The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  Talie slid her finger down the death column again. There it was: May 16, 1848. . . .

  Maybe Cosima’s pages held the answer.

  2

  Ireland, 1849

  Today we had an unexpected visitor, who came bearing even more unexpected news. I fear my life is about to change forever.

  The day began like any other. I helped Mama straighten the bedchambers after breakfast then attended to other duties that countless servants used to do. Polishing brass kept us busy most of the morning: locks and knobs, candleholders and lamps, bedposts and curtain rods. Brass is everywhere when the time comes to clean it! To be honest, I am glad we have closed off the older wing, although it is a bit odd to have rooms of one’s home dark, cold, and filled with shrouded furniture. But as we can afford the help of only four servants, confining ourselves to the new wing proves most agreeable.

  Once my chores for the day were completed, I was able to rest beneath the old oak tree for a time. At first, Royboy was with me. How lovely to have him calm and quiet for a few moments. . . .

  Cosima Escott idly fiddled with the amulet she wore round her neck as she watched her brother Roy playing beneath the shade of a primordial oak. They called him Royboy because he was still such a little boy of mind and showed scant hope of that changing. He lay on the ground, alternately rubbing his nose in the early spring grass and pulling bark from the tree while chattering away. Twice now she’d had to remove wood chunks from his mouth, and she anticipated having to do so again before long. All the while he jabbered, repeating words he’d heard Cosima say or recounting what he had done that morning.

  On most days Cosima was barely aware of her brother’s limitations. He was simply Royboy, the same as he’d always been. But today, with pages ripped and askew from her stack of favorite poems, Cosima had been reminded of her brother’s penchant for mischief.

  She pulled at the long gold chain hanging from her neck. Mama said the amulet Cosima wore as a necklace was too old, too large, and too plain, despite the fact that it was a Kennesey heirloom from Mama’s side of the family. But Cosima rarely went anywhere without it. She squeezed the metal-edged cross dangling from the chain into her palm. No matter how hard she pressed, it left no mark upon her youthful skin. How sweet it would be to have a constant reminder, the image of the cross as close and ever present as her own hand. Then, if the family relic that meant so much to her was lost or forbidden to wear outside of home, she would have nothing more to do than glance down at her palm to remember. Remember not only the strength behind what the cross symbolized for any Christian but also that the blood flowing in her veins was that of a Kennesey. And she could survive—all and whatever.

  Sometimes it was good to remember her heritage of strength. She eyed her brother again. Physically, Royboy had long ago outgrown his childlike state. At thirteen he was tall and gangly, still blond even though Cosima herself had lost her own golden flecks. It was as if Royboy’s hair knew he was still a child. The curls could belong to someone the age of Royboy’s mind instead of a youth only six years younger than Cosima.

  And yet as Royboy tried to catch the dandelion seeds she blew into the air, it was impossible not to return his ever-present smile.

  “Apple, Cosima,” Roboy said.

  Cosima nodded. It was time to eat.

  Standing, she held Royboy’s hand in her free one because she knew he would wander, hunger potentially forgotten at any moment. They walked toward the manor house, passing the gardener on their way, whose arms were laden with garden tools and a burlap bag of weeds to be carried off and burned.

  “Royboy, say, ‘How do you do,’” Cosima instructed as she so often did when they encountered someone.

  Royboy issued a high-pitched exclamation, flapping his free hand in the air. Sometimes he belatedly repeated the phrase she hoped to teach him, but never once had he done so with anyone but herself nearby.

  Cosima led the way toward the new wing, where the rooms stayed warmer with a minimum of fuel. For what should they reopen such a grand and sprawling estate? No one ever came to visit, and it wasn’t because afflicted potato fields brought hard times. No. Others feared their curse was contagious.

  Just as that thought crossed Cosima’s mind, a carriage caught her attention. The road leading to the manor was narrow and remote, winding like a stream parting the trees. Anyone traveling the several-mile lane could easily be spotted from the front door.

  Cosima rushed to the back of the manor house, where a stairwell led down to the kitchen.

  Royboy followed with his slower, clumsy gait. “I want apples, Cosima. Get apples.”

  “We must find Mama first, Royboy,” she said.

  “No. Not Mama. Apples.”

  “But there are visitors coming, Royboy, and we must tell her.”

  “Apples, Cosima.” Royboy pulled her toward the cupboards.

  Too excited to be annoyed with her brother’s typical behavior, she acquiesced. “Just bread, then, Royboy.” She went to the loaf hidden beneath a towel in a basket and cut a chunk quickly, nearly slicing into her palm. The carriage had looked fine indeed, black and glistening with some sort of emblem on the door. Whoever could it be?

  “Come along,” she said to Royboy, luring him with a piece she tore from the corner of the bread. If she gave him the whole wedge he would stuff it all into his mouth.

  He took the crust and immediately held out his hand for more. Cosima waited until he chewed and swallowed before offering another bite, then another, all the way up the stairs. By the time they reached the top, the bread was already gone.

  “Drink, Cosima. I want a drink.”

  “All right, Royboy, only you’ll have to wait until I find Mama.”

  “I don’t want Mama. I want a drink.”

  “Yes, come along first, though.”

  Cosima found her mother in what served as their family parlor. It had once been a sewing room, and they still carried on such activity there, perhaps more so nowadays, when they wore their clothing longer. Gone was the time of sewing simply for enjoyment, designing wall hangings or table linens.

  Her mother was not sewing today but at the writing table. She often volunteered her considerable talents to the church, who preferred her artful script over the local printers’.

  “Mama, there is a carriage coming up the lane. Are you expecting company?”

  Her mother dropped her brush and feather pen and rushed to the window. Cosima followed, keeping an unwilling Royboy nearby.

  “Oh, and ’tis a fact your father is away,” Mama said, as if it were a catastrophe. She turned to Cosima. “Heav’n help us; we’ll have to greet whoever it is on our own.”

  “Shall I see if I can find Melvin? He might be of help.”

  “Aye! That’s the way, Cosima. Only tell him to put on his jacket and be slow about showin’ the guest in. I mustn’t let anyone see me without freshenin’ first.” Mama hurried toward the door, stopping at the pier glass with beveled edges hanging on the wall between two windows. She must have seen the same reflection Cosima did: Slim and pretty, Mary Escott hardly looked like a middle-aged woman. With honey-colored hair piled loosely atop her head, large hazel eyes, a full mouth, and defined cheekbones, she was as lovely as ever.

  Cosima and her mother were similar in size but different in face and coloring, Cosima being a replica of her father with his dark hair and eyes. Her face was softer at the edges, her eyes a trifle larger, lips a bit fuller. She and her father were, Cosima’s mother often said, perfect examples of the same face in dramatically male and female order.

  Mama frowned. “I look a fright. I should stay hidden altogether and have you greet them, Cosima. Even with your hair blown by the wind, ’tis young and pretty you are.”

  “Melvin will bide the time, Mama, while you right yourself. I’ll find him immediately.”

  Cosima hastened off, tugging on Royboy, who now seemed willing to follow, perhaps guessing they were on their way back to the kitchen.

>   “And take Royboy to Decla at the washhouse,” Mama called after them.

  Royboy seemed happy to be left with Decla, who quickly gave him a drink. Cosima had little trouble finding Melvin, the man who served as butler, footman, coachman, and veterinarian. His favorite mare was due to deliver a foal any day, and Melvin was never far from the stable.

  He followed Cosima hastily back to the main house. Unfortunately, despite the addition of his formal jacket, Melvin smelled faintly of hay and manure.

  “Show the guest to the upstairs drawing room,” Cosima said. “That’s at least clean and not covered like the downstairs parlor.”

  “Very well, Miss Cosima.” Already he was buttoning his jacket over his hard midsection. Melvin was near Cosima’s father’s age. The two were different from one another in manner and yet strikingly similar in build. Their stomachs protruded as if they were halfway through a pregnancy, only without a trace of softness a woman might possess.

  “And wipe your shoes with a rag in the kitchen,” she called.

  Cosima herself hurried upstairs to see about the progress her mother was making with her attire. There wasn’t time for either to change, but the old gown her mother was wearing showed the quality of fine linen edged with lace—even if the tattered lace did show too many holes upon closer inspection. Her skin now gleamed as if she’d had a good night’s rest instead of having only splashed a bit of rose water upon her face and a drop of marigold oil to banish the redness from eyes too long at her calligraphy.

  Cosima looked down at herself. Her gown, too, was old and nearly threadbare at the hem. She had other gowns, as had her mother, but those were yet to be brought out this year. She doubted any occasion would present itself to have new gowns made. The ones they owned probably smelled of spices and orrisroot after being stored through the quiet winter, but that was far more pleasant than finding that moths had feasted on the items.

  The gown Cosima wore had been her mother’s and probably very attractive when new. It was now fatally out of fashion, with balloon sleeves falling from the shoulders and an all-too-narrow skirt, weighted at the bottom with a row of fraying flounces. But it was still a beautiful shade of pink, casting Cosima’s dark eyes and hair in striking contrast.

  Mama smiled at Cosima’s approach. To Cosima’s surprise, her mother did not rush off to greet their visitor. Instead she pressed Cosima’s hand into her own. “Cursed, so they say, you and I. But lovely still.”

  Coldness touched Cosima’s heart at the pride her mother still possessed, even with that word forever attached to their names. Cursed, indeed.

  Cosima looped her mother’s arm through hers and led her from the room.

  The wide, carpeted hallway led to the opposite side of the manor. Here the manor looked as it always had, opulent with her father’s family history that few could easily discount. Images of Escotts lined the walls—English soldiers and politicians, all scholars no matter their chosen vocation. They lived just across the Irish Sea, but to Cosima, who knew little more than what the portraits could tell, they were distant strangers.

  Though Cosima herself spoke like an Englishwoman due to her father’s careful counsel and the English tutors and governesses he had employed from her youngest age, the English blood that ran through her veins was as foreign to her as her own speech must sound to the villagers around her.

  Melvin must have pressed Cook or Briana, the scullery maid, into service, for tea was set on a small, round table before the matching settees in the center of the drawing room. The room was comfortable rather than ostentatious. Padded furniture, old drapery, worn carpets—all had the flowery theme her mother’s mother had so loved. But the room needed to be updated if they were to open it to anyone beyond their own family.

  Cosima and her mother were not long in the drawing room before Melvin arrived at the door and announced their guest.

  “Osborn Linton, milady, employed in the household of Sir Reginald Hale, of London, England.”

  Their visitor was a tall and slender man with graying hair and a thin mustache over narrow lips. Melvin had removed the man’s topcoat to reveal a well-made cutaway jacket and a plain waistcoat and shirt beneath, topped by a small white cravat tied at the throat. His trousers were dove colored, strapped beneath the feet and neatly tucked into black leather shoes, which were slightly pointed at the toe. For a workingman, obviously at least a valet, he was dressed to the height of English fashion.

  From the corner of her eye, Cosima watched her mother smile as though she were a great lady whose portrait should next appear in the hallowed halls through which they’d just passed. At that moment it hardly mattered that she was instead the granddaughter of a wealthy Irish landlord, only married to an Englishman, and he, though of impeccable pedigree, was on his way to impoverishment if things in Ireland did not soon change. Nor did it seem to matter that this visitor was a servant instead of a man of means.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Escott,” Mr. Linton said with a bow. “If I might be so bold as to ask, does the name Hale sound at all familiar, madam?”

  “Hale?” Mama repeated, as if pondering the name. At last she shook her head. “Forgive me, but no. Perhaps my husband would be better suited to give an answer, as he has relatives in England.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course he would know a name so prominent in London business.”

  Cosima said nothing, yet wondered why this man would make such an assumption. Even if her father still had connections to England—and to her knowledge he did not—the business class rarely mixed with that of aristocracy. And the portraits of the Escott family were decidedly aristocratic.

  “Won’t you sit?” Mama asked, gesturing toward one of the Queen Anne chairs behind them.

  As soon as Mama and Cosima were settled opposite him on the tapestry settee, the man swept aside the back of his cutaway, taking a seat. Cosima noticed his gaze lingering on her rather than on her mother, and for a moment she felt the tingle of chilled skin spread from head to toe. While the look was far from a leer, it was still an obvious assessment, leaving Cosima with the urge to hide.

  “Your manservant informed me that Mr. Escott is away, attending to important matters. It might be best if I were to wait, but I find myself eager to impart the reason for my visit.”

  “I would be pleased if you did so, Mr. Linton,” said Mama.

  “My employer, Sir Reginald Hale, sends greetings and an inquiry regarding the subject of—” his gaze, which had left Cosima only a moment, now returned to her—“marriage to Miss Cosima Escott.”

  Cosima saw her mother’s shock as profoundly as she felt it herself. While Cosima held back her breath, barely able to exhale, her mother’s gasp filled the silence. Cosima refused to look at either her or their guest, feeling both their gazes heavy upon her.

  “Your employer has offered for my daughter’s hand in marriage without even having met her?” Excitement tinged each word of her mother’s question.

  “That is correct, Mrs. Escott. I have here in my purse a letter of introduction, so that you may know my employer. May I leave such documents for your perusal?”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Linton stood, his tea left untouched. “I will be staying in the village, Mrs. Escott, at the Quail’s Stop Inn. Please send word to me there if you would be open to a visit from Sir Reginald.”

  He started to leave and Mama stood, pulling Cosima along. Mama all but hounded the man’s heels toward the door, despite Cosima’s effort to pull her back.

  “My husband is not due until week’s end,” her mother said. “Of course, I cannot send word without—”

  Mr. Linton paused. Cosima thought she saw a look of satisfaction on his face, as if her mother’s obvious eagerness had been duly noted and welcomed.

  “I shall remain at the inn until I hear from you, madam.” He placed his top hat upon his head, accepting his overcoat from Melvin but only draping it on his forearm. “However long that shall be, madam. My employer is a very pat
ient man. He will await my word.”

  Cosima watched him depart. He took the cool marble stairs as if he’d used them many times before, an unmistakable bounce in his step.

  Mama grabbed Cosima’s hand and squeezed, bringing it up to kiss her daughter’s knuckles. “A proposal of marriage! From a knighted gentleman! Oh, Cosima, perhaps there will be a future after all.”

  Cosima’s mind wasn’t on her mother’s words or the future. Her gaze took hold of Mr. Linton again, through the multipaned glass that afforded an outside view. Mr. Linton reentered the carriage. It was emblazoned, she could see now, with a gold H on its side. A family carriage all the way from England? Why send it along with Mr. Linton, a servant?

  Mother and daughter watched through the window as the carriage disappeared into the trees down the lane. Either its owner was a foolhardy spendthrift, paying for transport of his crested carriage just to give his favorite valet an assuredly comfortable ride, or Sir Reginald had little doubt his proposal would be accepted. He must expect to take ownership, through Cosima, of Escott Manor at any time. The pompous cad had already begun moving his belongings across the Irish Sea.

  Surely the man knew nothing of Cosima or he never would have sent his servant with such an outlandish proposal. She wanted to say as much to her mother, but Mama looked so pleased Cosima had no heart to spoil her smile.

  Mama pressed Cosima’s hand close, her eyes dancing merrily as they hadn’t done in months. Then she let go and seemed to float down the hall, perhaps back to her work.

  Cosima went to her bedroom, longing for the familiarity and solace it provided. She would find her journal.

  That Mama hoped for a future came as no surprise to Cosima. Trouble was, her vision of the future and Cosima’s were vastly different.

  This wasn’t the first time someone had inquired about Cosima’s hand. After all, she was set to inherit the Escott property, and the income it generated was tempting. Times would improve again; the potatoes wouldn’t always grow sour. . . . God would heal the land of whatever disease it currently suffered. And if not, her father sought to improve conditions through raising sheep rather than crops, and that certainly would end their hard times.