Heart of the Ocean by Heather B. Moore Page B

mercy on her soul.”
    ***
    “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the magistrate said in
his gravelly voice, standing at the pulpit. “Thanks to all for attending this
meeting in such short order. We’ll commence immediately to read the last will
and testament of the recently deceased Mistress Maeve O’Brien. God rest her
soul.”
    Eliza glanced about the Meeting House, surprised to see how
many townspeople had remained after the funeral and were now sitting behind
them. The Pranns had stayed, but that had been expected. She clutched her
father’s hand, and he squeezed hers in return. She was relieved to be out of
the cemetery and back in the Meeting House, but wasn’t the reading of a will
only family business?
    Eliza focused on the robed men before her, wearing their
white wigs and lace cravats—as if they were living in the eighteenth century. Tomorrow
she would accompany her father to the constable’s office and make sure all of
the charges against her had been cleared. Then perhaps this business would be
done.
    Oh, Maeve, I miss you so.
    The magistrate cleared his throat and read. “‘I, Mistress
Maeve O’Brien, daughter of Philip and Rebecca Robinson, do hereby bequeath all
my earthly possessions and property to my niece, Elizabeth May Robinson.’”
    Eliza gasped. Aunt Maeve had left the house and property to her.
It was supposed to have gone to her father. She covered her mouth with her hand
then stole a glance at her father, expecting his face to be red in anger or
disbelief. But he was smiling. Smiling! He reached over and patted her hand.
    Oh, did she have questions for him.
    After the reading, Eliza and her father rose, as they’d been
instructed beforehand. They walked before the judge and signed their names on
the witness forms. Eliza’s signature was shaky, just like her hand that held
the pen. The magistrate handed another document to Eliza.
    “This is the deed to the O’Brien estate. You will sign your
name here.” He pointed to the bottom, below some beautiful calligraphy.
    Eliza took a steady breath and put the pen to the paper,
then signed her name. She was now a woman of property.
    Her father rested a hand on her shoulder and said in a quiet
voice, “Congratulations. Maeve left her property in the best hands possible.”
    Eliza looked up at her father, a dozen questions on her
mind. But here wasn’t the place to ask them, especially with the stern-faced
magistrate listening in.
    She thanked the magistrate, who barely gave her a nod, then
turned to face the people. Many stepped forward and congratulated her, but most
wore looks of disapproval. She was an outsider, that was for certain, and not
one of them.
    When they were nearly alone in the Meeting House, Eliza said
to her father, “It should have gone to you.”
    His smile was genuine. “Nonsense, I am established in life
and have a successful business. But you’re young and have a whole future ahead
of you. Maeve knew what she was doing.”
    “Father—” Eliza began.
    Two men strode into the Meeting House. Eliza looked over to
see Jonathan Porter and another man. Her father crossed the room easily and
warmly greeted both gentlemen while Eliza followed behind.
    Jon was still here? He seemed to fill the room with his
presence, and Eliza forced herself to look away from him. Had he found his
mother’s journal in the lighthouse? She felt his gaze on her—and imagined his
brown eyes turned black.
    “This is my daughter, Eliza,” her father was saying to the
men, “whom I told you about on the train. Eliza, this is Mr. Doughty and Mr.
Porter.”
    Mr. Doughty smiled and extended his hand. Eliza turned
toward him and shook it.
    “I’ve had the opportunity to meet your daughter already,
sir,” Jon said.
    Eliza met his gaze for an instant. Something passed between
them—like familiarity—something Eliza couldn’t quite explain.
    Her father glanced at her, then back to Jon. “Well, then,
all for the better. You must join us