by Amy Harmon
Apryl scoffed. “And the handsome hero rescued the damsel in distress.”
“If you want to put it that way, I suppose. But it was the wrong damsel.” He met her gaze—her eyes had warmed. He wrapped his hand over hers. She didn’t pull away. “Eliza is nothing like the lovely Apryl.”
A smile touched her lips. “Is she at least fair?” Apryl asked.
“I suppose some men might think so. But I wasn’t interested in making such an assessment. I felt sorry for the poor girl, that’s all.”
Apryl’s smile turned triumphant. “Certainly not a predicament I’d wish on anyone.”
“Of course not,” Jon said. “She was hysterical and asked for help, telling me her aunt was dead. Naturally, I had to help her, so I loaded her on the horse and took her to Ruth’s house.”
“The woman who raised you?” Apryl interjected.
“Yes.” Jon remembered how fragile and young Eliza had seemed at the time. He’d thought her merely a girl. He’d thought her hair dark at first, but when it dried, he realized it was the color between the early morning sun—
A nudge from Apryl brought him to full awareness.
“Ruth knew what to do and instructed me to help get her warm and dry.” He stopped, his throat suddenly raw.
“Pray tell me how you accomplished that, sir Jon?”
Jon’s collar felt itchy and the carriage stuffy. He could very well imagine Eliza’s eyes on his—scared and desperate. He’d felt helpless at the time, wishing he could soothe the girl’s fear. “I wrapped her in a blanket. She was delirious and kept saying that her aunt was dead.” He shifted position, trying to dispel the heat spreading upward from his neck.
“Then you got her out of jail. What a gentlemen,” Apryl said. “If nothing else, Jon, you’re always a gentleman.” She leaned her head on his shoulder.
Jon exhaled. Crisis averted. It seemed he was forgiven now.
Apryl’s head remained on his shoulder, and the carriage soon lulled her to sleep.
My thoughts aren’t always gentleman-like. Jon continued to stare out the window, remembering the morning after he had found Eliza. With Ruth dozing by the fire, he’d peered into the room where Eliza slept. As vividly as if it were yesterday, he could still picture her pale, delicate face, with dark eyelashes resting peacefully against her cheeks in slumber, framed in a halo of gentle waves of dark gold.
An hour later, with Apryl and her baggage unloaded from the carriage and settled into her house, Jon went home. When he reached his place and walked through his front door, he glanced at the pile of letters on the hall bench and decided they would have to wait—he was famished. But as he passed the bench, something caught his eye. Turning, he picked up the top envelope and scanned the handwriting. It was definitely feminine, but unfamiliar.
“Sarah?” he called.
A moment later, his maid appeared. “Yes, sir?”
“Bring me some hot soup in the library, please.”
Sarah nodded and scurried away.
Jon walked into the library, tossed his coat over the chair, and sank onto it to read. He scanned to the signature—it was from Eliza. Her mother would be joining her in Maybrook. He wondered when Eliza might come back to New York. Had she read the journal? It was strange to think that he might meet her in New York—Eliza and Maybrook seemed to be an entirely different world.
A short time later, Sarah entered the room with a tray of steaming soup and a small loaf of bread. Underneath her arm she carried the evening paper. “It just arrived,” she said.
Jon thanked her and dipped his spoon into the soup. The hot, spicy liquid felt wonderful as it warmed his throat. He scanned the front page and, seeing nothing new, he turned to the next. A heading caught his eye.
Connecticut Transient Sentenced to Death
He continued to read. One such Byron Hatham, accused of a series of murders in the Massachusetts and Connecticut regions, has been brought to justice. Mr. Hatham’s rampage began a little over a month back, with his final villainous act ten days ago upon the murder of Mr. Donald Barton, in Hartford, Connecticut.
Jon reread the dates again and compared them to the timing of Maeve’s death. He stilled. The dates weren’t consistent. The transient blamed for Maeve O’Brien’s death, couldn’t have been in Maybrook the night of her murder. He was in Hartford killing the unlucky Donald Barton.
Damn it to hell. Jon stood and paced the room, running his fingers through his hair. That could only mean one thing—the killer was still in Maybrook, and Eliza was in danger.
In the light of the sinking sun, Jon sank into his chair until dusk had deepened into night, debating what to do. Was he overly worried? And why was he so concerned about something that had nothing to do with him? Finally, he made up his mind. He would send a telegram to the constable of Maybrook and write a letter to Eliza. And then he could put the matter out of his hands.
* * *
The following morning, Jon set out to see Mr. Doughty, thinking that the man might be interested in his discovery. The day was cold and blustery, with promise of rain to come, so he ordered Richard to bring the carriage around. He snatched the morning paper from the front hall table and scanned the pages for a follow-up story. There was none.
He arrived at the law offices. Mr. Doughty greeted him warmly, and led him into his cramped office. “Sorry again about the clutter. Renovations are taking longer than planned.”
Jon stepped over a pile of books. “I’ve brought something for you to see,” he said, handing over the newspaper clipping.
Mr. Doughty read the article. “So they’ve found the murderer guilty. That’s good news, right?”
“Look at the date and location of the Barton murder,” Jon said. “That was the same night Henry Robinson’s sister was killed in Massachusetts.”
“Ah, I see what you’re getting at. This man, Byron Hatham, couldn’t have been in two places at once,” Mr. Doughty said.
“Exactly.” John moved some books from a chair and sat down. “I sent a telegram to the constable. But there has to be something more we can do.”
Mr. Doughty arched a brow. “We?”
“What if the murderer knew Maeve personally, and Mr. Robinson’s daughter is the next victim?”
“I thought the family was back in New York. I happened to run into Mr. Robinson this morning,” Mr. Doughty said.
Jon let the news sink in. “I received a letter from Eliza in yesterday’s post, sent from Maybrook, and she said her mother is coming to stay with her.”
Mr. Doughty leaned back in his chair. “You’re being extremely gallant, Mr. Porter. I’m sure the constable will take care of it.” He paused and steepled his fingers. “Forgive me for getting personal, but aren’t you engaged, Mr. Porter?”
“Yes. Why—” He felt his face grow hot. What was Mr. Doughty implying? “My concern is only natural and stems from having met the family.”
Mr. Doughty nodded his head in agreement, but didn’t look convinced. “Of course. I’m sure the constable will reopen the investigation and see to the safety of his citizens.” He peered at Jon closely. “Or perhaps we should pay another visit to Maybrook and warn Miss Robinson in person.”
Jon tugged at his collar. “Perhaps a telegram is enough after all. Thank you for the advice.” He took the newspaper article back from Mr. Doughty and rose to leave.
Moments later, Jon stepped out in to the driving rain and made a dash for his carriage. Richards pulled forward as soon as the door was shut. Now sodden, Jon leaned back in his seat and exhaled. How could Mr. Doughty make the assumption that he was interested in Eliza as more than an ordinary acquaintance?
Terms with Apryl were back on track, and there was no reason for him to jeopardize that, especially after he’d remonstrated Apryl for being friendly with Thomas. He must let his mind be free of the Robinson girl, forget he ever met her. She would be protected by the constable in Maybrook. He would soon recover his mother’s journal. Then he would never see or he
ar of her again.
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out his handkerchief. After wiping his forehead, he discovered that it was the cloth that carried Eliza’s initials. He folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket, reminding himself to remove it at home.
As he rode, the wind whipped about the carriage, which reminded him of the night he met Eliza.
“Enough,” he told himself, pressing his fingers against his temples. Maybe he should accept a few clients to take his mind off things until his father’s estate was ready to be settled.
Upon his arrival, Sarah met him at the door. “Mr. Thomas Beesley is waiting for you in the library. I hope you don’t mind, sir,” she said with a curtsy. “You said you wouldn’t be gone more than an hour, and Mr. Beesley said he didn’t mind waiting.”
Jon tried to hide his annoyance. “Did he state his business?”
“No, sir,” Sarah said, her eyes going to the floor.
“No matter. Thank you for making him comfortable.” Jon left the maid standing in the hallway and entered the library. Thomas sat in a chair, leafing through a book. When he saw Jon, he rose, his massive form making the room seem insignificant.
“An unexpected pleasure,” Jon said, staying decidedly calm.
“Your maid is gracious,” Thomas said through his full lips.
Jon sat in a chair opposite. “Thank you. Please have a seat.”
Thomas followed suit, his eyes gleaming. “You must be wondering why I’m here.”
Jon watched the man’s bulk settle into his chair. I hope the legs hold. “I suppose your country vacation is over, and it’s time to get back to business?”
“Something like that.” Thomas folded his hands over his girth. “I’m looking for a lawyer to represent my case against Mr. Henry Robinson. As you seem to know the family’s quirks, I thought you’d be the perfect candidate. That is, if you feel you’re up to it.”
Jon rubbed the back of his neck. Becoming further involved with the Robinson family wasn’t inviting, especially if it meant representing Thomas against Eliza’s father. “I’m newly out of law school, Mr. Beesley, and I haven’t yet established my practice.”
“So I’ve heard.” Thomas nodded. “Tell me, Mr. Porter, what are your future plans?”
“Once my financial situation is secure, I’ll marry Apryl, of course. I’ve thought about doing something in government…”
“How very noble of you—a public servant. I hear the pay is pittance, but the benefits are immense.” Thomas pulled out a massive handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and blew his nose.
Jon flinched and waited for the noise to subside. “I’m not worried about money.”
Thomas took one last swipe at his reddened nose and replaced the crumpled handkerchief. “You must be very rich, then, Mr. Porter, to be able to work for free and support a wife accustomed to a lavish lifestyle.”
Jon gripped the edge of his chair, aching to punch the man. “Apryl will be well-taken care of, as will our children. I’m sorry I won’t be able to represent you in this matter.”
Glancing about the room, Thomas said, “You know where to reach me, Mr. Porter, if you decide to change your mind. I’m sure we can agree on a price we’ll both be happy with.” He rose awkwardly and lumbered across the floor. “Good evening, sir. I’ll see myself out.”
The door shut behind him, and Jon stared at it for some time. He’d just been grossly insulted.
Chapter Fourteen
Eliza spent the day showing her mother the sights of Maybrook. It was a strange time. Eliza was still young, yet her station had risen, but the cutting remarks from her mother said she was somehow jealous of Eliza. How could her mother envy a run-down cottage, crumbling lighthouse, and fallow farmland? But her father had told her that the property was valuable, especially to non-Puritans who were encroaching on every side of Maybrook, buying up land where they could.
On the third morning, Eliza and her mother sat at the kitchen table with a list between them of all the items in Maeve’s house and their approximate value.
A light scoff came from her mother. “There’s nothing of real worth, except for the land. Your father said it might be best to sell that right away.”
“Wouldn’t he rather wait until the scandal has died down?” Eliza tried to keep the edge out of her voice.
Her mother looked up sharply. “We want to do what’s best for you. This town is becoming smaller and less desirable. You’ll only get decent money out of it from an investor.”
“I don’t think Maeve would have wanted it sold off that way,” Eliza said.
“Then sell it to some foolish Puritan who values the secluded farm life.” She said with a wave of her hand. “How about the Prann family? You seem to be on friendly terms with them.”
Eliza was sure that Nathaniel would be more than delighted to take over the property, if a bride were to be thrown into the bargain. But she doubted he could afford to buy it.
The sound of an approaching wagon caused both women to rise and look out the window.
“Speak of the devil, Mother. It’s about time you met one of the Pranns.”
Eliza hurried to open the front door before her mother could answer. “Nathaniel, come in and meet my mother,” she called out brightly.
Nathaniel tipped his hat and climbed down from the wagon. His face glowed with pleasure, no doubt at the friendly greeting. Eliza felt a twinge of guilt. He looked even younger than he was, now that Eliza saw him through her mother’s eyes. He also looked completely unsophisticated.
“I’ve brought some fresh vegetables from my mother’s garden,” he said.
Introductions were made, and Nathaniel was invited to stay for tea. Eliza inwardly smiled at the way her mother appraised him. By New York standards, he looked like a common country boy—uneducated, with only the price of cows on his mind. In reality, Nathaniel was well-versed in Greek, Latin, and Bible study. Eliza watched the pair with amusement.
“Your father’s been a farmer all his life, and his father before him?” her mother asked.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s in our blood and has been even before my great-grandfather came across the ocean in 1620,” Nathaniel explained and gulped down some tea.
“He farmed in England?”
Eliza could have pinched her mother. She acted as if no one respectable farmed.
“Yes, ma’am, in a village near Portsmouth.”
Mrs. Robinson nodded as if she were familiar with the regions skirting London. “And you’ll be a farmer too, I presume? Take over the family property?”
Nathaniel looked a bit uncomfortable at the direct question. “In our town, when the parents pass, the children divide up the inheritance equally. I’m not one for squabbling with my siblings over land. My father is set on me going to Cambridge and replacing the Reverend someday.”
Mrs. Robinson’s mouth rounded. “Cambridge? Well, who would have suspected?”
This was news to Eliza—he’d never talked about college before. Her mother’s sting eluded Nathaniel, and he smiled in response.
“Would a reverend be able to care for a property such as this?” her mother asked.
Nathaniel’s eyes widened, and he looked at Eliza. Her mother could hardly know what sort of ideas she was giving him.
Her mother continued with a few more questions, and by the time Nathaniel took his leave, Eliza saw that her mother was very satisfied with herself, thinking Nathaniel a potential buyer.
As the two women stood on the porch waving goodbye, Eliza turned and said, “Mother, you don’t understand.”
“What do you mean?” Her hand rose automatically to her hair, checking for flyaway strands.
“Nathaniel is only interested in this land for one reason.”
Her mother’s hand stopped mid-primping. She settled her steady gaze onto Eliza. “What reason is that, dear?”
“He’s asked me to marry him.” She watched the expression on her mother’s face register her words
.
“What did you say?” her mother asked faintly, her face draining of color.
“I told him we were too young.”
Mrs. Robinson grabbed Eliza’s arm and pulled her close. “You didn’t make any promises, did you?”
“Of course not. You know my record of turning down proposals.” She turned away and stared at the roof of the barn. She felt her mother’s stare penetrating from behind her.
“Do you think the Pranns might purchase this land without you becoming Nathaniel’s bride?”
Eliza bit her lip to keep from crying out. It was so typical of her mother to think only of money. “I don’t think the Pranns know of their son’s intentions towards me. I’m sure they’d be as horrified as you.”
Mrs. Robinson began to protest, but Eliza went back into the kitchen and started clearing tea from the table.
* * *
Later that night, after her mother had retired for the evening, Eliza lit two candles at the kitchen table. With Helena’s journal opened, she continued to read the turbulent events.
April 5, 1815. I’ve been locked in the high constable’s barn for three days. Goodwife Wheyland has brought me quilts and food. I see pity in her eyes when she looks at me. I loathe that pity. When I asked Goodwife Wheyland what’s to happen to me, she told me about the whipping post and the pillory. But she thought both punishments would be too harsh for a woman in my delicate condition.
Oh, I long for Jonathan and his warm brown eyes and strong embrace. He would take me away from this horrible place and care for me and our child. I would give anything to send word to him, to tell him what has happened. I know that he would leave his post immediately and come reinstate my honor by marrying me.
Why can’t my mother be as compassionate? She has not been to see me yet, although my father comes twice a day.
Oh, God, I ask thee for forgiveness. How can something so beautiful be a sin? How long does thy punishment need to continue? I am in the depths of despair and feel like I’m already in hell.
Eliza’s hand trembled as she turned the page—reading the words felt as if she were looking into the very soul of another. She felt unworthy to read such honest and tormented words. But she couldn’t tear herself away.
