by Maureen Lang
“A tender account of unconditional love and the deeper joy that results from overcoming the odds, Lang’s latest is recommended for all collections.”
Library Journal
“Lang has written a novel that’s close to her heart, in which a mother’s love for her child knows no boundaries. This book is heart-wrenching but heart-warming at the same time.”
Romantic Times BOOKreviews, 4-star review
“Beautifully touching and completely absorbing, this bittersweet novel will entertain and educate.”
Compulsivereader.com
“Maureen Lang’s novel The Oak Leaves is a work both masterful and deeply touching. weaving together modern medicine and Irish history, The Oak Leaves is a lush and moving tapestry of love, fear, and faith.”
Christianbookpreviews.com
“Drawing from her own life experience, Maureen Lang invites us to experience the honest disappointments and glorious discoveries that come from mothering a son others may see as ‘different,’ yet God sees only as His beloved child.”
Liz Curtis Higgs, best-selling author of Thorn in My Heart
“I couldn’t put this book down. Vivid, compelling and deeply moving, with issues that touch the soul, The Oak Leaves was a story that lingered in my heart, and made me ask, just how much am I willing to accept from the Lord? . . . Every moment you spend with this book is worth it.”
Susan May Warren, award-winning author of Reclaiming Nick
“Maureen Lang’s The Oak Leaves is a beautiful, beautiful story of the many kinds of love and their divine author. I feel privileged to be one of the first to read it.”
Lyn Cote, author of The Women of Ivy Manor
“This is a wonderful story—told from a wealth of experience and from the heart—of the anxiety, despair, mourning, and eventual acceptance associated with having a child diagnosed with fragile X syndrome. . . . This book offers hope and comfort, as well as a celebration of the little joys . . . of raising a child with fragile X.”
Elizabeth Berry-Kravis MD, PhD, Director of the Fragile X Clinic and Research Program, Rush University Medical Center
“Readers who have children with disabilities, readers who know families affected by disabilities, and readers who are simply drawn to a rich, well-written story will be lifted up by this beautiful work.”
Gail Harris-Schmidt, PhD, coauthor of The Source for Fragile X Syndrome
“Maureen Lang has made the world a better place, and families impacted by fragile X syndrome, now and in the future, owe her their thanks.”
Robert Miller, Executive Director, National Fragile X Foundation
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On Sparrow Hill
Copyright © 2008 by Maureen Lang. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman copyright © by A. Inden/zefa/Corbis. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of mansion copyright © by Michael Boys/Corbis. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2005 by Jennifer Girard. All rights reserved.
Designed by Beth Sparkman
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd.,
10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lang, Maureen.
On sparrow hill / Maureen Lang.
p. cm.
Sequel to: The oak leaves.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4143-1346-7 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 1-4143-1346-2 (pbk.)
I. Title.
PS3612.A554O6 2008
813'.6--dc22 2007030031
Dedicated with gratitude to teachers and therapists who work with special-needs kids. You embody true servanthood.
Nature has some perfections to show that she is the image of God, and some defects to show that she is only His image.
Blaise Pascal
* * *
Acknowledgments
This book would not have happened except for my agent, Greg Johnson. I am deeply grateful you didn’t listen to my first ambivalent reaction to the idea of a sequel to The Oak Leaves. I would have missed a huge blessing!
I would also like to thank Jim Powell, commercial manager to Holdenby House near Northampton, England. Without your help, my Rebecca would have had little to do on her day job. I am sincerely grateful you didn’t mind my frequent, question-riddled e-mails. Thank you!
Also thanks to Christine Nelson, my English friend and encourager who helped me step out of my American way of thinking and into the skin of my very British characters.
As always, I’m grateful to those who are sharing this journey with me, for their encouragement and inspiration. A special thanks to Sherri Gallagher for her friendship and help.
I cannot end this without another thank-you to Stephanie Broene, Karen Watson, and of course Kathy Olson at Tyndale. Your support and enthusiasm add to the joy of writing, but your professionalism and insight allow this work to exceed my abilities.
Prologue
My dear Berrie’s life can be summed up by hope and worship, along with a fair share of suffering to keep her fixed on eternity. Enclosed are the letters she sent to me so long ago, when we were both young and had much to learn.
—Cosima Escott Hamilton
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
A Note from the Author
About the Author
1
* * *
>
Hollinworth Hall, Northamptonshire, England
Rebecca Seabrooke didn’t have to open the letter in her palm to know its contents: the annual employment offer from England’s National Trust. More money than she would ever see at the private historical home at which she now worked. More prestige. Perhaps even a choice of locations, since so many of the country’s national home treasures were owned by the Trust.
She really must e-mail her father and ask him to stop wasting postage on such offers. Despite what at least one Hollinworth thought of the work she did here, Rebecca was convinced the Hall was as much a treasure as any other property listed in the Trust’s considerable inventory.
Brushing aside the letter, she turned her attention to her busy calendar. With her education staff manager on temporary family leave, Rebecca found herself taking charge of house-and-garden tours in between meetings with business associates and brides wanting to schedule the manor for banquets and weddings.
But none of that took precedence in Rebecca’s mind today, for today the owner of Hollinworth Hall would return to the private quarters he kept in the north wing. And she’d only learned of his impending arrival this morning.
Nonetheless she’d already asked Helen to make sure his rooms had been aired and cleaned. Fresh flowers from Rebecca’s favorite garden brightened every alcove, and even now Helen was baking his favorite bread. Rebecca could smell the fragrant herbs all the way up in her second-floor office. Given his mother’s recent quote in a local newspaper about closing the Hall to visitors, Rebecca knew she had a fight on her hands, and the son, the legal owner of the Hall, might very well be the rope in this tug-of–war.
Thankfully she’d outgrown the adolescent crush on him she’d once suffered. Her father had pointed him out as the son of the family he formerly worked for, and when she was twelve and he thirteen, she thought Quentin Hollinworth the most sophisticated and handsome male alive. He was still handsome—she knew that despite seeing him only once or twice a year—but growing up had taught her a few things, one lesson being that classes didn’t mix well, even in today’s all but egalitarian England. Though he wasn’t dating the daughter of an earl anymore, there was still his mother. She was proof enough the classes should mix only when both parties wanted to be in the same one.
Rebecca had far too much work to be dwelling on such irrelevant things. Directing her attention back to her computer screen, she pulled up her e-mail. The first one she noticed was from a college friend about meeting at a club in London this weekend, another event Rebecca would be sure to skip. She skimmed the content, part of her admiring the busy city life her friends had chosen, part of her knowing she’d followed the right path in staying out here in the country.
Before long, her gaze returned to the window, hearing the crunch of gravel beneath a car. Quentin Hollinworth had arrived. She imagined the estate caretakers, Helen and William Risdon, going out to greet him, welcoming him home.
Unwillingly she glanced at the bottom drawer of her desk, where she kept the newspaper society pages she couldn’t seem to resist. It was silly of her to have kept so many clippings, except that it all pertained to the family connected to the estate she ran. Keeping a scrapbook of their lives was part of her job as steward of their legacy. Preservation was more patriotic than personal. In that drawer was Quentin Hollinworth’s recent history, from his political work to his not-so-private breakup with Caroline Norleigh. Rebecca couldn’t think of Quentin without remembering all of that.
She returned to her e-mail, reading a message from a teacher who had visited recently and was thanking Rebecca for bringing their Victorian heritage to life for the two dozen children she’d guided that day. These were Rebecca’s favorite notes—ones that proved her work made a difference. If the Featherby were awarded, she could spend more effort in attracting such groups. They didn’t pay as well as business banquets or weddings, but to Rebecca, educating children was far more important.
“Good afternoon, Rebecca.”
Quentin Hollinworth looked tall and strong even with a massive doorway behind him. His broad shoulders filled out a casual, somewhat crumpled, beige linen suit, a stark contrast to his dark hair.
“Welcome home.” She quickly averted her gaze and shifted the chair closer to her desk. Her battlement, safe behind the mahogany. It had been nearly three months since she had spoken to him. He trusted her so thoroughly with the running of the Hall that he almost never checked in. If she was to have her way, though, that must change. She alone couldn’t prove the value of the Hall in its current public state. She would need his help.
“I see you’ve single-handedly held down the roof.”
“Hardly single-handedly.” Rebecca thought of William and Helen, who lived in the estate home on the grounds and supervised most household needs. And the education staff members who came on tour days to create an authentic Victorian atmosphere. Not to forget the many maids and repairmen going in and out, the land agent who oversaw the crops, nor the head gardener, who lived in the village but spent most of his waking moments making sure Hollinworth Hall lived up to its reputation as one of the finest garden spots in the United Kingdom.
“Without you,” Quentin said as he neared the desk, “I’m sure the place would fall to ruin, no matter how big a staff.”
“And how is your mother, Quentin?” Rebecca didn’t really want to know, unless Lady Elise Hollinworth had something to do with his visit. To close the Hall to the public? “She’s well, I hope?”
“Yes, she is well,” he replied. “At the cottage for the summer.”
Rebecca nodded. Despite the cozy term for the Hollinworth estate inherited from his mother’s aristocratic side of the family, the so-called cottage was anything but quaint. Less than fifteen kilometers away, the sprawling mansion surrounded by fifteen hundred acres of meadow, lakes, and woods was the center of Hollinworth country social life.
“The tour season is off to a healthy start,” Rebecca said. “We’ve received several calls for visits here before the next holiday.”
“The schedule is in your hands, Rebecca. I plan to be here rather than at the cottage most of the summer.”
Here? For the summer? To assess whether or not to keep the Hall open? “I’ll be sure no one gets in your way.” How calm her voice sounded despite the blood pumping madly through her veins. “Guests still have access only to the usual spots, of course, depending on the event.” Myriad thoughts clashed with her effort to keep the conversation going. If he were here to evaluate the merit of keeping the Hall open, she must convince him—the sooner, the better. If he closed the Hall to the public, it wasn’t just a matter of losing a job she loved. Failing a dream came at a much higher price.
Taking a seat opposite her, Quentin appeared at complete ease. “I’ve no doubt you’ll keep me well protected.”
She caught his eye, then looked away. Protecting him from the general public was part of her job. “Yes, between me and a good security system, Quentin, that should be manageable.”
He said nothing, and Rebecca wasn’t sure what he was thinking. She might have known of Quentin Hollinworth since she was a child, but in reality he was no more than an acquaintance. Her grandfather had been the last in a long line of valets to Quentin’s male forebears, most of whom had been Hamiltons and members of the peerage. By the time Rebecca’s father was of an age to take up the position, valets had long since fallen out of vogue. So her father had taken on the role of houseman and resided in the very estate home William and Helen now occupied. Her father had stayed only long enough tofinish his graduate work in Victorian studies. When he decided to leave employment of the Hamilton/Hollinworth family—a Seabrooke tradition for no less than twelve generations—Quentin’s father might have been put out. Yet he’d revealed neither disappointment nor frustration over having to hire someone entirely new to the family to oversee household workings. Quite like the fine English gentlemen he’d been. Setbacks were to be expected; it was how one handled them that p
roved the true character of a man.
“We’re being considered for a Featherby Education Award,” Rebecca said finally. Her finest weapon, another award to prove that the preservation of historical English life should be valued not ignored, forgotten, sold, or kept hidden in the private lives of the elite.
“Yes, so I’ve heard. I received the notification at my London flat. It’s entirely due to you, Rebecca. Congratulations.”
She managed a steady smile. “We haven’t won yet.”
“As they say, it’s an honor to be nominated.” He caught her shifting gaze. “Actually, Rebecca, that was one of the reasons I planned to stay the summer. I thought I might lend a hand, talk to the judges, be immediately available if you need to consult about anything.”
Relief, surprise, and pleasure melted through her. He supported her effort to win the Featherby? If he wanted the Featherby, he couldn’t support his mother’s idea to close the very function that won the nomination to begin with. “That would be lovely. I was considering going through the vault again. Perhaps we can re-create new attire for the staff.” She turned to the monitor on her computer. “I have the vault’s inventory here. If you have the time you might take a look at it.”
He shook his head. “Helen tells me you’ve taken tours every day this week and have been working yourself silly. Can I have tea brought up for you?”
For a single moment she remembered her old crush, especially when she caught his eye as he waited for her answer. She shook her head. Now was certainly not the time to fall back into that old habit. “No, you go ahead. I’ll check my e-mail, catch up on a few things here.”
Quentin stood, nearing the door as she eyed message headers on her e-mail. An unfamiliar subject caught her eye.
“Quentin,” she said slowly, clicking on the note, “have you heard of a place called West World Genealogy?”
He stopped and turned to her. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“I’ve an e-mail from them with your name in the header. Shall I read it?”
He nodded.
“‘Dear Mr. Hollinworth, an American family desires to make contact with English cousins such as yourself. In our research we have determined the lineage to be accurate. They have in their possession a journal belonging to Cosima Escott Hamilton, of whom you descend, which you might find of great sentimental interest.’” Rebecca looked at Quentin. “Are you familiar with a journal by Cosima Hamilton?”
