by Maureen Lang
Quentin shook his head.
“Nor am I.” She looked again at the screen, noting the attachment. “There is a pedigree here. Would you like to see it?”
Without a word, Quentin rounded the desk. When he leaned over her, Rebecca could smell the faint trace of soap, the same pine scent he always used. The same brand Helen kept stocked in every bathroom in the Hall.
“The ancestry is correct,” he said. “At least I think it is, from what I recall of those portraits hanging in the gallery. You probably know better than I; you write the tour scripts full of my family history.”
“These names are right, even as far back as the first viscount. Some names I don’t recognize, though—Grayson, Martin. I suppose that’s the American side. We don’t have many records of families outside the direct line.”
“A shame we’re all such snobs,” he said with a grin. “What do you think then? It’s legitimate?”
She nodded. “The list includes Cosima Hamilton’s four children. I wonder if there is more family history that I don’t know about.”
“I doubt that,” Quentin said, and she smiled at his assured tone—one of complete and utter trust that she knew more than she actually did.
“I will contact them first if you like. Just to make sure it’s valid.”
“You’re my champion, Rebecca. Protecting me again.”
She studied the names even as she wondered why he’d used that word again. A reference to protecting him shouldn’t contain an undertone of disdain; she was paid to do that very thing—by Quentin himself. “I doubt this could be a hoax. They have too much of the correct lineage.”
“I’ve an idea,” said Quentin, leaning forward, “Since you claim not to need tea, why don’t we go down to the vault now? I can’t imagine Americans having the original journal belonging to one of my grandmothers.”
“Kipp Hamilton might have owned it. He was Cosima’s son, and he went to America.” She eyed him. “It would be fun to have a look, though.”
Quentin went to the door, holding it open. “To the vault?”
* * *
Nearly three hours later, Rebecca tucked an annoying strand of hair behind her ear. She should have it cut to shoulder length or at least go upstairs and find a hair band to pull it away from her face.
“Ready for some dinner at last?” Quentin asked from another corner.
Perhaps she’d sighed aloud when she had only meant to complain to herself about her irksome hair. “In a bit.”
He neared her, his long white sleeves covered in black butler’s wraps, his dark hair uncharacteristically unkempt from sifting through crates and boxes for the last few hours. “I’m not for throwing in,” he said, “just taking a break.”
She stood away from the box she’d been hunched over, feeling the pull of an oddly used muscle. “I hope you know I realize how ridiculous this is. I should know everything in this vault. Wouldn’t Cosima have left something here if she was prone to journaling?”
“Maybe she wrote only one journal and gave it to the child who went off to America as you said earlier. In any case, not being certain about what’s in this vault isn’t your fault, Rebecca. If anyone is to blame, it’s I.” He lifted a hand to take in their tall surroundings. “This is all mine and yet I’ve no idea what’s here.”
Rebecca glanced around the high-ceilinged room. Part of a 1920s renovation, it was a veritable bank vault of security with its steel walls, complete darkness when closed off, and more recently, a regulated temperature. “When your father hired me three years ago, one of the pledges I made was to update the inventory system.” She saw items she knew were catalogued. “I honestly cannot fathom how I could not know as much about Cosima Hamilton as another branch of your family—one not even English!”
Quentin’s gentle laugh echoed off the high metal.
“I’ve never seen you so perturbed, Rebecca,” he said. “I like it.”
“Like . . . what?”
“Seeing you as frustrated as the rest of us when looking for something.”
She raised a brow. “The rest of us?”
He nodded, leaning over to shut the curved lid on the trunk of china she’d been searching. “The rest of humanity, Rebecca. I’ve always thought nothing could irritate you and you were therefore set apart.”
“Never irritated? Perhaps that’s because you’ve not been home when the goats manage their way beyond the gate and rummage one of the gardens, or a nervous bride changes her banquet menu a dozen times, or a corporate manager expects a two-hundred-year-old hall to easily accommodate his electrical needs for an online presentation.”
“Perhaps I’ll be fortunate enough to witness something along those lines this summer.”
She returned his smile. “And may I say I hope not?”
“I’ll ring for dinner to be served on the veranda.”
Rebecca watched him walk to the telephone mounted just inside the vault door. The exchange line was a precautionary measure, since the vault locked from the outside. Turning back to the last trunk, Rebecca listened to Quentin’s voice as he directed Helen. A light dinner. On the veranda. For both of them.
She focused on the task before her. The latches on each side of this last trunk were stiff, but she managed to free them without marring the receptacle. Inside, a quilted dustcover protected the trunk’s contents.
This trunk was one of two they had found only a short time ago, hidden from view behind a large Chippendale chiffonier. The first of the two trunks had contained nothing more than a set of china. She’d recognized the pattern immediately; while a popular nineteenth-century style and the number of settings plentiful, it wasn’t particularly noteworthy except that it was Irish. It would be disappointing indeed if this second trunk contained only more of the same.
Instead of dishware, she found two small pouches, a set of books tied together with a leather strap, and a wooden box.
Rebecca heard Quentin approach from behind.
“Perhaps we’ve reached the end of the rainbow,” she said, taking up one of the leather-bound books.
But they proved to be Victorian novels, not journals. One was Vanity Fair by Thackeray, and the other, John Halifax, Gentleman by Craik. No pot of gold here, even if the latter was one of Rebecca’s favorite classics. Each looked like a first edition and was probably worth something, particularly the Thackeray novel with the author’s original illustrations.
“Let’s see what’s in these pouches,” Quentin said. He pulled the string on one, tumbling a handful of polished stones into his palm. “Nice specimens.”
“Perhaps some should go into the science hut,” she said. “I’ll have a look at them later to see what kind of stones they are.”
She pulled the box from the bottom of the chest. It was made of smooth wood, stained and varnished to a sheen, capped at the corners with dark metal brackets. On the lid were words burned into the wood in meticulous calligraphy: Everything that is done in the world is done by hope.
“Isn’t that something Luther said?”
Rebecca nodded, tracing a finger over the letters, unable to resist touching them. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“Let’s see what’s inside,” he said.
She rocked the lid loose. It was stuck tight from years of disuse. At last it came free, squeaking as she lifted it.
“Papers,” she said. “Letters, with a note on the top.”
“Does it say whose they are?”
Rebecca shook her head, reading bold words written at the top of the yellowed sheet of paper. “‘For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.’” She looked at Quentin. “That’s from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans.”
“Does it say anything else?”
She read the rest of the note. “‘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 sen
t to me so long ago, when we were both young and had much to learn.’
“Hope, worship, and suffering,” Quentin said grimly. He looked from the box to Rebecca, holding her gaze. “The life of a Hamilton—and a Hollinworth. At least my father’s. Maybe mine, to some extent.”
She wanted to dwell on his observation, discuss the suffering he’d been through since the loss of his brother and father when their small plane went down in a fog, ask countless questions to fathom if it had turned him bitter or soft toward worship. But old fears stood in the way. Too personal, don’t pry. And yet . . . the look in his eye . . . Perhaps he wanted her to.
No sooner had she identified such a look than it disappeared. “Let’s take this with us to the veranda, shall we?” he said. “Have a peek over dinner, before it gets too dark outside?”
She nodded, following him from the vault.
Minutes later Rebecca sat with the box on her lap. The sun set to the west, and the scent of a 150-year-old rose garden wafted on the air to mingle with the enticing smell of potted chicken, herb bread, and almond tarts.
Despite having been tucked away in an environmentally regulated vault, the words were fading, particularly along the creases. But they were still legible.
“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” she asked. “A portion of your family’s history is here, perhaps something you don’t yet know about.”
Quentin shrugged. “I confess I’ll be interested in contacting this American relative who inspired our search. Beyond that I haven’t nearly the fascination for the past that you—and the American, I presume—have. Read one.”
Rebecca obeyed. The letter on top was addressed in a neat, feminine script.
To Cosima Hamilton
“Not from your great-great-great-grandmother. To her. To Cosima.” Rebecca realized she’d reverently whispered only after the words left her mouth.
“From Berrie, I assume from the note,” he said. “That would be Beryl, from the portrait next to the one of Cosima and Peter Hamilton.”
Untying the ribbon, Rebecca gently opened the fragile envelope. Whatever wax had once sealed it had long since dried, leaving behind a faint blue shade. She glanced down the page. “It goes into some detail.”
“Let me,” he said, setting aside his cup. “It’s the only way I can prove I’m not bored by the topic, historical though it is, and at the same time give you a chance to eat.”
Rebecca put the letter into his outstretched hand, took a bite of the creamy chicken, then pushed it away and settled back in her chair.
She knew exactly what Beryl Hamilton had looked like. Berrie was forever young in Rebecca’s mind and lovely, too. She had dark hair like her brother Peter’s, though she didn’t have his dark brown eyes. Rather, Berrie had unimaginably blue ones that somehow survived in Quentin today.
Rebecca had no trouble picturing what it was like on the day Berrie Hamilton had written that letter. . . .
2
* * *
Loving greetings from Berrie, April 6, 1852
My dear Cosima,
Do you recall I once feared that I should find myself before the judgment seat of God with an unlit lamp? There I might have stood, ordained with some talent—surely I had one; I convinced myself of that—and yet not having used that with which I had been blessed.
But I have begun to fear I am ill-equipped to answer what God has called me to do. My life, to date, simply has not paved a way for me to serve but rather to be served, to my shame. I was raised to think I should be wife and mother, yet in such a role would I have served even a family? Had I the faintest idea what true servanthood really is?
Besides those shortcomings, even if I were qualified for this role, there are many things beyond my control. Despite these two years of planning, studying, and preparation, I have now reached the point where others must make the final decisions. Let me list some of the outsiders I now find myself beholden to: First, various inspectors, surveyors, clerks, and officers of health must approve of all I have done. Second, I must rely upon the long-lasting generosity of donors. Third, and perhaps most importantly, I must establish—then maintain—the trust of parents bringing their children here.
And another thing I shall need, as taught to me already by your dear brother Royboy: I need physical perseverance as never before to answer this calling.
Yesterday was a prime example of my ineptitude. The day began with such promise, yet before the sun was very high I proved the depth of my incompetence. . . .
Berrie breathed in the lavender-scented air and turned around to assess the distance traveled. She’d made it all the way up the hill today.
Just a week before that had been impossible, with her pampered lungs and muscles as untried as a baby’s. Mrs. Cotgrave, with her hefty bosom and at least a score of added years, was in better condition than Berrie.
From atop the hill, Berrie saw Escott Manor. No less than eight chimneys dotted the roof, and perhaps this winter each one would be in use, after the students arrived. The thought quickened her heartbeat, and this time such a pulse had nothing to do with exertion.
It was almost breakfast time, and Berrie’s day would begin with Royboy. His wavy blond hair and smiling hazel eyes that reminded Berrie of a Van Dyck portrait. Her sister-in-law, Cosima Hamilton, was right that though her brother might be chronologically sixteen, he was in mind and behavior no more than three.
When she returned to the manor, Berrie found him already up and dressed, thanks to Decla. The woman was a wonder-worker, and Berrie thanked her at least a half dozen times a day for staying behind when she could easily have gone with Mrs. Escott to England. In what had undoubtedly been a difficult decision, Decla had remained to work with those who needed the skills of someone with her experience. No one would have missed her more than Royboy, of course, even if he didn’t have the words to express such a thing.
“Good morning, miss,” said Decla as Berrie took a seat opposite Royboy in the dining room. Decla oversaw Royboy’s table habits, something she used to do in the kitchen. Upon transference of Escott Manor into Berrie’s hands for the school, everyone used the dining room. The banquet hall that had once served the brother of a duke—and before that, landed Irish gentry—would soon be filled with students and their caregivers. No lines here between servants and those they served, since those served would average in competency from Royboy to . . . Berrie had no idea. Yet.
“Good morning.”
“Greet Miss Hamilton, Royboy,” Decla encouraged.
Without looking up from his plate, Royboy said, “How do you do.”
“I’m very well, Royboy. And how are you today?”
“Now say, ‘Very well, thank you,’” Decla modeled.
“Thank you,” Royboy echoed the last two words as he took a bite of bread too large before Decla could stop him. The bread fell out of his mouth as he spoke, but he caught it on his lap and stuffed it back inside. Then he repeated, “Thank you.”
That was a satisfactory effort as far as Berrie was concerned. In fact she was quite pleased. “I’ll have a bit to eat, too, Royboy,” said Berrie, “and then we’ll be off to our very first lesson. Would you like that?”
He didn’t answer or look her way. His lack of response was something Berrie was adjusting to. It wasn’t as if he were ignoring her, Cosima had explained. No, quite the contrary. Royboy took in everything. He acknowledged almost nothing.
Berrie ate a light breakfast, finished her tea, then invited Royboy to come with her. This was to be a lesson for her as well as him. Royboy, in many ways, would be her teacher. For the past two years, Berrie had read essays from doctors who worked with the infirm in both France and England. She’d corresponded with other teachers before making the decision to come to Ireland. Indeed, that was how she’d found the wonderful Mrs. Cotgrave. Through letters from those who worked in such schools in England.
But here was the real learning. With Royboy. And for Berrie it began today. At the very least, by the time the
y accepted their first paid student, Berrie intended to have grown in experience.
They made their way upstairs to a classroom. It had once been a small parlor, still lovely with its green silk wallpaper, complementary green curtains pulled aside into bronze holdbacks. The occasional tables and knickknacks had been removed and sold, replaced instead by one functional table and a few sturdy chairs.
“Come and sit, Royboy,” Berrie said with the singsong tone Cosima had told her Royboy loved.
Royboy sat without having to be told twice. Surely this was where they both belonged! She pulled another chair closer to his, taking up the small stack of watercolor drawings she had placed in the room last night. Berrie had spent hours creating various drawings, representing images captured from outdoor nature to familiar household items. Vivid shades marked each picture, with large letters identifying such things as trees and leaves, birds and butterflies, lamps, furniture, and windows.
“How do you like this, Royboy?” Berrie handed him a drawing of a brilliant fritillary butterfly, wings extended, orange and black drawn as near the likeness of the insect as she’d witnessed alternately floating and resting along the edge of the manor garden. “Can you say butterfly?”
Royboy accepted the colorful drawing, mumbled something that might have been butterfly, then held the sheet closer to his face.
Raising it above his head, Royboy’s gaze soon left the picture as he placed both hands toward the center of the upper edge, easily tearing it in two.
Berrie, heart racing and sinking at the same time, leaned toward the drawing. He held it beyond her reach to tear another portion, crinkling the triangular shape and stuffing it quickly into his mouth.
“No, Royboy! You mustn’t eat it.” She did then what came naturally and tried to retrieve the crumpled paper from between his teeth. Such strong teeth, she learned as they clamped down on her fingers. “Oh! Ouch! Oh . . .”
