Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  There was one last place to check for a draft—Maeve’s room. Eliza went down the stairs to the main floor and stopped in front of the door. The door was shut, and there was no draft coming from beneath. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Sure enough, the broken window had been replaced, and the room looked neat and tidy, as if waiting for its occupant to come home. She shivered involuntarily. Then, as she shut the bedroom door, she thought she heard a voice.

  “Thank you.”

  Eliza spun on her heels, her breath halting. The voice was back. No, she decided. It’s not a voice; it’s the blasted wind. The way it wove around the house made it sound like a voice. Except that there was no wind outside. Perhaps the sound was a lonely rat scurrying above, searching for a morsel.

  Her mother would arrive tomorrow, and Eliza found herself looking forward to it. Being alone in the cottage was making her nervous. Feeling chilly, she went to light the fire, which proved a dubious task with trembling hands. When she had the fire roaring, Eliza brought the journal into the hearth room and pulled the rocking chair close to the fire.

  March 23, 1815. Jonathan’s contract is fulfilled, and he leaves in two days. He is secretly trying to steal more time to spend with me, and he’s promised to return as soon as he can to fetch me. Then we’ll leave this dull place for England. His father owns a big estate and will welcome his son’s new fiancée. But my monthly time is delayed. Constance Kinder told me it is how one knows one is with child. Your monthlies stop. I feel ill just thinking about it. Every hour I pray to God that my sin with Jonathan will not be discovered. I am filled with anguish knowing I don’t deserve God’s benevolence now. If I am with child, my sins will be a permanent stain. I wish I knew for certain. Then I would tell Jonathan, and maybe he would take me with him now. But what if I am not with child, and he becomes angry at my deceit?

  March 30, 1815. Jonathan is gone. I’ve been trying not to weep openly because Mother would guess what is wrong. I didn’t tell Jonathan that my monthly was late, because I kept hoping it would start. But it hasn’t, and I am so confused. Should I have told him? Am I with child? My breasts feel tender to the touch, and I can smell the cows a mile away. Am I becoming ill because of my sin? Will God ever forgive me?

  Eliza stood and placed another log on the fire. She wiped a stray tear off her cheek. How would it be to feel so alone in the world that you couldn’t tell anyone you were having a baby? She curled up on the sofa, pulling an afghan over her.

  April 2, 1815. I write this inside my jail cell. Mother discovered my condition. After seeing me vomit day after day without a fever or chill, she guessed. On the fourth day of being sick, I was trying to pull some weeds in the garden, but doubled over and vomited in a bucket. Mother stood behind me, silently watching. Then she grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, her gaze boring into me. She called me filthy vermin. And for once, I agreed.

  I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. Her voice sounded harsher than I’d ever heard her. She said I am carrying a devil child and that I am being punished by God for my sins.

  I sobbed and said that Jonathan would return and marry me. She trembled and forbade me to speak his name again.

  Then she called me a whore.

  I reached out to her and clung to her skirts. But she shook me off and spat in my face, forbidding me to enter the house.

  She left me there, in the yard, lying upon the cold ground, a sobbing mess. Even when my hysterics passed, I was too faint to arise and clean myself.

  When Father arrived home, he came immediately to my side. Surprisingly, in his own way, he was compassionate and sorrowful. He apologized for letting the devil himself reside within our walls.

  He directed me to clean myself and climb into the buckboard. I will be staying in jail until the day of my trial before the magistrate.

  Eliza shuddered at the image of going to jail and standing trial because you became pregnant out of wedlock. Too bad Helena couldn’t have been secreted away to a distant relative’s… As I have done, but for different reasons. Eliza looked at the dying flames and closed her eyes against the image of Helena being treated like an animal by her own family. She pictured Jonathan Porter, Sr. and the beautiful and innocent Helena. Did she become desperate enough to take her own life?

  What would Jon think when he read this? Clutching the journal to her chest, Eliza soon fell asleep on the sofa as the crackling flames faded to glowing embers.

  * * *

  Eliza stretched her cramped legs on the sofa. The journal had fallen on her lap, and the fire had long since died. Rubbing her sore neck, she sat up. The late-morning sun seemed to wink merrily at her through the window. It was strange to be in Maeve’s house alone—to be anywhere alone. Stretching, she rose and walked into the kitchen, remembering that she’d had no supper the night before.

  She found an apple and bit into it as she looked around the room. The place looked presentable enough for her mother’s arrival, but she knew it wouldn’t be what her sophisticated mother expected. Mrs. Robinson would soon find out that having an independently wealthy daughter looked much better on paper. With an amused eye, Eliza scanned the kitchen. Perhaps her mother would like the drying herbs that hung so neatly in a row… or maybe she would take a fancy to the hens in the barn… or perhaps she would want the scarred kitchen table, with years of memories etched on the surface… Puddles of candle wax were hardened on the table. Eliza would have to scrape those off.

  Laughing to herself, Eliza looked at the kitchen door and was surprised to see an envelope on the floor. The post must have come early this morning. She stooped to pick up the expensive-looking paper and examined it—from New York. She tore the envelope open and scanned to the bottom of the letter. Jonathan Porter? Her heart gave a jump before she realized it was from Jon, the son of Jonathan Porter and Helena.

  She skimmed the letter then sat at the table and slowly read through it again, wherein he asked her to continue searching for his mother’s journal.

  I have it now, Jon. And I’ll send it to New York. When she picked up her mother today from the train station, she would post a return letter to Jon. Eliza found some paper and a pen, and after rereading Jon’s letter, she began her reply. It was easier to write to him than to talk to him. Without his dark eyes and moody expression studying her, she felt able to freely express herself.

  Dear Mr. Porter,

  Thank you for your recent letter of concern. I’m curious to know when it was you discovered the box empty, as it was only yesterday that I happened to find your mother’s journal, dates starting in 1815, in a box underneath the same bottom stair. My mother is coming to Maybrook for a visit, and she’ll be returning to New York in another week or so. I will send the journal back with her.

  Regards,

  Eliza Robinson

  P.S. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken the liberty to read a few pages.

  Eliza bit her lip then rewrote the letter, this time leaving out the postscript.

  * * *

  In the early afternoon, Eliza opened the barn doors and hitched up Maeve’s horse to the wagon, something her mother would likely detest riding in. In fact her mother would be surprised she even knew how to prepare the wagon and horse—thankfully Maeve had taught her that. But Eliza had no other choice but to fetch her mother in the wagon. On the way into town, she stopped at Ruth’s cottage. As expected, she was home, kneeling in her garden, furiously tugging at weeds.

  “They’ll die soon, won’t they?” Eliza asked.

  Ruth turned and squinted against the glare of the sun. “Well, on my soul, if it isn’t Maeve’s niece…”

  “Eliza,” she filled in for her.

  “Yes, a beautiful name. Thou hast recovered from thy ordeal, I see. Jonny told me about what happened, and I’ve been praying for thee ever since.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ruth continued, “He seemed quite interested in thee and asked me several questions. I’m afraid I couldn’t answer him.�
�

  “What kind of questions?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t.

  But Ruth didn’t seem to mind. “About how long thou hast lived here, and whether you were of the faith, and… oh, I forget now.”

  “It’s all right,” Eliza assured her, reddening at the thought of Jon asking about her. “I’ve come to inquire about a young man named Gus, whom I’ve seen around lately.”

  Ruth brushed the dirt from her hands and stood. “What about Gus?”

  “He was chopping wood at Maeve’s house and seemed to think she was still alive.”

  Ruth’s warm brown eyes studied Eliza. “Don’t pay attention to that. He’s not all there, one might say. Gus is a hard worker, though he could never do anything more than manual labor. Lives by himself now, poor soul. His father passed away a couple of years ago.”

  “Where does he live?”

  Ruth hesitated. “Close to the cliffs in a little cottage not too far from the lighthouse. In fact, if there weren’t so many trees surrounding his place, thou could see it from here.”

  Eliza looked in the direction of Ruth’s gaze.

  Ruth spoke rapidly. “Poor boy, he was born breech, so it’s no surprise that he never had much intelligence. But he’s a good lad, and he stays out of trouble, he does. His father and… his father always saw to that.”

  * * *

  Eliza had only been at the station a few minutes when her mother’s train arrived. A few people exited, and soon Mrs. Robinson came into view. Her fashionable sapphire chiffon and low-cut bodice was completely out of place in Maybrook. Thankfully, she wore a lace cravat, covering her bosom. Her dark blonde hair was done up in a chignon, topped by a pert hat. Behind her, the porter carried two bulging bags. Eliza crossed to her mother and kissed her cheek. It seemed ages since they had last been together.

  “You’re looking well, Mother.”

  Mrs. Robinson frowned. “I can’t say as much for you, Eliza. What happened to your good dresses?”

  Eliza glanced at her faded blue dress, which she used to wear for traveling—it had become her mainstay as of late. It was clean, and the collar starched in proper Puritan style, but the fabric lacked the luster it once had. “There’s not much sense wearing my finery among the chickens on the farm. Maybrook is different from New York.”

  Her mother lifted her chin and glanced at their surroundings. “You don’t need to tell me that, dear. It’s quite evident already. Where’s the carriage?”

  Eliza led the way to the crude wagon and instructed the porter to load the bags.

  Her mother stood rooted to the ground, her eyes wide. “You can’t mean for me to ride in this.”

  Eliza hid a smile. “As I said, Mother, this isn’t New York.”

  Mrs. Robinson let out an exasperated sigh, hiked up her chiffon skirts, and climbed into the wagon. “I hope my dress doesn’t snag,” she mumbled. “And my hair will look a fright without a proper carriage roof. How far is the estate?”

  Her mother would find out soon enough that Maeve’s “estate” wasn’t what she was expecting. On the ride to Aunt Maeve’s house, Eliza told her mother about the people with whom she’d become acquainted with. “Ruth Temple is our closest neighbor. You’ll find her very hospitable, and you’ll probably meet the Pranns, whom I stayed with for a few days. Harvest Goddard runs the only dress shop in town, although I’m afraid you’ll find it somewhat lacking.”

  “What strange names,” her mother said.

  Eliza laughed, tightening her hands on the reins. “It’s a Puritan town, remember? Multiply Aunt Maeve by a hundred, and you have the population of Maybrook.”

  Mrs. Robinson flicked at an unseen piece of lint from her skirt. “The society papers have stirred themselves up again over you.”

  “What are they saying now?”

  “Oh, that you’re an heiress, and you were thrown into jail as a suspect in your aunt’s death.”

  Unbelievable. “They’ve twisted the truth, I imagine.”

  “They have.” Mrs. Robinson pursed her lips. “And like your last scandal, this one will no doubt affect your father’s clientele. Some of our oldest friends have dropped us from their invitation lists.”

  Anger bubbled inside Eliza, not because of the gossip journalists who managed to get their malicious words printed, but at her mother, who refused to defend her own daughter. Even when Thomas had proposed, her mother had seemed to take his side. Why did Thomas Beesley have to propose to her in the first place? It had set in motion a chain of unsavory events. And why was her night in jail being talked about? It wasn’t anyone’s business.

  Her mother continued her self-indulgent talk. “I hear Thomas is doing well. Your father says he’s working on a contract to implement mass production.”

  Her father had been set against mass production for as long as she could remember. “What does Father think?” Eliza slowed the horse a bit as they rounded a bend.

  “Oh, you know him. He’s old-fashioned, but I think he’ll come around. The ladies at the club say it’s the next step in industry, and anyone who wants to compete will have to start mass-producing ready-made furniture.”

  Her mother made it sound like there was no other choice. Eliza thought about how Jon had said that Thomas was still spreading the story of his rejection. “Has Thomas forgiven me?”

  “What a question, dear. Thomas was deeply hurt. I don’t see him getting over the humiliation, especially working with your father on a regular basis.”

  If only the gossip columns would stay out of it, maybe Thomas would be more inclined to drop it as well. Maeve’s house came into view. “There it is,” Eliza said, glancing at her mother to gauge her reaction.

  Mrs. Robinson noticeably flinched. “It doesn’t look like much.”

  Eliza smiled. “I know, but I love it.”

  When they climbed from the wagon, Eliza unloaded her mother’s baggage.

  “Isn’t there anyone to do that?” Mrs. Robinson asked, looking around.

  “Just me.” Eliza hefted the bags one at a time up the stairs and set them on the porch. “Come inside and have a look around, and then I’ll make us some tea.”

  Mrs. Robinson’s face brightened a little. She traipsed up the stairs and followed Eliza inside.

  “What do you think?” Eliza asked.

  Her mother looked around, walking slowly from the kitchen to the hearth room. “I, uh, it’s very humble,” she finally managed.

  “They were Puritans, remember?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Robinson said. “It’s rather quaint, like a country home should be. I can’t imagine how Maeve lived here all those years.”

  Eliza shrugged, expecting her mother’s reaction. “The simple life made her happy. I think she was the most cheerful person I’ve ever known.”

  Mrs. Robinson scoffed. “Perhaps she didn’t know any better.”

  Eliza saw no solution except an argument, so she ignored the comment. After all, there was no changing her mother’s viewpoint. “Why don’t you sit on the sofa? I’ll stoke the fire and make some fresh tea.”

  “Thank you, that would be lovely,” her mother said with a sigh.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jon settled into the carriage seat, Apryl beside him. Mr. and Mrs. Maughan were seated in their own carriage, traveling a short distance behind, as they left the Beesley estate. Adjusting the fur covering over her knees, Jon hoped the courtesy would deflect the onslaught that was sure to come.

  Apryl had barely spoken to him after learning that the small town he told her he’d grown up in was in fact, Maybrook, and that he was acquainted with Eliza Robinson. Not to mention that he had in fact, rescued her, twice. Two bright spots stood out on Apryl’s cheeks as she stared forward in the chilled air.

  “I think we wore out our welcome at the Beesleys,” Jon said, in an attempt to make peace. The carriage jolted forward, and they were on their way back into the city.

  She blinked and slid her gaze to his. He’d never seen her ga
ze quite so… icy.

  “You’ve not been forthcoming, Jonathan,” she said.

  Ah. She is speaking. At last.

  “The events didn’t seem remarkable at the time,” he said. “I did tell you about Maybrook, just not in connection with Thomas’s ex-fiancée.”

  “And you don’t see any reason for my concern?” Her voice was quiet, but strong. “What am I to think? You told everyone that you rescued the Robinson woman on the very night of her aunt’s murder… and you had to get her out of jail as well.” Apryl pulled the rug up higher and folded her arms.

  “Am I being scrutinized because for once, I seemed to know more about the gossip than anyone else in the room?”

  She turned her head and looked at him full on, and that’s when Jon realized she was jealous. His heart thumped—although he wasn’t sure if it was because he realized that Apryl might care enough about him to be jealous of another female acquaintance, or whether thinking so much about Eliza had brought on the rush.

  “I’ll concede that is quite a feat,” Apryl agreed. Her lips quivered. “Tell me what she looks like.”

  “Whatever for?” It was true, then. Apryl was jealous. He exhaled. What he said next could determine Apryl’s mood.

  “Unless you want to keep that private as well.” Her pouty tone was back.

  “No… of course not…” Jon gazed out the window at the passing countryside. The first cold of autumn had arrived, and he found the chilly air invigorating. “The first time I saw the famous Miss Robinson, she looked like a wet rat.”

  Apryl gasped then giggled. “No!”

  At last. His icy fiancée was thawing. “It was during a horrific storm, and I had meant to leave the next day, so I braved the weather and rode to Maeve O’Brien’s doorstep. There Miss Robinson was, staggering in the mud, drenched to the bone.”