by Maureen Lang
“I already have.”
“You . . . have? Whose?”
“Why, Peter’s, of course!” Reginald beheld her a moment before returning his gaze to the sea. “I talked with Peter yesterday, following his afternoon session in Parliament. He sought me out to inquire about accompanying you and the family here. We spoke at some length, Cosima. I told him everything about you, including the silly rumors of the curse. He thought I’d be a fool not to marry you if I have the chance.”
Cosima stared at Reginald, her heart bouncing around in her chest. Peter knew? He knew everything? If he’d known since yesterday, shouldn’t it have affected his behavior toward her? Not that he wasn’t always mannerly, keeping a proper distance between them. Yet he’d been continually solicitous toward her. Even tonight, when he’d entered the large parlor where a dining table had been set up, he’d greeted her with a smile that seemed to have been reserved for her.
Or perhaps she’d imagined his gaze stopping at her, as if he needn’t look any farther for what he wanted to see. Perhaps she’d imagined everything, and Peter wasn’t the least bit interested in her. Perhaps that was why the curse made no difference to him.
“There’s no need to talk about it, except between the two of us, is there, Cosima?” Reginald asked quietly.
“I don’t care to talk about it,” she admitted.
“Very good,” Reginald said quickly. “I’m glad you agree. It’s no one else’s business, after all. Ah,” he added, eyeing the cottage, “I see Peter has missed us.”
In spite of herself, Cosima’s gaze flew to the cottage. There he stood, on the porch looking out at the water. Or was he watching them?
She squelched the thought. Why must she automatically hope Peter’s every move had something to do with her?
Cosima faced the water again, but to her dismay just as she turned she saw Reginald smile broadly and lift an arm to beckon Peter near. Oh no. How am I to avoid him when everyone, including Reginald, seems to be pushing us together?
“I think you’ve found the best spot to pass the evening,” Peter said as he approached.
“That’s probably true,” Reginald said, “but I can guess what happened while your mother was reading for the family. Whose work did you insult by falling asleep this time? Austen or Goldsmith?”
“Can I help it if her voice is soothing as a lullaby? She’s my mother, after all.” He smiled at Cosima, who couldn’t resist looking back at him.
Reginald’s laugh was followed by a yawn. “I can see why you fell asleep, chum. I’m nearly done in myself. Must be all this fresh sea air. He yawned again, afterward apologizing. “I’m afraid I’m not much company. I don’t know which would be more rude—to stand here yawning in front of you or to excuse myself early.”
Cosima couldn’t restrain another glance toward Peter. On his face was a look of disapproval evidently caused by Reginald’s words.
“I don’t mind going in if you’d like to retire for the evening, Sir Reginald,” Cosima said.
“Oh no,” Reginald insisted. “Why don’t the two of you stay out here for a while? Take advantage of air you won’t get back in London.”
Did he mean to leave her out here, alone with Peter? Shouldn’t she protest? Or Peter—perhaps he should say something. But she found no words; nor did Peter, for neither voiced any objections. She only said good night when Reginald bowed her way.
Cosima looked up at the moon, then out at the sparkling water, glancing once over her shoulder to see Reginald’s steady progress to the second rented cottage.
“Reginald told me you spoke at some length the other night,” she said carefully.
“Yes.” His gaze turned from the moon to land on her.
Wondering if the moonlight was enough to reveal a blush rise to her cheeks, Cosima didn’t dare let him see her eyes. “He told me he spoke to you about my family history.”
“Yes, we talked for some time about you. Of course, I lent an all-too-willing ear, I’m afraid, and he took advantage of that.”
A smile crept to her lips, but she kept her gaze averted.
Silence. Cosima brushed a stray strand of hair that had escaped from the chignon at the nape of her neck. She watched the water lap the sand, ever changing, hypnotic. Little whitecaps formed one after another, building until a higher wave seemed to push each smaller wave forward. Then it would start again, several smaller followed by a larger wave behind. She dared not speak.
Peter bent and picked up a pebble. There were so many along the coast. He studied it, then threw it far out to sea. He did it again, and Cosima watched, seeing his fingers touch the stone, smooth away any sand, then grasp it and toss it farther than she could ever hope to throw. She didn’t even try.
She should excuse herself, go inside, and join the ladies. But somehow she couldn’t get her feet to obey. She watched Peter instead.
At last he picked up a stone, but rather than launching it into the ocean, he held it, rubbing his thumb over the wide, flat center. It reminded Cosima of the way she sometimes caressed the relic her grandmother had given her, the center of the iron-edged cross that already had an indentation where others had caressed it just so.
It became clear Peter had no intention of casting that one out to sea. He wasn’t even facing the ocean anymore. Instead, he faced her. “A few days ago, when I said I was coming to the coast, do you want to know why I was intent on leaving London?”
“To find more fossils?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to get away from you.”
His words might have seemed harsh, but his tone was gentle, intimate. So news of the curse had affected him after all. And he was going to admit it now.
He stepped closer and she didn’t move away, even though part of her wanted to. He was going to tell her he was sorry about the curse but she should have faith in a future designed by God. She knew his faith was as strong as her own, and that’s what she would say to someone if faced with the same predicament.
He was so close behind her that she heard him take in a deep breath. But he didn’t seem to be breathing in the ocean air. Rather, it was as if he’d taken in the scent of her hair. She dared not move.
“I hoped, by getting away, I might return happy for Reginald instead of envying him. He is my friend, and I want the best for him.”
Cosima’s heart pounded and blood rushed to her temples, her pulse racing louder in her ears than the entire ocean. Was that all he would say? Nothing of what he knew?
Still eyeing the water, she barely trusted her voice not to tremble but spoke anyway. “And I invited myself along, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. I’ve enjoyed it far more than I would have alone.” He breathed in again, and then he took a step back, glancing toward the cottage as if afraid someone might spot him standing too near. “I must seem very disloyal to my friend.”
“What do you mean?”
Peter tossed the small rock in the air, catching it in his palm. At last he held the stone and turned his gaze fast on hers. “I mean that I shouldn’t be standing here alone with you, despite the fact that Reginald himself obviously set it up—for what reason I cannot fathom. If you and Reginald are determined to go through with a wedding, then I wish you both much happiness. I want that, if you are best suited for one another.”
“It’s really up to Reginald, isn’t it?” Cosima said.
“You could refuse him,” he said, then surveyed the water again and threw in the very stone she’d guessed he would save. “If you don’t believe you suit one another.”
Staring at him, his white linen shirt rippling in the gentle breeze off the water, his hair mussed, she could barely make out any color in his eyes when he looked back at her, only darkness. But even in the dark depths she spotted a glimmer, the way he stared at her so intently, as if willing her to speak the truth.
She wanted to. How she wanted to speak the truth of her heart. As incredible as it seemed, she believed at this moment he wanted
her to say she would refuse Reginald. That it would be impossible for her to agree to wed another when there was something growing between the two of them. Something uninvited yet real. It had been there nearly from the moment they’d met.
Yet even as she stared, wanting to tell Peter she would refuse Reginald and become free to accept Peter’s attention if he desired to offer it, she knew she couldn’t. A vivid picture of Royboy came to mind, Royboy whom she missed. But even while she missed him, she enjoyed not having to guard her things from him—jewelry he might wander away with and lose or shoes he had a penchant for tossing over the balustrade. She enjoyed being free. Free from restraining him from the messes he liked to make. Free from worrying at every meal that he might stuff his mouth too full and gag, bringing up the contents of his stomach. Free from worrying that he might wander too far and end up in a village only too ready to mock him.
Those were the thoughts that made her still unsure about accepting Reginald’s proposal, no matter what her parents thought. Certainly she could not accept Peter’s interest, even if he cared to give it. What would he gain by marrying her except the possibility of ending his legacy? Only to face the same fears she faced?
Both Reginald and Peter might think the curse a matter of foolishness, but she did not. How could she marry either one of them, knowing what kind of children she would undoubtedly produce? Reginald might be willing to take the risk in order to gain a step up into society by marrying the niece of a duke. She could understand that.
But Peter? He had everything already: a title, money to go with it, land, a family who loved him. And intelligence. Surely he would want to have a son with whom he could share all the blessings he’d been given.
Cosima looked away, knowing if she stared at him any longer the words wouldn’t come. Words to make it clear that she might be persuaded into a bartering marriage with Reginald but would not allow Peter to risk everything for her.
“I won’t refuse Reginald if he decides to go through with the wedding,” she whispered. She hoped the Lord would forgive her if she accepted Reginald without love and gave him only feebleminded sons in exchange for the social standing he desired. And that the Lord would bestow upon her the strength to endure such a life.
Peter stiffened. He stood taller than a moment before when he had been so close, breathing in the fragrance of her hair. “I understand.” His voice sounded stiff as well. Rigid. Formal. Polite. “I admire a woman of her word as much as a man of his. You are correct, of course, to be so loyal. More correct than I.”
He started to turn away, to walk toward the cottage, but something made him pause. He turned back to her, and she thought she saw the intensity there once more.
“It is that, isn’t it? You’ve given your word, and you won’t go back on it?”
It was so much more. But Cosima simply nodded. Keeping her word to Reginald would have to be reason enough.
Peter walked away, heading to the second cottage.
She didn’t want to watch him but couldn’t turn from the sight.
He never looked back.
23
Talie opened the door, having been watching out the window for her sister’s car. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“I’m not teaching summer school this year, so it was no problem,” Dana said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up,” Talie said as she grabbed her purse. “I just need to run a few errands. Do you have anything on your agenda tonight? a time you need to leave by?”
“Middle of the workweek for Aidan. Nondate night,” Dana said, adding, “but I thought you could feed me at least.”
Dana’s gentle humor registered somewhere in Talie’s mind, but she couldn’t even muster a smile. “Sure, yeah. I was planning to stop by the grocery store anyway.”
“Okay. How about filet mignon then?”
“Funny,” she said, knowing her mood didn’t match the word or the humor Dana was obviously trying to provide. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Hey . . . what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just busy. Gotta go.”
“Do you want me to wake Ben up at a certain time?”
“Oh! Yes, in about a half hour or I’ll never get him to bed tonight.”
Talie turned toward the door leading to the garage, but Dana touched her arm. “Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Of course. What could be wrong?”
“I don’t know. Is everything all right with . . . you know, the new baby? What kind of errand are you running? Going to the doctor?”
Talie shook her head and forced a smile. She knew it was that same fake gesture she gave when their mom asked if she could bring sweet potatoes to Thanksgiving dinner. Only their mom and Luke liked them.
“Okay,” Dana said slowly, “then are you going to the dentist for a root canal or what?”
There. Almost a real smile. “Just tired, I guess. Ben was up at two this morning, ready to go for the day. I didn’t get him back to bed until after five, and a half hour after that Luke’s alarm went off so I was up again.”
“Maybe you should take a nap and forget the errands.”
“No, no. I’m all right. I’ll see you later.”
Then Talie was out the door.
24
I believe it was the great poet Shakespeare who counseled, “Give thy thoughts no tongue.” This, at times, is exceedingly difficult—no matter how noble the motive.
For the last two months I have seen little of Peter. (And is it not significant that I have found little of which to write in this journal? More so, perhaps, than I care to admit.) Beryl tells me Peter spends his days at Parliament and his evenings at Pall Mall playing cards, billiards, or some other waste of time. Anything but coming home, at least until well after everyone is abed.
Beryl makes it clear she finds her brother’s behavior unusual, repeatedly inquiring if we had some sort of row while at the coast. She calculates that to have been the changing point, when Peter began avoiding home—or me.
But of course I have admitted nothing. I cannot tell Beryl the entire truth and still honor Reginald’s wishes not to talk about the details of my family curse. Besides, what would it serve to share everything with Beryl, except perhaps to bring about a quicker end to any hope she carries for Peter and me to find a future together? Beryl must come around to that conclusion on her own, sooner or later.
My relationship with Reginald becomes more puzzling by the day. Indeed, it seems hardly necessary to have brought Millie along as chaperone, since Reginald never calls to take me anywhere on our own. He rarely visits, citing business concerns taking most of his time. He has been a faithful escort at various social events, but even at soirees he seems to pay as much attention to Beryl or Christabelle as to me.
On one of the rare occasions he was here, Lady Hamilton urged him to set a date for the wedding. She hinted at the idea that a date might be all Dowager Merit needed to give her final blessing. But Reginald seemed strangely indecisive as to when we will marry. It was clear he wanted to marry me, but having him agree to the slightest detail has yet to happen.
I could not deny my relief, if only to myself.
There is another element to my hesitation, something I cannot ignore no matter how hard I try to believe the best of Reginald. While he claimed to my parents that he was active in the Church of England, that he was anything but a heathen, I see little evidence of anything beyond the shallowest faith. Once, when I suggested we pray over the matter of matrimony, I saw a look in his eye that disturbed me. Intense feeling but hardly a passionate reverence. Until he laughed away the mood I knew a moment of confusion—almost fear. I was left not knowing how he felt about prayer—whether he thought it intensely foolish or a matter for laughter. Either is profoundly disturbing.
I often wonder if Reginald’s vacillation about marrying me stems from my strained relationship with Dowager Merit. Is he waiting to make sure marrying me would be worth it? The dowager is
cordial to me in public. But never once has she invited me back into the Escott fold.
Yet of all the things vying to fill my mind, it is Peter whom I allow to settle there most often. As absent as he is in person, he is forever present in my dreams. When I do happen to catch a glimpse of him either coming in or going out the door, my eyes follow him like magnets to metal. If his gaze meets mine, I cannot look away.
I have decided I must ask Beryl to speak to her brother, urge him to stay at home one evening and spend it as he used to, with the family. But first I must somehow make it known to Peter that I will keep to myself during the evening. Surely that will help. . . .
Cosima found her way down the stairs to Peter’s fossil room. She was sure she wouldn’t find him there at this time of the day, just after three o’clock, and she intended to leave him a letter he would find. Short but honest, it stated her desire that he should spend more time at home. If he would let Beryl know the occasions he would allot for his family, Cosima could find something to occupy her in the library or elsewhere so she would not interfere.
It was a simple, impersonal note that she had rewritten several times. Once her hand trembled so that her penmanship was nearly illegible. Another time she’d inadvertently splattered ink across the page. Finally she’d been especially careful and reread it several times to make sure she’d gotten it right. She intended to leave the letter and return to her room, and no one but Peter would know of it.
The room was still and dark, the candle in her hand the only light. She easily found the table in the center of the room, a spot he would notice near the lamp. She left the letter there.
Turning back to the door, Cosima paused. The room so represented Peter’s presence that she couldn’t hurry away. He was here in essence and nature, like an invisible fragrance she’d connected to him from their very first meeting.
Holding her candle high, she looked at the shelves that were full of his treasures. She wished once again that she knew what some of the fossils were. In truth she wanted to discuss everything that interested him.
