by Maureen Lang
But of course she couldn’t have such a conversation. She mustn’t. She’d told him she would choose Reginald . . . and she must. It was for Peter’s own good.
She should leave, of course. Yet there was so much here, so much knowledge, not just of what fascinated Peter but of Peter himself. She held the candle toward various stacks of paper, finding one labeled “Fossils from Bristol Cave.” The cave she had visited with him? Flipping beneath the first page, she noticed various drawings. Was Peter himself the artist? They were simple charcoal renderings yet intricately detailed.
Cosima studied page after page, noting the bold printing identifying each picture. One stack after another, of the fossils and bones. Everything from his artwork to the tags on each item bespoke Peter’s meticulous organization. He was, she was quite sure, brilliant. How she wished she could know him better in person rather than only through his work.
“Cosima.”
Her heart leaped into her throat, where it lodged and made her gasp. She dared not move, afraid she might drop the candle from suddenly unsteady hands. Had her ears deceived her? She hadn’t known, hadn’t let herself hope he would arrive at this moment . . . and yet how long had she been here? Had she dawdled not only because of the subject but because she longed for Peter to appear?
It hardly mattered. If a person’s wish could conjure someone, then he was here because of her.
At last she turned to him. He stood in the shadow, his broad shoulders outlined against a dim light from the corridor outside the room. Her candle was barely enough to illumine his face, for it, too, had shadows. She saw no smile and felt rather than saw his gaze upon her.
“I . . . came to deliver a note,” Cosima said, and the candlelight flickered as she motioned to the table. “It’s there.”
Peter stepped closer, passing her for the table.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“No, wait. Let me read what you’ve written.”
He did so after taking up a match and lighting the lamp nearby. It took only seconds to read the few lines she’d written. When finished, he looked at her, standing not three feet away.
In such proximity and added light she could better see his face, and now she saw his mustache-shrouded smile. But it wasn’t a happy one. Rather it seemed vaguely sardonic.
“So you think you are standing in the way of me and my family.”
“Aren’t I?” she whispered.
“How I spend my time is my own choice.”
Cosima looked away, embarrassed. “I wanted only for you to know your mother and sisters miss your company.” She neared the door.
Peter’s footfall sounded behind her. She should not hesitate, should not even have paused. The truth was here, in his nearness. Surely she was the reason he stayed away.
His hand barely touched her shoulder, but like a shock on a dry day, it coursed beneath her skin. Unavoidable. Real.
“I won’t have you leave me believing a lie, Cosima.”
She wanted to turn around, to see him face-to-face, but couldn’t. She was sure if she did he would see her desire for him to take her into his arms. Surely she could not allow that. So she was still, staring at the floor with her back to him.
“You are a mystery to me, Cosima,” he murmured. “I see in your eyes a welcome I’ve not witnessed you give anyone else, not even Reginald. And yet your words, your actions, always turn me away. I wish I understood.”
How she wanted to show him that welcome now and accompany it with words she longed to say. But she bit them back, intent only on the truth that mattered above all else. She wasn’t for Peter. She couldn’t be. Not her.
She started to go, but his hand did not leave her shoulder. Instead she felt it press more firmly. She stilled but did not turn to him despite wanting just that.
“You are like one of my fossils, Cosima,” he whispered. “Something wondrous but barricaded and hidden deep inside a rock. The greatest challenge in opening a fossil is not to damage the treasure inside. I wish I could do that with you, but I find myself unable . . . ineffective.”
He paused and the silence extended, though his hand remained upon her. “I know I mustn’t say such things to you. I despise myself for doing so. You are Reginald’s and have yourself reminded me of such.”
She heard a deep intake of breath, sharp and momentarily unsteady.
“I am wrong to try coaxing that welcome from you, Cosima. Forgive me.”
Tempted yet again to look at him, her neck ached from the battle to keep her face from his. “There is nothing to forgive, Peter. I . . .” She pinched her lips shut. How foolish she was, how weak to want to give in when she knew she mustn’t.
She must leave—and quickly.
If it were only Reginald keeping her from Peter, Reginald her lukewarm suitor, she could allow herself to be weak. But because it was more, she did not turn around. It didn’t matter if Peter was able to ignore whatever Reginald had told him of her family. She knew enough to be convinced his legacy could not afford someone like her to be admitted into the pristine Hamilton line.
Cosima walked unsteadily, silently, from the fossil room, the candlelight sputtering in her quivering hand.
25
“I received a call that a book I requested through interlibrary loan is here.”
The woman behind the counter at the Glenview Public Library smiled and asked for Talie’s last name, then turned to a shelf behind the counter where books were tagged. “Here you are. Will you be looking for other books today, or will this be it?”
“This is it.” Talie presented her card as she noted the size of the book she’d ordered. Old and small, hardly bigger than a pamphlet. But it wouldn’t take much to find what she was looking for.
Instead of leaving the library when the transaction was completed, Talie went to the reference section and took a seat. She’d spent a week online and calling New York records offices trying to find details of a place called Engleside, a school for girls that had closed more than forty years ago. Here it was before her. The school connected to the manor house where Ellen Dana Grayson had died.
The cover of the Engleside pamphlet was hidden by the interlibrary loan paperwork, which Talie gently slid aside. Beneath was a black-and-white photograph of a girl. She was seated on a chair and looking ahead, her hands folded demurely in her lap. Her long, dark hair was pulled neatly away from her face and fell past her shoulders. Dressed in what must have been white or some other light color, she appeared to be the picture of genteel youth.
Talie looked at the caption describing the old photograph.
We shall call the subject of this report Mary Thornton, although her actual name is confidential. In Mary’s story you will see the success of Engleside, for Mary is the triumph of how far the feebleminded may go.
Feebleminded. The word stuck in Talie’s brain, echoing as if the inside of her head were as empty as a canyon. Feebleminded.
Engleside was a home for children no one else wanted. A thinly disguised institution. A mental ward for the feebleminded.
Talie scanned the pamphlet’s brief table of contents: Observations of the Feebleminded; Average Length of Stay at Engleside; After Engleside, Returning to Family.
She flipped through the pages, barely breathing as she skimmed some of the text.
The healthy infant finds a human face, whether his mother’s or otherwise, to be an object of some fascination. While he will study the whole face, he will peer directly into the eyes of someone smiling and speaking gently to him. One of the earliest signs of a feeble mind is a lack of direct eye contact, lack of this fascination for the human face.
Talie raised a fist to her lips, pressing hard to keep back a cry. She forced herself to glance at another page.
Most common observations: In infants, lack of coordination, difficulty rolling over and/or crawling, late walker, clumsy gait. In older children, difficulties with language production, both receptive and expressive. Often agitated, accompanied by
flapping of hands.
Talie put the pamphlet down, pushing it closed as if the words were an affront, a conscious attempt to prove everything she longed to deny. Obviously Cosima’s curse had found its way to the twentieth century.
Had it found its way to the twenty-first as well? to Ben?
Talie rushed from the reference section toward the door, pausing only long enough to shove the pamphlet into the return slot. She’d learned more than she wanted to know.
In the car, Talie tried to slip the key in the ignition. The key chain fell from her unsteady grasp, but instead of reaching for it somewhere near her feet, she clutched the steering wheel. Sudden, unstoppable sobs erupted.
She didn’t know how long the tears racked her body, but eventually they eased. Talie wiped her face with her hands, looking for a tissue but finding none in her purse. She grabbed a paper towel she kept in a bag beneath the passenger seat and blew her nose. Then, aware her car wasn’t as private as she wished, she found her keys at last.
This had nothing to do with Ben. How could it? Everyone else in her family was fine, along with all those first and second cousins on her uncle’s side of the family.
Forcing herself to breathe easier, she patted her middle, where tiny new life grew. “Guess I’m just a little vulnerable to emotional upheavals these days,” she said as if the baby could hear and understand. “But I’ll stop being so silly now. I know what we have to do. We have to face this head-on. No more denying what might or might not be there. Your daddy will agree it’s best to have your brother looked at by a specialist. See if there really is something wrong or if Ben’s just the late bloomer our pediatrician claims him to be. That’s the only way to put an end to this roller coaster.”
She drove out of the library parking lot. “Besides, I don’t have time for all this crying. We have more errands to run. The grocery store, but first . . . the frame shop.” Luke had dropped off the finished family tree a month ago, and the shop had called nearly a week ago to say that the job was complete.
Talie wasn’t sure what had helped more—releasing all the tension through her tears or making the decision about seeing a specialist. Whatever it was, she felt better already.
At the framers, Talie gasped when she saw the finished product, complete in the double matting. Luke had teased her about the oak tree being the strongest wood available. An oak frame for an oak family tree. Durable, the best to represent such a long family line. In this frame his work was true art.
Her gaze was drawn to those names near the base of the trunk. Royboy. Willie. Was it her imagination or did certain leaves stand out? Rowena . . . Cosima . . . Ellen . . .
Talie paid the framer and let him wrap it, then left the shop and carefully placed the picture in her trunk.
An hour later, Talie stood in the grocery checkout line, absently looking at the magazines on the rack while she waited her turn. With so many groceries in her cart, she knew the self-checkout lines would be a disaster, so there was little choice but to wait.
A woman took the spot in line behind Talie. She had a little girl clinging to her leg and a baby strapped into the attached seat on the cart. All three of them were impeccably dressed, from ribbons in the girl’s hair to designer shoes and socks on the baby boy. Judging by the wear on the little leather shoes, the boy could walk even though he was obviously younger than Ben.
Out of the corner of her eye, Talie noticed the mother had the same bored look common to those waiting, except when her daughter whined and irritation replaced her blank stare.
“Get off of me, Dorrie,” she said, but the child didn’t move. In fact, she seemed to adhere tighter, until the mother peeled her away.
“I want a candy bar, Mommy. And so does Sam. That makes two candy bars. ’Cause I get one, and he gets one. And one plus one equals two. Did you hear me, Mommy? One plus one equals two. So can I get two? Can I?”
“No, Dorrie. Now be quiet.”
Talie heard rather than saw the exchange. The little girl couldn’t be much older than three, but she was already adding. No fear anyone in her family might be feebleminded.
And that mother didn’t rejoice in her daughter’s accomplishment one bit.
Rage surged in Talie. It’s not fair, Lord. She gets two healthy kids, two kids who can walk and cling. She doesn’t have a worry in the world about their futures. And she doesn’t even appreciate it!
Talie swallowed hard and pressed her stomach again, squelching the urge to shake the woman. Demand she be thankful there weren’t any bad genetics in her family.
Instead, Talie lifted yet another prayer that both her children would be okay. That a visit to the doctor would prove this to be true.
Then she finished unloading her cart, blinking away her tears.
26
I suppose I am a bit odd in my penchant for remembering the past. At least, I know of no others my age who seem to do so as often as I do. Yet I feel that those who went before us have so much to teach. Lessons that I must remember for myself and for, God willing, any children I may bear. If I have one who is capable of learning, I shall at least be equipped to pass on something of value. At times, as now, it is clear to me that I do want children, and yet it is that very possibility that frightens me most.
Much of the time I refuse to dwell on what I shall do with my penchant for recording what I have learned. Instead, my days pass in the pleasant company of Beryl and Christabelle and their mother.Yesterday morning I sat in the upstairs parlor sharing tea with Lady Hamilton while Beryl and Christabelle were busy with a final fitting with their seamstress. A servant arrived, in his gloved hand a silver tray, upon which sat a pair of embossed envelopes. I had seen many social announcements delivered this way. No doubt Beryl and Christabelle would be interested to know from whom the latest invitation had come. . . .
“This one is for you, Cosima,” said Lady Hamilton, and Cosima looked up in surprise. On all of the occasions Mr. Fisher had delivered invitations, nary a one had been for her. Until now.
She recognized the Escott name immediately. She saw it was a handwritten card requesting her presence for dinner the following night, Wednesday, an evening free of parliamentary sessions. Without the customary phrase hoping for the pleasure of one’s company, the note was little more than a summons.
“For dinner with Dowager Merit,” she said somewhat tremulously. The thought of facing her in her formidable home again made Cosima instantly meek.
“Mine as well,” said Lady Hamilton, waving it once in the air. “For all of us.”
“May I respond for you, Lady Hamilton?” Cosima inquired. If they were all invited . . . would they all attend?
“Of course. No one refuses the dowager,” she added with a grin.
Excitement found its way to Cosima’s heart, despite herself. Surely that included Peter.
And yet Cosima wished the invitations were from someone else. If Lady Hamilton couldn’t refuse Dowager Merit, neither could Cosima. This was undoubtedly the very thing Reginald anticipated. Perhaps this was enough sign that marrying her would pay the dividends he hoped.
* * *
Cosima had been saving a favorite gown for a special occasion and decided to wear it to the Escott dinner. She told herself it was because she wanted to look her very best for her grandmother. If there was a rift between her and Cosima, it was due to Cosima’s unacceptable behavior on the first night they met. She was determined to make up for it and would begin by presenting herself in the best possible manner, starting with her favorite gown.
Rather than the customary white reserved for formal balls, this silk was neither blue nor green but somewhere in between and shimmered in candlelight. The color reminded Cosima of home, of endless rolling hills that glowed after a rainfall. The high, straight neckline was modest while still exposing her shoulders. A narrow waistline came to a point in the center, accentuating her feminine figure. Below that the top layer of silk opened from waist to floor, revealing an underskirt embroidered with
tiny blue flowers and green leaves.
Cosima added the single emerald her mother had insisted she bring.
Millie worked tirelessly on Cosima’s hair until each curl obeyed her fingers. Then, with only a touch of clear powder, Cosima was ready.
“You are lovely, miss,” admired Millie.
“Still, I’m taking this along to remind me of the other blood that flows in me—the best of the Kenneseys’.” Cosima held up her reticule, in which rested the ancient wood-and-iron cross that reminded her she could withstand anything so long as her trust was in the right place. All and whatever.
Soon she was in a carriage with Lady Hamilton and her two daughters. No interference from Beryl tonight as to how they traveled to the Escott town house. Beryl had merely smiled at Cosima and hugged her, whispering something about how courageous she was to wear such a lovely color gown.
The Escott town house was lit from top to bottom, aglow in the dim light of dusk. Footmen appeared from both directions to assist them from the carriages and lead them through the open doors.
Cosima had barely noticed the foyer the last time she had been there, too nervous over meeting her relatives for the first time. Now she saw that the entryway boasted wealth and history. Gold was the dominant feature—gold knickknacks on carved side tables, gold candelabras hanging from above, gold edging on the woodwork.
Peter and Lord Hamilton arrived, Reginald trailing them by mere moments. They had all made it precisely on time, as if they were as aware as Cosima that tonight was a second—perhaps final—chance for her to please Dowager Merit.
Once their party was complete, the butler showed them to the same large drawing room they’d been presented in weeks ago. The room wasn’t full, as some cousins seemed to be missing. Dowager Merit sat in her familiar thronelike chair and received their greetings graciously, even if her manner was a bit tepid.
Cosima chose each word carefully. She purposely avoided Peter the same way he seemed to avoid her. It wouldn’t do to lose her head and say something silly because of being flustered by a man who was not her intended.
