The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  “Maybe she did.” Talie knew she’d found out all she could for now. She cleared her throat. “I suppose it would be a lot of work for Elizabeth to compile some of this information. Will she have time to do such a thing?”

  Aunt Virg’s laugh punctured Talie’s eardrum again. “If you knew Elizabeth, you wouldn’t even ask. That one is so organized I’m sure she has every name and date, hobby and college recorded on that computer of hers. Whatever she doesn’t know offhand she’ll get through that e-mail you young folks do all the time.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Talie said.

  “Let me write down your address and have Elizabeth send you what you’re looking for. What a nice call, Natalie! I’m sure Elizabeth will be thrilled to help.”

  Talie wouldn’t call herself thrilled, but outrageously relieved was close enough.

  16

  I have long been known to friends and family alike as one who detests secrets. And now I find that I have reason to keep a few myself.

  Here I am, quickly and easily developing the most wonderful friendship with Berrie, and yet I have told her little about myself. But how can I ever reveal the truth? About Royboy, Percy, Uncle Willie? I can only imagine Berrie would be aghast. Too kind, perhaps, to treat me much differently, but how could her opinion of me not change? I am, most certainly, peculiar in my circumstance. Once such a secret is known it will be known forever, impossible to forget or ignore. At first, she might wonder if my curse is contagious. After that she might wonder if I am bent toward instability myself. Worse than either of those, she might pity me.

  And so I keep silent. . . .

  Cosima followed Beryl along the hallway, wondering why her step was unusually quick, her voice unusually animated. But Cosima convinced herself she didn’t know Beryl well enough to assume she was up to anything. She was often lively, which made her company so enjoyable.

  “I want to show you the single most interesting thing about this home.”

  “The single most?” Cosima repeated, eyeing Beryl with surprise. “But there are many interesting things here, Beryl. The tier gardens, the painted ceiling in the dining hall, the aviary . . .”

  “I suppose to someone who hasn’t spent every London season of her life right here this isn’t the most boring place on earth. Perhaps I misspoke. There are actually two places of interest. One that I’m about to show you, and the other is downstairs. Although I wouldn’t call that room downstairs actually interesting . . . rather I’d call it fascinating, the way something might be ugly like a carriage accident yet we can’t quite look away. But this—”

  “Do you know you sound like Christabelle right now, the way you’re going on?”

  Though Beryl smiled, she said, “No need to insult me, dear. Will you tell me what time it is?”

  The oddly placed inquiry surprised Cosima, but nonetheless she looked at the watch pin attached to the bodice of her beige-and-white striped day gown. “Almost four.”

  “Almost, but not quite?” she clarified, as if it made a difference.

  Cosima nodded.

  “Perfect. Come along to the library then.”

  Cosima shook her head at Beryl’s curious but lighthearted behavior. She couldn’t imagine why Beryl was taking her to the library. She’d been there already with both Beryl and Christabelle, and although the room was lovely and well stocked, it was hardly new to Cosima.

  The library was situated at the back of the town house. Like the rest of the home, it was long and narrow with the height of the ceiling giving a feel of space. Even the shelves rose to the top of the room, with a ladder allowing access to the books up high.

  Though the open door beckoned anyone to enter, once they were inside Beryl closed it tight. She turned to Cosima with a gaze that looked at once excited and serious. “You must promise what I’m about to show you will remain a secret.”

  “You’re being so mysterious, Beryl!”

  Beryl grabbed one of Cosima’s hands. “Promise me, Cosima.”

  Cosima eyed her friend, sensing her earnestness. “Of course, Berrie. God is my witness; I’ve no need to say more than that for you to know I’ll keep my word.”

  “I’m about to show you something only my family knows of. I’m not sure my father would approve of my showing you, at least not yet, but he doesn’t have my foresight or quite understand that I think of you as my sister.”

  “You’re like a sister to me too, Berrie.”

  “Come with me.”

  Still holding Cosima’s hand, Beryl went to one of the shelves at the rear of the room. She touched a heftier volume, but rather than withdraw it she tilted it to its side and reached behind to slide something aside. It sounded like brick or stone, not at all like the simple wood that should have been there. She did the same to another book at the opposite end of the same shelf.

  A moment later she stood back and pushed on the frame. To Cosima’s amazement the entire shelf, wide enough to accommodate both of them at the same time, opened as if it were a door rather than a wooden panel of books.

  “My grandfather had this room added after the turmoil in France back in ’89.” Beryl whispered, as if mindful of her parents’ disapproval of her if they knew.

  Cosima caught the caution and spoke up. “Berrie, if this is truly some sort of family secret, then you really ought not be showing me. Let’s come away, and I shall forget all about it.”

  Beryl tugged on Cosima’s hand, still firmly in hers. “There’s no harm in it, really. I want to show you.”

  “But—”

  With Beryl already moving forward, Cosima had little choice but to obey, especially when Beryl took a candle from the wall, lit it, then closed the panel behind them. Cosima had no idea how to open the panel again. She was thankful she had no fear of closed-in places, for if she had, this would no doubt be the right spot for a panic.

  They descended steps along a narrow stone corridor remarkably free of dust though it was a bit dank. Cosima couldn’t tell how deep the passageway might be since the candle’s light reached no farther than a few steps ahead. She stayed close to Beryl, unable to quell her own curious excitement. She felt like a child, exploring some place meant only for a club of which she was decidedly not a member.

  “Outside the family, only Claude Seabrooke, my father’s valet, knows about this room. He’s fifth-generation valet for the Hamiltons and thus trusted. Claude comes down here once a month after the other servants are abed, to tidy up and put fresh water in the urns.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “My grandfather feared an uprising here, like in France. I remember the stories, how he took in many of the aristocracy who fled. They told such terrible tales my grandfather decided to build this secret room. Actually he enlarged an original secret place . . . but I’m not supposed to talk about that, either, though I shall tell you.”

  Cosima was intrigued but interrupted Beryl anyway. “You’ve told me too much already, so keep at least one family secret, won’t you?”

  Beryl’s laugh echoed off barren, dark walls. “The original room was a priest hole. It’s positively silly not to acknowledge that our early forebears might have been Catholic or at least sympathetic to the priests who were banished so long ago by our Protestant kingdom. By building this room, all evidence of what it might have been was forgotten. Grandfather killed two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  The stairs seemed to lead upward until at last they stepped into a room, complete with a lamp Beryl lit, revealing a comfortable settee, blankets, and pillows stacked upon a mattress stored to the side. In an opposite corner were the urns Beryl had referred to and a large tin box.

  “Claude puts bread in there and closes it tight against any mice that might find a way in here. I suppose I should be horrified to eat something I thought was at risk of being nibbled first by a mouse, but Father said one can eat anything if hungry enough.”

  “It is indeed an interesting place, Berrie,” Cosima admitted. “And I will always honor
my word and never tell a soul about it. But I believe we should be going before anyone discovers you’ve shown it to me.”

  “We needn’t hurry off. I’ve told Mama we’ll be on our own this afternoon and not to look for us. Christabelle would never think to look here.”

  Cosima couldn’t help but lift a brow. “Of course not; she is the obedient daughter.”

  Beryl gasped. “You simply cannot believe that! She’d have no compunction about bringing you here. I only excluded her so as not to get her into trouble if we’re found out.”

  Cosima looked around. “I doubt anyone can hear us from here.”

  “Precisely true. Come along; there’s more.”

  Beryl went to the wall where she found a doorknob Cosima hadn’t noticed before. She pulled open another door, this one revealing steps leading upward again, though not nearly as many as those they’d descended. At the top of the sixth stair was another door, which Beryl pushed. It was as if a seal had been broken. Light from outside rushed in along with fresh air and the sound of birds.

  All Cosima could see was green. Tall yews in every direction.

  “This exit spills directly into our garden maze. It’s not much of a maze, since we have so little room here in the city, but enough to befuddle someone who might be on the trail of any fleeing members of the aristocracy long enough for us to get away.”

  It might not have been much of a maze to Beryl, but a few steps into it Cosima was thoroughly confused. Not Beryl, who walked along as if the path were marked.

  “I’m glad you know the way so well,” Cosima remarked.

  “My parents played a game when Christabelle and I were little. The first one to the center earned a piece of candy. Of course Christabelle was always first between the two of us. I’m convinced that’s why she’s developed such a sweet tooth and is plump today. But I learned my way eventually. I could do it with my eyes closed now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, since I’m utterly lost already.”

  “Not to worry.” A moment later the green colonnades opened to a garden center, complete with flowers of every color and a curved bench upon a circular mosaic of smooth white and purple stone. “Sit, will you?”

  Cosima was glad to follow Beryl’s invitation. The colorful spot was lovely, accompanied by a gentle breeze and the symphony of birdsong from every direction.

  But Beryl did not sit with her. “Oh, dear, I think I left the lamp lit in the secret room.”

  Cosima started to rise.

  “No, I shall go and put it right. You stay here; it’s such a lovely day.”

  Cosima rose anyway. “Perhaps I should accompany you. I’ve no idea where I am.”

  “I’ll be right back, goose.” And then she scurried away.

  Cosima was half tempted to follow anyway but decided if Beryl trusted her enough to show her the secret room, the least she could do was trust Beryl enough to return for her. So she settled back on the bench, closing her eyes and smelling the lavender that was planted along the edge of the garden.

  A few moments later she heard the crunch of Beryl’s footfall on the pebbled pathway. Without opening her eyes, Cosima smiled and spoke. “If I sit here just so, with the sun on my face and the scent of flowers so delightful, I can imagine I’m anywhere at all. Back home or in heaven or right here . . . which surely must be nearly heaven itself.”

  “Except the paths would be lined with gold instead of stone,” said a surprisingly deep voice, “if this were truly heaven.”

  Cosima’s eyes shot open, and she sat ramrod stiff. Peter Hamilton stood before her, minus a formal topcoat but resplendent in dark trousers and a white shirt and cravat.

  “I . . . thought you were Berrie.”

  He smiled easily, as if he weren’t at all surprised to have found her. “I surmised as much. It’s obvious she’s put us together again. She sent me a missive to meet her here at four o’clock.”

  Cosima stood, folding then unfolding her hands. “She is quite the prankster, isn’t she?”

  Peter did not move, merely watched her as she paced and wrung her hands. How foolish she felt in comparison to his calm perusal. She stopped, demanding her hands and feet to be still.

  And yet it did not help. She could do nothing but look at him, and while her body might be outwardly still, inwardly her mind played havoc. Was there a way he could see inside, through her eyes, and guess at the effect he had upon her?

  “I . . . will speak to Berrie.” She was relieved her voice was steadier than her heartbeat. “Tell her she mustn’t play such tricks on us. She should be right back.”

  Peter’s smile slowly widened. “Perhaps not, since she left us here.”

  Too quickly, thoughts of Beryl disappeared. Instead she contemplated Peter’s face. He was indeed fine. His nose on another might have appeared sharp, but his mustache softened the look. And his eyes, shrouded by matching brows so like his father’s, were keen and set intently upon her. But it was his mouth that fascinated her most, barely visible beneath that mustache yet enough to glimpse his smile.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea how to find my way back,” she said. Somehow her voice was little more than a whisper, though she hadn’t intended it to be.

  “It isn’t hard. I’ll show you.”

  Despite the polite offer, neither one moved to leave.

  He stepped toward her. “I wanted to tell you I enjoyed your music the other night. Both songs, in spite of your grandmother’s reaction.”

  “Thank you.” Still her voice was quiet, as if the privacy of the maze’s center wasn’t intimate enough. “I used to enjoy singing at home.”

  “I hope you feel free to do so here as well.”

  “Yes. I shall.”

  He looked away for the first time, glancing back at the path he’d taken, perhaps looking for Beryl if he thought she might arrive the same way.

  “And how are your latest fossils proving to be, Lord Peter?” Cosima knew as well as he that they should go, yet the stalling question left her mouth anyway.

  “Splendid, actually.” His tone said he was pleased to keep the conversation going. “I’ve come across a type I haven’t seen in quite some time. A fish, I believe, that was devoured by something larger. The museum curator will welcome them.”

  She wished she could think of more to say, wished she had some knowledge of fossils so she might ask an intelligent question. But none came to mind.

  “Perhaps we could pay a visit to the museum,” he suggested.

  She held back an immediate and boisterous agreement, saying demurely instead, “I would like that. I was so surprised by the fossils I saw from your bag. Amazed that something could be hidden away for so long. How many wonders do you suppose our Creator has for us?”

  Peter took yet another step closer, so that he stood within arm’s reach. “I believe we’ll never know the full extent of God’s creativity—at least not this side of heaven.”

  She found her gaze swept up in his. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Your interest in fossils is refreshing, Cosima,” he said. “Everyone else quickly finds another topic whenever I bring them up.”

  “Oh, but why, when they show God in them?”

  He smiled. “Evidently the rest of the world doesn’t see it as you and I do.”

  Cosima knew they could have been speaking of something far less profound than God and she still would have been fascinated. And he felt the same. She saw it though his brows tried to hide his eyes and his mustache the smile.

  Something she could not, of course, allow. She looked away, reluctantly aware of what she must do. “I suppose Reginald is as intrigued by nature as you seem to be, Lord Peter?”

  “Reg?” In the instant it took to be reminded of his friend, something changed. Cosima glimpsed a veil come over those dark eyes, one that erased whatever it was she had wanted so much to see before.

  Peter stepped back to the edge of the circular mosaic pattern. “Reginald is more practic
al than I,” he said brusquely, “without much time for God’s creation. His interests lie in business, in a job well done.”

  Cosima wished she hadn’t felt compelled to mention Reginald’s name, since it banished the intimacy that had sprung up just now, the same intimacy that had erupted the night they’d met. But how could she encourage whatever it was that seemed so eager to form between them? There was Reginald . . . and so much more. So much that Lord Peter didn’t know.

  Peter brushed something from his forearm, a petal that had fallen from the magnolia tree nearby. “I’m surprised Reginald isn’t here this afternoon.”

  “I suppose he must catch up on his business ventures, since he took time away to . . . fetch me.”

  Peter looked at her again, perhaps having noticed the catch in her words, the reminder of why she was here at all. For a moment he held her gaze, and she let him. How could she not? Looking at him seemed all she was capable of doing whenever he was nearby.

  “Cosima . . .”

  She longed to hear what he would say, so much that she stepped forward, silently urging him to continue.

  But at that moment a call summoned their attention.

  “Oh! I’ve bungled it!” And there stood Beryl, looking flustered with pink cheeks and wide eyes. “Papa is looking for you, Peter, and now Christabelle is wondering where you are, Cosima. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were to have a solid hour to get to know one another privately.”

  Peter’s dark brows sank into a frown, with what looked like a touch of anger in his eyes. And then surprise. “Where . . . did you come from, Beryl?”

  Beryl tried to smile, but it looked like little more than a twitch. “From . . . there.” She pointed in the direction of the maze that led to the secret room.

  Peter looked between them both.

  Cosima couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, no matter that she’d initially been reluctant to see Beryl’s revelation. “I-I’m sorry, Lord Peter, but I know about the room,” Cosima said. “I’ve given my word not to tell a soul, of course.”

  “No need for you to apologize, Miss Escott. My sister is consistent in one thing: her impetuosity. May I speak to you, Berrie? Alone?”