The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  Beryl looked anything but willing. She pointed toward the green corridor that led to the rest of the yard, the way Peter had arrived. “I really should take Cosima to Christabelle, and don’t forget Papa is waiting for you.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  He led Beryl away, but they must have stopped in the very next aisle of yews, for Cosima heard his voice clearly when he spoke again.

  “Beryl, I’m disappointed in you. I cannot let you—”

  “You do not believe she would betray the secret room?”

  “I’m not talking about that, Berrie. I’m sure you’re right, and what does it matter? We’ve no need for that antiquated notion of security. I’ll trust God instead. What I’m disappointed in is the fact that you’ve once again made me the fool by pushing my company on her.”

  Cosima realized she should step away, at least move out of hearing range. She was clearly eavesdropping. But she couldn’t seem to move.

  “A fool! I don’t see it that way at all, particularly when I look at either of you. It’s obvious you both enjoy each other’s company.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Do you think I want to do to Reg what was done to me? I won’t have it, Berrie, and you mustn’t orchestrate any such thing again.”

  Silence. Cosima vividly imagined Beryl with a pout. But she really must listen to her brother, not for the intriguing reason he gave but for a far more important reason, one Cosima had no intention of sharing.

  Beryl might be willing to share all of the Hamilton secrets with Cosima, but Cosima wasn’t yet ready to reciprocate.

  17

  Three weeks later, Talie peeked around the door to their study. Luke was bent over his drafting table, illumined in the light suspended from the uppermost edge. The table was old and heavy, a near dinosaur in the world of drafting tables. Luke’s father had purchased it at a high school auction for him when he was eight years old. Perhaps more than anything else, the gift had nurtured his dream to become an architectural engineer.

  “Want some decaf?”

  “Sure.”

  In a few minutes Talie returned with a steaming mug. She settled for a glass of skim milk for herself, mindful of the new baby.

  “Working late?”

  Luke pushed himself back but not far from the table, motioning her closer. As he accepted the mug, he slipped his arm around her waist. “It’s your family tree. See?”

  She’d left the family Bible on his desk. Luke must have begun the project on his own without telling her. She knew they’d get to it eventually—she’d promised Aunt Virg as much. She just hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

  “You don’t like it?”

  Maybe he’d felt her stiffen, or maybe there was something on her face when she recognized certain names at the bottom: Willie, Royboy, Rowena . . . Cosima.

  “No . . . Luke, it’s . . . fabulous. It’s lovely, really. I just didn’t think you would start it without telling me.”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  That he was both pleased and proud was obvious. And there was plenty of reason to be proud. Talie marveled at her husband’s talent despite her aversion to the subject. Before her was a work of art, a strong and vibrant tree of meticulously placed leaves and sturdy branches. Names were neatly printed along deep veins of foliage and limbs, starting with Kennesey drawn near the sinewy roots.

  Luke brushed the edge of the oversize paper where it curled away from the clamps holding it down. “I heard about an old tradition of having males bearing the family names on the branches and the female names on leaves.”

  The penciled coloring was ingenious in itself, using rich browns for older male names amid the contour of the bark. Deep forest green enhanced the women’s names of previous centuries. Gradually the colors lightened toward tan branches and virescent leaves to indicate a more recent age, a hope of budding new life and life yet to come.

  “Here you are,” Luke added. He pointed to a gently shaded leaf toward the top. There, in bold and clear lettering was her full name: Natalie Martin Ingram. A leaf of similar size and color nearby belonged to Dana. He’d even incorporated all of their cousins on Uncle Steve’s and Uncle Henry’s branches from Elizabeth’s list, which she’d received the other day. When it came in the mail Talie had stuffed it in the old Bible and forgotten about it.

  Below the fullness of the tree and off to one side was a more traditional family line indicating names with spouses and children, giving birth, marriage, and death dates.

  “I can blot out the death dates,” he said in a low voice, “if you really want me to.”

  That he was reluctant to do so was all too clear. And really, what reason could she give for making him? The truth?

  Seeing her name and Ben’s linked not only to Cosima but also to Royboy and Willie, Talie felt a shudder run down her spine. She lifted her glass of milk sheepishly at Luke as if it were nothing more than a chill from the cold drink affecting her. “No, Luke, don’t change a thing. I can take it to the print shop and have a copy made on one of those machines that handle this size. My aunt Virg will love it.” She smiled. “You’ve done a wonderful job. Thank you. It’s . . . a tribute.”

  Yes, a tribute. If only she didn’t know what that tribute entailed. She should have been gratified that her lineage had been preserved by ancestors who cared enough to keep track and pass down such information, should have been struck only by the creativity and detail Luke had given the project, with its color and symmetry. He wanted—no expected—her to be proud of her heritage and of his work.

  Talie wished she could live up to that expectation.

  18

  This time I felt like a coconspirator, even though Beryl assured me we would be invited to Peter’s special room—she calls it his laboratory—had he been home. Perhaps that was what bothered me so—that he was not home, and he was not the one showing me instead of Beryl. . . .

  “I’ve already assured you: he’s at the evening session.” Beryl’s whisper did little to ease Cosima’s mind as they tiptoed farther along the basement corridor.

  “And how late do evening parliamentary sessions normally run?” Cosima persisted.

  Beryl let out a loud, obviously exasperated sigh. “Heavens! You’d think we were breaking into the royal vault with all of your questions. Peter won’t mind, I tell you, even if he were to walk up behind us.”

  Cosima touched Beryl’s arm, effectively stopping her. “I want your assurance this isn’t another of your pranks.”

  Beryl laughed. “I’ll stay with you the entire time we’re down here. And he isn’t home.”

  “I must tell you, Berrie, I overheard what he said to you in the garden last week. Your brother seemed adamant about not repeating against Reginald something that was done to him.”

  “Humph,” Beryl said, moving forward again.

  “And that’s all you have to say on the subject?”

  Beryl stopped, facing Cosima and holding up the single candle as if to better see the subject of her scrutiny—Cosima’s face. “I shall tell you everything. Only it has a rather unpleasant side, and you may not welcome what I have to say.”

  “I want the truth, Berrie.”

  “Do you recall my telling you about Peter’s broken engagement?”

  Cosima nodded.

  “I suppose Peter doesn’t want Reginald hurt by the possibility of his fiancée’s preferring someone else. Peter will not believe the truth of what happened to him. We all shunned Nan after she was seen being kissed by another, but she nearly accosted me one morning on my ride along the ladies’ mile in the park. She was desperate to speak to me away from the others in my party, to explain what had happened.”

  Cosima waited.

  “Nan said she’d been fooled by a man whose sole intent was to cast her in a bad light in Peter’s eyes. He was paid by someone to dress the part of a gentleman, charm Nan, and do his best to steal her away. Of course the fact remains she was seducible . . . but someone deliberatel
y wanted Peter’s engagement to end. And I suspect I know who.”

  Again Cosima waited. She wasn’t sure she should be listening to such talk, but curiosity made her incapable of stopping Beryl.

  “Reginald.”

  Cosima could not believe her. “But why?”

  Beryl lifted one shoulder, then continued on their way. “Sometimes when I see Reginald looking at Peter I think he hasn’t a bit of affection for him. I think he is using my brother simply because he is part of the aristocracy. That and of course for the betterment of his business ventures.”

  Cosima was so surprised by Beryl’s words that she didn’t at first move; then she hurried after Beryl. “But . . . they’re friends!”

  “So everyone seems to think.”

  “Do you know what might be true, Berrie?”

  She slowed long enough to look Cosima in the eye.

  “That you simply don’t like Reginald and are eager to believe the worst of him. And this Nan person might not have wanted you to think badly of her and drew up the story of someone being paid to sully her.”

  Beryl humphed again and kept walking. “You’re as trusting as Peter, blind to another’s faults. Can I help it if the Lord gave me more discernment than others?”

  The single candle in Beryl’s hand flickered until she slowed her gait and they entered a small room. She touched the flame to the wick of an oil lamp on a rough wooden table in the center of the room, which illuminated the small basement chamber.

  The sight before Cosima chased away her desire for more conversation. On one side stood shelving that reached floor to ceiling, full of rocks, odd-shaped objects, and something rather sinister like bones or skeletons. All were tagged with white scraps of paper. Another wall housed a shorter shelf, this one piled with books, papers, and drawings of skeletal remains.

  “I’m not afraid to come in here,” said Beryl, even though her tone was still rather hushed. “It’s the one in our country estate I don’t like.”

  “Why is that?” To her dismay, Cosima found herself whispering too. There was something about the room with its obvious connection to death that touched her. Not in fear but rather in awe to be surrounded at such close range to the unimaginable.

  “For one thing, Peter’s country laboratory smells horrid. Here there are only fossils, and they don’t stink.”

  “What’s the source of the smell in the other laboratory?”

  Beryl, hands now free of the candle she’d placed beside the lamp, folded her arms against the chill in the room. “You promised not to think ill of Peter when I brought you down here. Do you hold to that promise, no matter what I say?”

  Cosima grew more mystified by the moment. “How can I agree to that, Berrie?”

  Beryl stepped to the shelf and picked up what looked like a leg bone of the largest chicken Cosima had ever seen. She held it out for Cosima, who touched it with one fingertip. It was dark and hard, nearly like rock. Beryl replaced it and wiped her palms on the skirt of her gown.

  “In order to identify these bones, Peter must compare fossilized skeletons to those belonging to animals alive now. What better way to know if an animal is old or different than by studying what animal bones look like today?”

  Cosima nodded. It made sense to her and was far less dramatic than Beryl had intimated. Why should she think ill of Peter for analyzing animal bones? Unless there was more.

  “And that’s all he researches . . . animal bones?”

  “Isn’t that enough? He pays hunters and zookeepers to send him carcasses!”

  “It’s only that you expect me to be repulsed. Now if he were digging up cadavers, I might find that repulsive.”

  Beryl laughed. “You’ve a strong constitution, Cosima Escott. I believe your aunt Meg and cousin Rachel would both swoon in this room. Lady Meg won’t even allow a boar’s head to be served at her table; she can’t tolerate the look of it.”

  “I might agree with her there, actually.” Cosima looked at the line of shelving, nearly full of objects from side to side, top to bottom. “What are all these tags?”

  “Identifications,” Beryl said. “Peter won’t bring a thing into this room until he’s tagged it for fear of getting one thing mixed up with another. That’s why I knew he’d go to the upstairs bedroom that first night you were here if he had any fossils with him.”

  “You seem to know his work,” Cosima said. “Are you interested in fossils too?”

  “They don’t fascinate me as they do Peter. He seems to view each one as some sort of evidence of God’s love. He thinks that about all of creation. Of course, I think it too, but I’d much rather thank God for a lovely, unimaginably scented red rose than some ugly old bone.”

  Cosima’s heart warmed as she pondered the variety of God’s gifts. “But isn’t it wonderful, Beryl, the way God has created things that appeal differently to each of us?”

  She couldn’t help but think of Royboy then. In his slowness so many thought of him as nothing more than an aberration, a mistake. But in his smile and willingness to please another if he could, Cosima saw a reflection of innocent goodness. Yes, he often made messes or tore pages from her favorite journal, but Royboy never acted with malice. It simply wasn’t in him.

  “Do I have company?” said a deep voice from the threshold, startling Cosima and Beryl as well, for she gasped then laughed like a guilty child.

  “I was showing Cosima where you bring your fossils,” Beryl said. “I hope you don’t mind that we didn’t wait for an invitation?”

  Stepping into the light, Peter’s tall form cast a giant shadow that slanted across the shelves behind him. “Not at all.” He smiled broadly at Cosima but a moment later turned a frown on his sister. “You weren’t planning on abandoning her down here until I happened to come along? Because if you were, it might have been quite a wait. I had no idea I would be home so early or stop in here for that matter.”

  “Nor did I, Brother dear, which is why I claim complete innocence this time.” She smiled. “Honestly, I only wanted to show Cosima your fossils. She doesn’t seem bored by the topic at all.”

  Peter turned to Cosima. “I’m glad you were interested enough to take a look.”

  “Cosima was just saying how gracious is God for providing us with a wide range in creation, things that appeal even to you with your complete disregard for beauty.”

  “Disregard for beauty!” The melodramatic offense in Peter’s tone made Beryl wink Cosima’s way. He turned toward the shelves, picking up one of his fossils. An intricate leaf pattern showed in the center, perfect in symmetry and design. “What artist could create such a thing? And this . . .” He searched the shelves a moment, coming up with what looked like an oddly bent bone. “This is magnificent. This animal had an impediment of some kind. Either he was born that way or an accident befell him that didn’t heal properly. I’m not expert enough to tell the difference. And yet I do know this animal lived with his impairment a long time. It’s an amazing testament to the tenacity of life, making do with what one’s given, a representation of life being productive, even with limitations.”

  Cosima stared at him, tales of her brother Royboy on the tip of her tongue. Surely Peter would understand. And yet she kept the words to herself, remembering too well the stares, the whispers, the repulsion that accompanied too many “aberrations” in one family.

  “Where did you get so many fossils?” she asked instead. “Surely not here in London.”

  He replaced the bone. “Mostly from quarrymen. I have a few who contact me when they find anything interesting. In fact, I’m going to the Bristol coast in a few days to meet one of my best suppliers.”

  Beryl’s brows suddenly lifted. “You’re going to the seaside?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Then we must all go. You and I and Cosima.” Beryl turned to Cosima, taking both hands in hers. “Oh, it’ll be lovely . . . a holiday.”

  “I was only going for a day or two—that’s all I can spare,” cautioned Pete
r. “And you’ll want to be back in time for the regatta.”

  Beryl laughed. “No, you’ll want to be back in time for the regatta. I only go to watch the people, not the event.”

  “In any case, I can’t be gone long from Parliament.” Peter looked at Cosima. “The seaside is several hours by train and carriage, and that’s if we can get on the express and not the penny-a-mile. In the past we’ve rented a cottage, but it’s little more than that. You’d have to share a room with Berrie and probably Christabelle, too. She won’t be left behind. But,” he added, a new smile growing beneath his mustache, “I could show you a cave I’ve been exploring. At low tide we can walk right up to the entrance.”

  Cosima had never been inside a cave. She couldn’t recall ever having had a desire to do so before, but as she looked at Peter, the thought suddenly sounded so appealing she knew she must go. “Sounds fascinating.”

  Beryl clapped her hands as if she could barely contain her excitement. “Let’s go and tell Mama our plans.” Beryl pulled Cosima along.

  “She’ll want to accompany us,” Peter called after them, then added, “And Reginald as well.”

  Cosima, letting Beryl direct her path, glanced over her shoulder at Peter’s reference to Reginald. Peter was looking at her, his smile from moments ago now gone.

  19

  Talie watched the newest member of their playgroup pick up her daughter from Talie’s family-room floor. Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones, but so far prayer hadn’t chipped away the hardness that had begun forming around Talie’s heart during playgroup weeks ago. A new neighbor, Kenna, had plopped her daughter, Addison, down next to Ben and laughed over the fact that Ben was almost two months older yet obviously behind in playing with toys like blocks and even trucks.

  Talie kept telling herself that Kenna hadn’t meant to be offensive. Kenna was young and outspoken. She often talked before considering the impact of her words, as everyone in the group had noticed at one point or another. Whether she was pronouncing a perfectly enjoyable movie an insult to her intelligence or a political figure too extreme to be effective, she had an opinion about everything and didn’t hesitate to voice it.