Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  “They have.” Jon sat beside her. “My inheritance has been settled.”

  Apryl’s eyes shifted to him curiously.

  “I need to travel to England on related business.”

  Her attention went back to the painting.

  Jon grasped her hand. “I want you to come with me. We’ll get away from all this for a while. It will be the two of us… except for a chaperone.”

  Apryl offered a small smile, yet her eyes didn’t hold promise. “My mother would never allow it.”

  Chuckling, Jon said, “That’s what your father said.”

  “You already asked him?” She turned her head to really look at him.

  “Of course. Apryl, let’s get married right away, and we’ll go to England on our honeymoon.” He stopped speaking when he saw her eyes fill with tears.

  “You don’t understand, Jon. It’s not about a marriage certificate that I want. It’s the engagement dinner and the perfect wedding dress and all that accompanies it.”

  Jon leaned back and sighed. “Is that what you want, or what your mother wants?”

  “I want everything I’ve dreamed of since I was a young girl,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want the white dress with the long train and the flower girls walking before me. I want my father to give me away, and for you to be standing at the end of the aisle, dressed in a fine black suit. I want thousands of flowers and a cake no one will ever forget—” Her words were choked off by her sobs.

  Jon put his arm around her shoulders and brought her cheek to his. “You shall have all of that and more. I promise.”

  * * *

  The next thirteen days were the most peaceful Eliza could remember having in a long time, perhaps as far back as before meeting Thomas Beesley.

  She didn’t dream, she didn’t hear voices, she didn’t have any conversations with eligible men. Jon was never far from her mind, but she decided that that would soon change too. She and Gina spent a lot of time on deck, in the fresh air, talking about nothing. Which was divine.

  When the ship docked outside of the Bordeaux harbor, Eliza and Gina were on the deck, watching the approach anxiously. Once ashore, they found themselves a little unsteady on their legs, and they clung together, laughing.

  Mr. Graydon hired a carriage to take them to a hotel. Young boys ran after them, shouting things in French.

  “I wonder what they’re they’re saying,” Gina said.

  “They want to see the Americans,” Eliza said, staring out the window.

  “You understand them?” Gina asked.

  Eliza nodded. “Doesn’t everyone know a little French?”

  “She was never proficient in the languages,” Mrs. Graydon said.

  Gina ignored her mother’s comment and pointed at a passing sign. “What does that say?”

  Eliza squinted into the growing darkness. “La Petite Café,” she read.

  “What does it mean?”

  “The Little Café,” Eliza said with a laugh. “They probably have refreshments there.” She hoped the Graydons would take the hint.

  “Oh, how quaint,” Mrs. Graydon said, peering out her window. “But we’ll be at the hotel soon enough. Then we’ll have tea.”

  Eliza settled back into her seat for the journey. There would be plenty of time tomorrow to explore the area. For now, she was exhausted and looked forward to sleeping in a bed that didn’t sway.

  Their hotel was small but elegant. Eliza marveled at all of the artwork on the walls. The employees were cordial but reluctant to speak English. Eliza tried her best to use French and received warm smiles in return.

  In the morning, she accompanied the Graydons on a stroll through the surrounding village. Many children waved and watched them with curiosity. Upon returning to the hotel, the manager informed them that a special reception would be held that night for all visiting foreigners.

  Gina clapped her hands. “Maybe we’ll meet a handsome foreigner,” she whispered to Eliza.

  Eliza smirked. “We are the foreigners here.”

  “Oh, of course,” Gina said, but continued to smile.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for Eliza to fall in love with the French countryside. A couple of weeks in Bordeaux had her fully converted, and now they were on their way to Marseilles. Though the velvety darkness now enveloped the landscape, Eliza felt the charged atmosphere of romance that France was famous for.

  They were in a sleeper compartment on a night train, Mr. and Mrs. Graydon on one, and Eliza and Gina in the other. Gina was sleeping, but it wasn’t late yet, and Eliza pressed her forehead against the window, trying to make out any shapes in the darkness. The moon, darkened by passing clouds, didn’t offer much light.

  The train slowed as it approached an upcoming station, and Eliza watched as a lone person climbed on board. No one exited. Soon the train pulled away and gathered momentum.

  Just then Eliza remembered the letters stowed away in her baggage, two envelopes that had arrived for her that afternoon. She had asked the porter how they happened to arrive so quickly.

  “They were sent on a smaller, much faster cargo ship,” he had replied.

  She rose and stretched over Gina’s sleeping form and brought down her bag from overhead. With the rush of repacking, Eliza hadn’t had the time to read them. One was from her mother, the other from Nathaniel.

  Deciding to read her mother’s first, she opened the envelope. The news was general and a trifle sentimental. But the postscript caught her attention.

  P. S. Soon after your carriage left, Mr. Porter appeared at our doorstep. He was in a rush to speak with you. What ever could he have wanted?

  Eliza wondered what he thought when he’d received the letter outlining her dream. Was he angry? Her mother’s letter stated only that he’d been in a rush.

  Finally, Eliza opened the letter from Nathaniel. She wasn’t surprised he’d written her again. She’d received two letters since leaving Maybrook.

  Dearest Eliza,

  I’m writing in hopes that thy recovery hast been full. I am leaving Massachusetts soon and hope to visit thee before I go. I’ll be attending Cambridge overseas for a period of four years. Knowing that I’ll likely live my life in Maybrook, going to England now may be the only chance I have to see any of the world before becoming a reverend. Of course, I will continue to work my own land and provide for a future family, but God may have other plans for me.

  The town will help pay for my schooling, provided that I commit to return to them in due time and take over Reverend Clement’s position.

  Please reply and let me know how thou fares. May the Lord be with thee always.

  Thy truest and ever hopeful friend,

  Nathaniel Prann

  Eliza let the letter fall into her lap. Wouldn’t her parents be surprised to see a Puritan show up on their doorstep?

  She picked up his letter and scanned the words again. It was easy to say what one really meant in writing. Deciding to write him back in the morning, she closed her eyes and soon fell asleep to the rhythmic motion of the train.

  * * *

  The following morning, Eliza and the Graydons descended from the train at the Marseilles station. Eliza found herself relieved to have the long journey over with. Once they were settled into their hotel, Gina asked Eliza to explore with her.

  As they walked along the boardwalks with their parasols, Eliza enjoyed being away from everything she knew. She felt free. Helena had been quiet; perhaps ghosts couldn’t transcend oceans.

  That first evening in the hotel, Gina fell asleep almost immediately. Eliza took the opportunity to reply to Nathaniel’s letter. She made it brief.

  Dear Nathaniel,

  I was pleased to hear that you are leaving for college. As you may know by now, I have left New York and am currently traveling in France with a friend and her family. The change of scenery has done me good. I feel stronger already, and it seems that the events surrounding my aunt’s death are far removed.

>   I wish only the best for you.

  Regards,

  Eliza

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Jon gazed at the diminishing New York harbor. He could no longer make out Apryl’s violet-clad figure, nor her hand waving animatedly to him. Holding up his for one final farewell, he found that he was one of the last passengers on deck. Most had gone to their cabins to settle in for the voyage.

  Ironically, he’d been at this same harbor four weeks before, trying to find Eliza. But that was in the past, and now he was headed to his future. When he returned, he’d surprise Apryl with the news of his true wealth, and he’d give her the lavish wedding she’d always dreamed of.

  When Apryl had first discovered that he was going to England, with or without her, she had been disappointed. That was when he’d committed to a wedding date, and after that, she didn’t seem to mind his impending departure.

  With the absence of Thomas Beesley in their lives, Jon found that he had become more rational about his feelings toward Apryl. Once in awhile, he even fancied that he loved her. During his youth, he’d never witnessed a marriage firsthand. Only the Puritan couples at Meeting provided a limited example. He’d seen deep lines etched upon faithful faces and never doubted that they held a great love for their way of life. Although life had been hard in Maybrook, husbands and wives worked together as one.

  That was the most important thing in marriage, Jon determined—a willingness to work together toward a common goal. The romantic frills of love were for the less ambitious. He needed practicality, social standing, and good morals surrounding him. Apryl would provide them.

  Jon scanned the eastern horizon. It was still early in the day, and the sun was new in the sky. A bird landed not too far from Jon, and he watched as it hopped about the deck, scouring the planks for any sign of nourishment. The immaculately swabbed floor didn’t offer a single morsel, and eventually the disappointed gull flew away.

  A few deckhands scrambled about, going about their business. Jon walked into the lobby and found the stairs. Descending them, he passed a few passengers and was greeted in French or English.

  His cabin was small but respectable—two beds stood side by side. He began to unpack his baggage. He’d brought several books to read on the voyage, including a volume of poetry by William Bryant.

  With two hours until the midday meal, he made himself comfortable across the beds and started reading “The Constellations.”

  The next couple of weeks were uneventful. A squall arose, but nothing the capable crew couldn’t handle. Jon spent most of his time playing card games with other gentlemen who were content to pass the lazy hours in such a way. One evening he attended the ship’s jubilee dance, but then left soon after it started. He wasn’t in the mood to keep frivolous conversation with ever-flirtatious ladies.

  At last, England’s coast came into sight. They passed through the English Channel, and after stops at Portsmouth and Dover, arrived at Norfolk.

  Stepping onto land, Jon felt as if he were entering another world. The mist hung heavy with potential rain, and instead of expanses of untamed land, Norfolk was a neat and tidy province. Once his baggage was unloaded, he hailed a carriage. He climbed inside and stretched his cramped legs before him. The carriage was smaller than he was used to in New York, but it would do. His overcoat did little to prevent the damp air from reaching his skin, causing him to feel chilled to the core.

  At last they reached Norwich, the capital of Norfolk, and the carriage slowed. Jon peered through the windows at the drizzling scene before him. Few people were in the shop-lined streets, braving the moist weather. Jon watched as a group of bawdy men stepped out of the pub, turned up their collars, and scattered in different directions. The supper hour was over.

  Once he’d gone over Bishop’s Bridge and across the river Wensum, the scenery began to change. The cramped buildings thinned and the foliage grew denser. Soon they were traveling on a lonely road, with only an occasional farmhouse coming into view. Presently the carriage driver stopped at a massive hedge. Jon leaned forward and looked beyond the hedge at an even more massive gate: Porter Estate.

  The driver stepped out of the carriage and into the thick mud which surrounded the wheels. He pushed the heavy gate open then climbed back onto the seat. Jon had expected some sort of security at such a pretentious gate, but the place was quiet.

  The lane leading to the house wound through a dense grove of trees. The rain had stopped, but the winter leaves above were still dripping with water. The ground was littered with small branches and leaves that seemed to groan underneath the weight of the passing carriage.

  As they rounded the final bend, the dismal clouds parted above, offering a peek at the waning sun. The Porter House came into view at last, the sun shedding a more favorable view than the rain would have. Windows lined the stoic rock exterior of the two-story mansion. The house looked forlorn, as if awaiting its master’s arrival.

  The carriage circled the driveway and pulled to a stop by the front entrance. An older gentleman appeared at the doorway, his face as gray as his suit. The man made no move to step down and greet the visitor. Instead Jon climbed out of the carriage and ascended the porch steps.

  “Jonathan Porter,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m here to see Mrs. Mary Reine.”

  The man shook Jon’s hand limply. If he was surprised at the visitor’s name, he did not show it. “Mr. March, head butler.”

  Jon nodded and motioned for the driver to bring his luggage.

  Entering the massive hall behind Mr. March, Jon noticed the lack of decoration. A bronze bust sat upon a side table and a rather soiled rug lined the floor.

  “Mrs. Reine is expecting you, sir. She’s waiting in the library.”

  Jon told the driver to place his luggage in the entryway then paid the fare. “Lead the way,” he said to Mr. March.

  The butler opened the first doors on the right. There was no forewarning knock; his half-sister had probably watched his arrival.

  She was older than he’d expected, maybe only a couple years younger than he. Her dress was as drab as the room she stood in, and her black hair was pulled into a severe bun, her expression matching her style.

  The coldness of the room was the second thing Jon noticed. Doesn’t anyone build fires in England? The hearth behind the woman was merely a gaping hole with a few smoking logs.

  Mrs. Reine looked at Jon for several moments, as if she was unsure what to say. Her mouth worked almost imperceptibly until Jon wondered if she had a nervous habit.

  “I didn’t expect you to look so much like him,” she said at last.

  “I wouldn’t know. I never met my father.”

  Mrs. Reine gave a curt nod. “You’ve had a pleasant journey?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He crossed to her and gave her a peck on the cheek, which was received with genuine surprise.

  A faint color spread to the woman’s cheeks—the formal atmosphere had been cracked. “Sit down, please, and tell me about yourself.”

  Jon found a chair near the one Mrs. Reine stood in front of. “There’s not much to tell. I grew up an orphan, raised by a Puritan woman who knew my mother. When Mr. Porter made his relation to me known, I attended Cambridge on his contribution.”

  Mrs. Reine’s eyes rounded as if she was surprised at his honesty, but didn’t want to show it. “Our family learned of your existence only after my father’s death.” She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “You can well imagine our shock.”

  Jon lowered his gaze. He could imagine it indeed, especially since he’d been named heir.

  The woman continued. “As you may know, I was the eldest daughter. Father always lamented that I wasn’t a son, but after a while he seemed to grow content with having a daughter. Now I know that his lament wasn’t as genuine as he led us to believe.”

  “A son by his wife would have been ideal for him, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Reine nodded. “Of course. I was grateful that my mo
ther did not live to learn of his secret.”

  Jon shifted in his seat. “And I’m grateful my mother never learned that he married and had a new family.”

  The woman paled and looked away.

  “I know we have different loyalties, Mrs. Reine…”

  “Call me Mary. After all, we’re brother and sister,” she said in a strained voice.

  “All right, Mary. My mother was a Puritan—a young, innocent girl of seventeen when she met our father.”

  Mary clutched the edge of her chair. “Really, I don’t think the details are necessary.”

  “I do,” Jon said, raising his voice. “You asked me to tell about myself, and that begins when my mother met my father.”

  Staring past him, Mary’s eyes began to cloud. “Let’s leave the past alone.”

  Jon felt frustration building in his chest. “No. The past has been buried long enough. I want you to understand that I’m not here just to go over financial matters. I came to discover why my father seduced my mother then abandoned her to live a life as an outcast among a people who would reject her.”

  Mary placed her hands on her knees, looking at the carpet.

  Jon continued the story he had wanted to tell for so long. “My mother knew she was with child before he left but didn’t want to tell him, making him feel obligated toward her. She wanted him to return for love. Love. Can you imagine that?

  “Her family disowned her, and then she gave birth to me, alone in the world. For the next three years, she saved every penny so she could purchase a fare to England. She wrote letter after letter to my father, but never once received a reply.”

  Mary looked up at Jon, her watery gaze riveted to his face.

  “When she finally had enough money saved, she was ready to leave behind everything she had built for her life. But as she was leaving, she was stopped by another man—one who thought he owned her and could do what he willed to her. Instead of letting her go, he killed her.”