Heart of the Ocean by Heather B. Moore Page A

Rachel.
    “Another moment, then I’ll be out.” Eliza pulled on the
bonnet Rachel had lent her. It matched her most conservative dress of dark gray
she’d brought to Maybrook.
    Her thoughts turned back to Jon—she’d been touched by the
acute sorrow in his eyes. She’d known when she saw them that he did have a
heart, and he did care, at least about his mother. How would it be to have lost
your mother at such a young age and not have any answers about the
circumstances?
    Eliza left Rachel’s room, making sure it was tidy behind
her. Her father waited on the porch. When she stepped out, she grasped his hand
and gave him a kiss. She’d been quite nervous to see him when he first
arrived—after all, it was her actions that led to the trouble with his
business. She hadn’t even dared to ask him about Thomas, and her father hadn’t
said a word either. Perhaps the situation would wait until after the funeral.
    “You look almost Puritan,” her father said.
    “Mother would not be too pleased.”
    Her father smiled. “No, she would not.”
    It was good to see him smile at a time like this. Her father
didn’t seem to care too much for the fashions of the day; he was more
interested in turning out fine furniture.
    “Nathaniel is bringing around the buckboard now,” her father
said.
    She heard it before she saw it. Even Nathaniel looked
properly somber. They rode in silence to town, and when they arrived at the
Meeting House, the place was nearly full.
    Eliza linked arms with her father, and they walked inside
the building together, taking their places near the front. Her wood casket was
at the front of the room, closed.
    The place didn’t feel much like a church. The benches were
made of rough oak boards, and the clapboard walls rattled as the wind persisted
outside. Eliza noticed the Tithingman’s discipline rod propped in the corner. Attached
to one end was a squirrel’s tail—a light brushing of the squirrel’s tail was
meant to rouse a sleeping woman during services, whereas a rap from the rod was
meant to rouse a dozing man.
    Eliza had dutifully attended Sabbath meetings with her aunt.
It was strange to be here not for services, but for her aunt’s funeral. Behind
her, the boys sat separately from the rest of the congregation, like they did
on Sabbath. The Tithingman’s rod hung from a peg on the side of the room. At
least the Tithingman wasn’t strolling the aisles and looking for anyone not
paying attention.
    Eliza remembered asking Aunt Maeve about the patrolling Watchman.
She told her that he walked the streets on Sundays, making sure no one broke
the Sabbath by laughing or worse.
    The Puritans attended their services all day, with a short
break to eat, when everyone gathered in the Sabbath house for a meal of cod and
pottage. The sermons were heavy and solemn; the room felt as solemn now. Eliza
was used to the fact that even young children respected the importance of
sitting quietly.
    When everyone was settled, the Reverend stood and read the
eulogy. Eliza was surprised by its short length. It seemed that Aunt Maeve had
lived a very simple life. The audience murmured, “Amen,” and then everyone
rose.
    Eliza and her father followed the pall bearers to the cemetery
behind the Meeting House, where an iron fence surrounded the modest grave markers.
Many were wooden, while some were made of stone. She slowed as she passed a
grave dated from the 1620s, marked by a grisly death head.
    Her father noticed it too. “Thank heaven they’ve done away
with that tradition.”
    Eliza nodded, eyeing another grave marked by a winged skull.
When they reached the corner of the cemetery where her uncle was buried, she began
to relax. This was the newer section. Here, the grave markers seemed more
ethereal, with winged cherubs, urns and willows.
         As the coffin was lowered into
the ground, the Reverend spoke a few simple words. “Here rests the body of
Maeve O’Brien, wife of Edward O’Brien. May God have