The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  While Reginald did not seem the shy sort, Cosima wondered if he needed help or encouragement in private conversation. She was not at all reconciled to the idea of marrying Reginald, but if he continued to be as persuasive as he had been with her parents, what reason could she give, even to herself, not to marry him?

  “You mentioned to my parents that you lost your own parents some time ago, Sir Reginald. Will there be any . . . other family . . . expecting to meet me?”

  Still studying the landscape, he spoke. “I have no family.” His tone was dull, flat. At last he looked at her, and his gaze seemed the same. Though especially blue in the sunlight pouring through the window, his eyes spoke one message: disinterest.

  Cosima’s initial desire for conversation waned. She slid a glance toward Millie, who, true to her position, kept her eyes forward.

  “You are not coming to England to gain some sort of approval, Cosima,” Reginald said quietly, surprising her with his tender tone. “You need only please me, and that you have done.”

  She looked at him again. He seemed to have returned to the man he’d been around her parents: friendly and approachable. She smiled. “I’m glad that I do, Sir Reginald. Only we hardly know one another. I fear whatever pleasure you have in me can only be of the shallowest kind. I do hope this visit to your home will be a means for us to know one another better.”

  “Of course,” he said, congenially enough. “What is it you wish to learn?”

  She had no answer for the unexpected question. Her idea for getting to know a prospective spouse must be far different from Reginald’s. He seemed to believe they could exchange a list of questions and—voilà!—know each other well enough to decide whether or not they were compatible.

  But, Cosima told herself, considering marriage proposals wasn’t something in which she was well versed, even in her imagination. Perhaps his view was more realistic than the silly dreams she had tried to squelch, of intimate conversation pouring out of two people like water from a fountain with two spigots, mingling as one in a great pool of shared ideas and similarities.

  And so she decided she would try Reginald’s way. By intention rather than inspiration. “The other day, when I mentioned my plans for Escott Manor, you didn’t seem at all put upon. Have you no designs of your own on the land and holdings that will one day be mine?”

  “My dear Cosima,” he said lightly, “do you think for a moment that I would choose to live on this side of the Irish Sea?”

  Stiffening at his clear disdain for the land of her birth, she did not reply.

  A moment later Reginald must have guessed her indignation. He leaned forward and gently took both of her hands in his. “Cosima, Cosima,” he said softly, “I am not money hungry, nor a landmonger. I’ve no designs on any of your property. It’s yours to do with as you like. A school, you say? That’s a noble plan, one I would encourage you to pursue.”

  Cosima forced a smile to her lips. Such words should comfort her. The land would remain hers to do with as she wished. Wasn’t that more than she could have hoped for? Here she was, being pursued by an English gentleman—one who would allow her free use of her inheritance. What could be better?

  Reginald let go of her hands and leaned back in his seat, once again gazing out of the window. He did nothing to further the conversation, though he hadn’t really stymied it a moment ago.

  There were a great deal more questions on Cosima’s mind, but she hesitated to bring them up. Her foremost concern was Royboy’s future. Once her parents were gone, he would need someone to look after him, and Cosima had always envisioned herself in that role.

  Even her plans for a school to provide care and lessons for him and others like him had included her presence to ensure Royboy’s safety and comfort. Could she leave him there if she couldn’t hope to live there as well? That was one question she could not rid from her mind.

  Far preferable would be to have him in whatever place she called home, whether in Ireland or England, if Reginald would allow it. But why should she fear Reginald’s answer? Hadn’t he shown himself to be tolerant of Royboy? Even when Royboy had joined them on several occasions, endlessly mimicking with his own sometimes incoherent version of speech or sitting at Reginald’s feet and fussing with his shoe ties or even the luncheon fiasco, never once had Reginald complained of Royboy’s presence. Perhaps he would welcome Royboy—or tolerate him, at least.

  “What are your plans for your future then, Sir Reginald?” she asked at some length, like a coward putting off the real topic on her mind. “You indicated to my father an interest in politics. Is that your desire?”

  He laughed. “Ho, I’d not get far with my lowly title, I’m afraid, except in the House of Commons. And I’ve no wish to associate myself with commoners.”

  “What of the work for which you were knighted?” she asked, recalling the story he told her parents of benevolent efforts in London and Liverpool.

  “Oh, that.” He looked out the window again. “That was mainly because of my friend Peter. He’s a current baron and will be a viscount once his father passes on. Have I mentioned Peter before?”

  Cosima shook her head.

  “It was his idea to set up workhouses in two of the worst neighborhoods in London and Liverpool. We went there with a few of our men, to find whomever we could pluck from the gutter able to do the simplest work, and made them foremen. We provided jobs that paid workers well enough to live decently. We also set up a clinic and soup kitchen in the manner of what you had here in Ireland for a while—well, still do, I imagine, only not with the English government’s help anymore. The Quakers still offer the soup kitchens, so Peter tells me. He keeps apprised of benevolent work, so he may fill a few of the niches.”

  “But you were knighted,” she said. “You must have played an important role.”

  “Well, that was Peter’s doing, on my behalf. I barely lifted a finger, only donated some money and went along for the adventure since I’d never been to a slum before. I wanted to see what poverty looked like from the center of it, not the fringe. Out of curiosity is all.”

  Cosima eyed him, baffled. Had he meant to sound so callous, or was he merely being modest by belittling his own altruism? “And Peter is your close friend?”

  “Oh yes, a marvelous chap. He’s always trying to get me to take the high road—you know the sort. I’m quite fond of him when I don’t hate him out of pure envy for all he is and does.” He laughed lightheartedly. “He’d have become a missionary, I suppose, if his father didn’t have that title all ready to be handed down. Peter’s younger brother is already a champion of the faith in some godforsaken place in Africa. Sadly, Peter has only the one brother. Two sisters, but we all know they don’t count for much when it comes to titles. So the future of the great Hamilton legacy remains squarely upon Peter’s shoulders.”

  “He has no children of his own yet, then, to secure another generation for his legacy?”

  “Children? No, not for Peter. He was engaged once and it ended badly, so he’s been hesitant to consider marriage lately.” Reginald gave her a broad smile. “I was hoping that by setting a good example with you, Peter might not be so reluctant to start his own future.”

  “How kind of you. Is that why you’ve decided to search for a wife? To encourage your friend?”

  He laughed again. “Well, perhaps! You must know, Cosima, that I had designs on you before I even met you. I sent Mr. Linton to bring back his report, knowing he is a very good judge of . . . character.” His laugh rang out again, as if he’d caught himself in some joke only he understood. “He returned saying you were lovely both inside and out, your reputation among the townspeople was unsullied by selfishness or stinginess, and you would, in his humble opinion, make a suitable wife for anyone in such a position as my own.”

  “But are there no women in England who suit you?”

  “Oh yes, plenty—but none of my choosing would have me. You see, Cosima, I am a snob. I readily admit such a fault. I am but
a knight—wealthy, to be sure, but for all practical purposes a commoner. Commoners do not suit me—at least English ones—and ladies of the aristocracy will not have me. You, by virtue of your father’s heritage, are the closest thing to nobility I could possibly hope to acquire.”

  That he had looked at marriage through the eyes of social betterment should not come as any surprise, since Cosima already knew romance played no part in his interest. But to have it said so plainly, and with no obvious compunction, made her undeniably uncomfortable. More importantly though, with her family history, how could anyone think of her as being socially desirable?

  Yet he had brought up a whole subject that interested her far more than she’d let herself believe to that moment. “I know very little of my father’s family apart from the portraits hanging in our hall. My mother said Father hired someone to make full-size portraits from small copies he had taken with him when he left England. It always struck me as obvious that it was my father’s family who disowned him and not the other way around. What is his family like?”

  Reginald looked at her as if he could not believe her words. “You have no idea why your father left England?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You father tried to steal his older brother’s wife. Well, that was before they were married, so I suppose at the time she would only have been his fiancée. She is now your aunt, actually, since she did marry your uncle. Of course this was all long before I was born, so I’ve only heard rumors. But it was quite the scandal. Your father seduced his sister-in-law-to-be, and the whole family was in an uproar echoing to all corners of London. Your father left in shame, promising never to return for fear of reminding everyone of the whole affair.”

  The story seemed completely out of keeping with the man Cosima knew as her father. Not that she’d ever thought of her father as a man, really, capable of being foolish and passionate in his youth. Could it be true? She couldn’t possibly know one way or the other—but why would Reginald make up such a thing?

  “I suppose I should avoid any contact with them, then, so as not to bring up such a history.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. We’re expected to dine with them on Friday, and they’re eager to meet you. The whole escapade has long since been forgotten by almost everyone, except perhaps by your father, who refuses to come home.”

  “My father has been invited back to his family?”

  “Of course. As I said, they’ve kept track of him even if he’s been secretive about them. And as you deduced on the day we met, how else would I have heard of you except through those who do not deny your existence?”

  Her father’s family. Relatives who shared the same Escott name and blood. Strangers . . . but not quite. And she would meet them in two days’ time.

  Family, Lord. People You’ve chosen for me to know. Let me know You’re with me each step, and lead me along the way. Your way. Cosima’s gaze fell once more on Reginald, and she added to her prayer. And, Lord, please guide me to the future You would have for me. Whether that includes Sir Reginald or not.

  7

  Talie stared at the names in the old family Bible. They were just names, after all. She didn’t have to attach a history to any one of them.

  From his favorite leather chair, Luke set aside the newspaper. “How is it going?”

  She didn’t look up. “Fine.”

  “I’m glad you’re working on that,” he said after a while.

  Now she did look at him. “Are you?”

  “You sound surprised.” He pointed with his nose to the open spot on the wall. “Didn’t I tell you I thought a family tree would look good there?”

  “What about your side of the family? Where will we hang your tree?”

  Luke laughed. “There aren’t any family Bibles floating around my side with all of the information handy.”

  Despite the ease of compiling names and dates from her own side, the thought of researching Luke’s heritage appealed to Talie. Maybe she should do that instead and forget all of this. Wouldn’t he really rather display his own family tree than hers, anyway? They all carried his family name.

  She stared at the list in front of her. The names of those who had died in the fire seemed to stand out. Was she crazy to advertise evidence that her family had once suffered in such a way?

  She shook the thought away. She wasn’t crazy.

  Closing the Bible, she thought of Cosima’s journal, once again hidden. She’d read another segment after Dana had left this morning, but Luke had found her and she stuffed it away before he noticed. She would have to move it out of the guest room in case Dana stayed over again, which was a likely possibility since she was their favorite babysitter. Talie supposed she could stuff it in her own closet, since she and Luke each had one.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said, pushing herself away from the desk and standing. “Coming?”

  “I’ll be up in a while. Not tired yet. But . . . honey?”

  Talie turned to her husband. His attention was fully on her now, something she normally welcomed.

  “Is it really bothering you—those dates, I mean? I noticed you didn’t mention anything to Dana about it.”

  She shrugged, unwilling to talk about it. Not yet. “I suppose she’ll see it for herself when we hang the news on our wall.”

  “If you don’t want to . . .”

  She shook her head. “Like you said, whatever happened a hundred and fifty years ago doesn’t matter. Now, I really am tired, so I’ll see you upstairs if you make it up before I doze off.”

  Talie headed to their bedroom. She knew she’d have to share the journal sooner or later if she didn’t get rid of it altogether. It just didn’t seem the right time, when it made marriage sound so impossible. She should wait until Dana was married before sharing it. Dana might be all grown up by legal standards, but she’d been protected her entire life. Talie wasn’t about to change that now.

  And Luke? She didn’t worry about him. In fact, her reluctance to tell him everything was probably silly. He loved her.

  She would tell him, just as soon as she was sure there was nothing to Cosima’s tale. To decide that, she needed to read a little more, at least for the few minutes before Luke came up.

  8

  I feel very young and naive as I prepare to spend my first night in London. I am so tired I can barely hold my pen, but before I close my eyes I simply must record the unexpected turns this day has taken.

  London is far busier than any city I have visited, even Dublin. The buildings are so close that one seems to lean into the next, with nothing but a varied facade indicating the end of one building and the beginning of another. Tall shadows cast the narrow streets into near darkness, even at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Sounds and smells come from everywhere. Everything from singing and laughter to shouts and cursing stung my ears as we drove through town. And the smells are every bit as varied, from refuse and worse to various meals in the midst of preparation: familiar cabbage, roasting pork, baking bread, and other scents not so easily recognized, both sweet and spicy. . . .

  “We’ll be coming to our journey’s end soon,” said Reginald with the first hint of emotion in his voice. He sounded like a young boy approaching a toy shop. “But if you don’t mind I’d like to take a detour past my friend Peter’s house. Would you be agreeable to that?”

  Although Cosima nodded, she realized he must have made the decision prior to asking the question, since a moment later the carriage slowed. Cosima heard Mr. Linton call out a greeting to a gatekeeper as they swept past with barely a pause in the horses’ stride.

  “This is the Hamilton London estate, Cosima,” Reginald said with as much pride as he might have displayed had the property been his own.

  And indeed the grounds were fine. Lush green lawns were interrupted only by hardy trees along the lane leading to a courtyard. Through the greenery Cosima glimpsed a high stone fence now and then, which undoubtedly spelled the boundaries of the Hamilton p
roperty.

  They neared the house—a magnificent structure with a door set high in the center, accessible by a wide double staircase arching out to each side. Wrought-iron balustrades fashioned in an intricate floral design guided the way safely upward. Flowers beckoned everywhere, from inside boxes hanging on the ironware to garden beds edging the courtyard.

  Almost immediately a footman appeared to open the carriage door and lay out the step. It felt good to stretch her legs. From Ireland they had taken a ship across the Irish Sea to Bristol, where horses were quickly hired and they went on their way in the Hale carriage still loaded with her goods straight from the ship.

  Cosima wore the same travel suit she’d had on the day before, but despite the fine Irish linen it was rumpled and limp, every bit as worn as Millie’s sturdy tarlatan skirt and jacket. Cosima suddenly wished she had not consented to stop by the house of Reginald’s friend. Surely her travel weariness would be as obvious to others as it was to herself.

  But there was little time to dwell on such things. Reginald took her hand and pulled her up one of the wide brick staircases. Before they’d even reached the top, the doors opened and two servants stood aside to usher them in.

  “Ah, Mr. Fisher,” said Reginald gaily to the man who appeared to be the ranking servant present. He was taller than Reginald, with gray hair parted down the center. “I have a wonderful surprise for Peter. Will you summon him?”

  “Lord Peter is not at home, sir,” said the servant, bowing slightly as he spoke.

  The animation in Reginald’s face disappeared upon Mr. Fisher’s pronouncement. “Not here?”