses are not enough for him, or for me. I yearn for his touch every hour I am not with him, and that is most of the day. When I hear his footstep upon the threshold, I have to refrain from flinging myself into his embrace. I love him. When we are secretly together, I chide him for looking at me the way he does in my father’s presence. I’m surprised my parents haven’t noticed—for I am truly a woman now that I’ve had a man’s love. Jonathan says he will marry me after his job is completed. My parents will not want me to marry a non-Puritan, even one so important as Jonathan Porter.
The candles flickered rapidly. Eliza looked up and stared at the dancing flames, realizing that a window must be open in the house somewhere. She reluctantly left the table and went to the hearth room, but everything was shut tight. Walking upstairs, she scanned the rooms, finding all of the windows closed.
