Heart of the Ocean (20 page)

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

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 a while,
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 mother
did not live to learn of his secret.”

Jon shifted in his seat. “
A
nd
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.”

Mary suppressed a gasp with her thin fingers.

“I was about three years old at the time. A neighbor took me
in and raised me as her own. At what point your father learned of my mother’s death,
I do not know. But the inheritance left to me by our father is small compared
to the pain my mother endured.” Jon stared into the gloomy fireplace and
presently heard Mary sniffle.

Moments later, she finally spoke. “I’ll have Mr. March show
you to your rooms. The solicitor will arrive in the morning. Supper is at
eight.”

Jon snapped his head around and looked at his half-sister.
Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said? Maybe she would rather keep cobwebs on the
past, but he intended to find answers to his questions before leaving England.
He left the room and found Mr. March in the hall, apparently waiting to show
him the way.

Following Mr. March up the main staircase, Jon once again
noticed the plainness of the décor. It was as if his father had been a bachelor
all his life—perhaps he had been one in his heart. The hallway was dimly lit.
Jon quickened his pace to keep up with the old man. Portraits lined the paneled
walls, undoubtedly ancestors dating back several centuries.

“Your room, sir.” Mr. March stopped and opened a door near
the end of the corridor.

Jon ducked his head and passed through the doorway. A stately
room greeted him, and although musty, it looked clean. The furnishings were
dark, the coverlet on the bed a deep blue. Crossing to the large windows, Jon
gazed at the backside of the estate. The sprawling lawns were dotted with trees
and cut in half by a river.

“Anything else, sir?” Mr. March asked.

Jon shook his head and thanked him.

“Very well. Until supper then.”

After the butler left, Jon started unpacking when a soft
knock sounded on the door.

Mary was on the other side, her eyes rimmed in red. She held
a book up. “You might be interested in our father’s journal. I found it a short
time ago.”

 He stared at the brown leather binding, then took it from
Mary. “Thank you,” he said in a voice thick with emotion.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered, then turned and walked down
the hall.

Left to himself, he moved toward the narrow windows, and opened
to the first page and began reading. He’d read his mother’s writings, and now
he held his father’s in his hands.

April 15, 1815

I arrived in Norwich yesterday. My father gave me a grand
welcome home, but I can see from his complexion that he is very anxious. His
health is failing, and he wants me married and settled so he can die in peace.

Lord, how I miss Helena. I should have thrown away all
caution and brought her with me. We could have been married as soon as we
reached English soil. Then my father wouldn’t have been able to object.

There is already talk of my marrying Shannon Worth. She
is the perfect match, they say—wealthy, from a proper family, pleasant to look
upon—as if these attributes could guarantee a marriage of love.

Helena, if I could reach across the ocean and pull you
toward me, I would.

Jon scanned the next few pages. Most of the writing was similar,
telling of how much he missed Helena. Then one entry stopped Jon.

June 1, 1815

Tomorrow I marry Shannon Worth. It is sudden. Father
asked me when I intended on proposing. It wasn’t a request, but a command. My
inheritance and the future of the Porter family depended on the union, he said.
It’s been two months since I’ve seen Helena’s angelic face, and I am beginning
to think she was a dream, not real at all.

Shannon is real, even though she doesn’t hold my heart.