The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  “I have to skedaddle, girls,” said Kenna. “We have a doctor’s appointment to see if Addison’s ear infection has cleared up.” She passed Talie, who had risen from her chair. “Thanks for the coffee and treats, Talie. Next week is at my house, right?”

  Jennifer, the unofficial coordinator by virtue of founding the group, answered for Talie. “We’ll be there.”

  “You know, Talie,” said Kenna, “I was telling Addison’s doctor about Ben, and she said perhaps you ought to have him looked at. You know, to see why he’s not doing some of the things the rest of the babies are doing.”

  “Oh?” The single word was all Talie could choke out.

  “Like patty-cake and ‘so big.’ You want to know if something’s wrong, don’t you?”

  That Kenna made it sound as routine as finding out the day’s weather was not lost on Talie—or on Jennifer, who looked as horrified as Talie felt inside.

  “It was nice of you to think of Ben, Kenna,” Jennifer said as she came up behind Kenna. “Why don’t you let me walk you to the door?”

  Grateful for Jennifer’s intervention, Talie turned to the table where the other two neighbors still sat. She was relieved to see they were immersed in their own conversation and probably hadn’t heard the brief exchange with Kenna.

  Talie’s gaze went to Ben, who was still sitting on the adjacent family-room floor. He wasn’t playing with toys the way the rest of the babies were. Rather, he was sucking his thumb, content to watch the others in their side-by-side play.

  Who was Talie kidding? Jennifer wouldn’t have been horrified by Kenna’s words if she didn’t think there was some truth to them. Suddenly Talie wanted to be alone, to forget everything and everyone around her. Especially other babies and the way they compared to Ben.

  Jennifer returned a moment later and made herself at home in Talie’s kitchen by pouring herself a cup of tea at the stove top. “You know, Talie, Ben is the most contented baby I’ve ever seen. You’re lucky to have one so even tempered.”

  Talie didn’t mention the meltdowns Ben frequently had. Somehow he’d never had one at playgroup . . . at least not yet.

  “Let’s hope your next one is as calm,” said Lindy.

  How easy it was to change the subject, to think about the new baby with hope and love. To ignore what Jennifer seemed to want to ignore as much as Talie did: Kenna’s words.

  No subject lasted long, however, and soon Talie pushed away some of her worries as they talked about the next book they planned to read as a group. Somehow the children’s playtime was evolving into a book-and-movie club, a therapy group for life’s complaints, a cooking club to introduce and exchange recipes.

  Nonetheless, even as she laughed with the others, something dragged at Talie’s spirits. The underlying fear in Cosima’s journal. Curses and grown-ups with the minds of little boys. People who were related to her by blood.

  She thought she’d alleviated her worries. She’d found no one in this generation or the one before or the one coming up to indicate anyone was affected the way Cosima’s relatives had been so long ago.

  Even if Cosima’s story was true, it was a hundred and fifty years ago. Nothing that happened so far in the past could have an impact on Talie today. If she’d inherited anything from her father, it was intelligence and reason. Certainly he’d given her nothing but the same to pass on to Ben.

  Eventually playgroup ended, leaving Talie alone with Ben. In the new quiet, she gathered her son in her arms and headed back into the kitchen.

  Ben made his typical baby noises, sounds Talie never tired of hearing. She withdrew sliced strawberries from the fridge, cut a banana from the bunch on the countertop, and chose a jar of baby food for toddlers from the cupboard. Not that Ben was toddling yet, but he certainly enjoyed a variety of food.

  He was such a pliant, happy little boy most of the time. Yet how could she ignore that other babies stared up at their mother’s face as if her countenance was the only sight each baby wanted to see? Ben barely looked at Talie, even now as she tried to draw his attention with a happy description of his lunch.

  At Ben’s last checkup, Talie had casually mentioned to the doctor her concerns about Ben’s being late reaching a few milestones like picking up cereal to feed himself. The physician had patted her shoulder and said not to worry, that babies were on their own schedule. He’d tracked Ben’s progress every time she brought him in for a checkup. Ben held his head erect, could sit up and roll over. Besides, he was a happy infant with such subtle delays that the doctor assured her he wasn’t far behind the normal range. Ben would catch up. The doctor claimed his own son had been a late bloomer, and now the boy was a straight-A student and on the high school basketball team.

  Talie wanted that future for Ben.

  She made choo-choo trains and airplanes of spoonfuls of fruit and vegetables. Eventually her sour mood faded. It was easy to forget how Ben compared to others when they were alone. He was all smiles and adorable, and she enjoyed every minute of caring for him.

  Ben would catch up and be a perfect big brother to his little brother or sister.

  Talie couldn’t wait to hold the next one in her arms. There must be a hormone released at conception that guaranteed a mother’s love. It was already working the same way it had worked with Ben.

  The phone rang just after Ben finished the last bit of fruit.

  “Hey,” Talie said, recognizing Luke’s number on the caller ID.

  “Hey back. I was going to call earlier but I thought you said you were having playgroup today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you might be too tired since Ben was up last night.”

  “I was.” She wiped Ben’s chin as she spoke. He’d finished lunch but was a drooler. “I decided to host it anyway.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” If there were hormones for baby love, there were also ones for snippy feelings, especially when it came to unaware husbands.

  “I thought you were going to quit the group because you end up feeling like you do right now. Much as I love you, honey, you’re cranky and you know it, especially on Thursday mornings.”

  The fact that he hadn’t dropped the topic once her tone had sharpened irritated her, even though she knew he was right. He was, after all, only concerned about her. But she didn’t need to be reminded of the obvious.

  Despite her thoughts, Talie heaved a great sigh, letting go of the anger so willing to show itself. Why ruin Luke’s mood? Besides, the thought of dropping out of the playgroup appealed to her after this morning.

  “You’re right,” she admitted. “I guess I’ll call Jennifer later and tell her I won’t be coming for a while. Just until . . . you know . . . Ben catches up.”

  “Yeah,” Luke said, his tone cheerful. “It won’t be long and that little guy will be passing up all of them.”

  Talie prayed that was true.

  With worries over Ben’s development surging again and a new baby coming, she knew she had to stop ignoring these fears, as tempting as that was. How easy it had been to stop her search with Aunt Virg’s good news.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  There was one other person who might provide a clue.

  Ellen Dana Grayson. The mysterious relative for whom Dana had been named.

  20

  I have often pondered whether more travel helps us learn about ourselves. I believe it might be true.

  Our traveling party left the confines of London this morning, taking the express train heading west to Bristol. The train coaches, at least for first class, were like long, comfortable carriages. Travelers sit on cushioned seats with wide, curtained windows overlooking the view. I saw a yellowish cloud of coal dust hover over the city we left behind.

  Our group almost filled one of the first-class cars. Though Lord Hamilton declined to accompany us, Lady Hamilton and her two daughters are in attendance, plus Lord Peter, Sir Reginald, and myself. Several Hamilton servants are traveling with us in second-c
lass carriages. Millicent stayed behind because of limited space at the rented cottages.

  I found myself watching Reginald and Peter, who sat opposite me. The two sometimes seem as close as brothers, as Reginald once claimed. They have an easy camaraderie, but Reginald looks first to Peter for his opinion rather than the other way around. . . .

  When the train stopped for fuel and water, everyone made a dash for the privies in the nearby inn, including Cosima. She was one of the first to reboard and found Peter had already taken his seat.

  With a moment to contemplate him alone, she suddenly wondered if Reginald had consulted Peter as to whether or not he should follow through with his plan to marry her. Wouldn’t it be logical for a friend to consult another about such an important decision? Especially in view of her circumstances.

  She determined to ask Reginald if he had done so and if he had not, would counsel him to be utterly frank with Peter about all that marriage to her might mean. Watching Peter enjoy the easy fellowship of those around him, she somehow felt no fear of Peter knowing the truth. She was cursed, so they said. What would Peter say about that? She unequivocally wanted to know.

  Soon they arrived at their destination, where a trio of hansom cabs was hired to take them to the rented cottages. The land between the station and the village was low, marshy country, with the waters of Bristol Channel and the gray-blue coast of Wales in the distance. The country scent of fresh-cut hay and the sound of bleating sheep from the fields made Cosima think of home.

  Closer to the water’s edge they came upon a row of cottages, most of them painted yellow and with shingled, not thatched, roofs. The cottages themselves sat just beyond the sand on more solid, higher ground. Rocks and pebbles littered the beach, nearly outnumbering the sand.

  By teatime they were refreshed and presented with tea and biscuits on the porch overlooking Bristol Channel.

  “Ah,” said Lady Hamilton, taking a deep breath, “I know Peter comes here for his sciences, but I do so love to tag along and smell this fresh, salty air.”

  “Absent a southwestern wind and heavy seas, yes,” Beryl said. “We were here for one such storm, remember, Mama?”

  Lady Hamilton, taking up a teacup of her own, nodded. “Yes, and as I recall Peter was thrilled. He could hardly wait to go along the gullies and chalk cliffs with his hammer and chisel the next morning, to see what God dug up for him.”

  “There he is now,” said Beryl.

  Cosima resisted the urge to swivel in her seat, eager to catch sight of Peter. Instead she remained still and waited until she heard his sure footfall on the steps leading to the porch. Then she turned to greet him with a smile, immediately aware he wore casual dark trousers; a white linen shirt, loose at the collar; sturdy boots; and a pouch slung over his shoulder. He appeared to be on his way somewhere, hardly having arrived for tea in such sporty clothing.

  “I see you’ve settled in.” Peter stopped behind his mother and placed an affectionate hand upon her shoulder.

  “Are you off already? I thought we were all going tomorrow.”

  “Tide’s low now,” he said. “I can get in a visit today as well as tomorrow.”

  Cosima leaned forward. “You’re going to the cave?”

  He nodded, adding, “I assumed you would rest from the travel, but if you’d—”

  “Who needs rest? I’ve already waited nineteen years to see the inside of a cave.”

  “And one more night won’t do?”

  Standing, Cosima said, “Exactly.” She looked down at Beryl, who hadn’t moved. “Beryl? Aren’t you coming?”

  “I only came for the diversion, to tell you the truth,” Beryl said. “I’ve seen the inside of that cave, and between spiders and horseshoe bats, I don’t need to see it again.”

  “But it’s why we came!”

  “No, it’s why Peter came—and you, apparently. Why don’t the two of you run along?”

  Cosima looked from Beryl to Lady Hamilton, alarmed at what she thought might be yet another blatant matchmaking effort on Beryl’s part.

  But Lady Hamilton appeared not to have noticed. “It’s only up the shoreline a little way,” she said. “How long do you suppose you have until the tide rises?”

  Peter looked out at the water. “A couple of hours.” He studied Cosima, and she wondered if he’d guessed her uneasiness about going off alone with him. If she weren’t so attracted to him it wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

  “I’ll find Reginald,” he said quietly, then strode down the steps.

  Cosima dared not look at Beryl, afraid she, too, would guess her thoughts. Keeping her gaze downcast, she hoped at least to hide such feelings from Lady Hamilton.

  “Let me see your shoes,” Beryl said, assessing Cosima’s overall appearance.

  Cosima lifted her skirt and petticoats to reveal kid slippers, fashionable yet obviously unsuitable for any kind of walking. Cosima had a pair of sturdy leather work shoes she wore back home when gathering herbs in the forest and gardens, but she hadn’t brought them to England.

  “Just as I thought.” Beryl rose. “It’s a good thing Christabelle came along. Mother just bought her a new pair of boots. You can borrow them. Come with me.”

  Soon Cosima wore Christabelle’s boots, which had been specially made for just such outings as accompanying her brother or walking the rough Bristol beaches. Christabelle didn’t seem to mind in the least that she couldn’t accompany them.

  Back on the porch, Cosima saw Peter with Reginald at his side. Reginald was dressed similarly to Peter, with trousers and boots.

  As eager as Cosima was to see the cave, sudden caution struck her and she faced Beryl. “Are you sure you won’t accompany us, Berrie?”

  “It’s only down the coast; see there?” Beryl pointed to a hill that rose gradually, grass growing at the modest peak like a line of green hair over craggy shadows resembling a face with a large mouth—obviously the entry to the cave. “You’ll be in full view. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Lady Hamilton stood and put an arm about Cosima’s shoulders. “I think she’s more worried about what we might think than safety, Berrie.” She hugged Cosima close. “Go along, Cosima. It’s fine.”

  With a grateful smile to Lady Hamilton, Cosima placed her bonnet on top of her head and tied it beneath her chin. The stiff, rounded-poke style modestly shaded not only her face but also her view of anything except what was straight ahead. She left the porch, all the more eager now. Christabelle’s shoes made the walking easy.

  Stopping before the two waiting men, she paused when neither moved in the direction of their goal.

  Peter had an odd look on his face. “I’m afraid I must see your shoes,” he said at last.

  Cosima laughed away the awkward concern on his face. “Berrie already thought of that. I have on Christabelle’s, which were made for just such a trail. Shall we go?”

  He nodded, and the three set off down the beach. Cosima’s gown, though one of her best, was one she would not worry over if it was splashed with water or sand. In shades of blue and green, it was made of lightweight but serviceable gingham. Snug sleeves traveled only as far as her elbow, the skirt was decorated with a single flounce halfway down from her waist, and the smooth weave of the fabric was spread full and round thanks to a half dozen petticoats.

  “Your mother asked about the tides,” Cosima said. “How do you know when the water will rise again?”

  “I’m here a few times every season. I’ve observed the cycles,” Peter said. “It’s starting to rise now, but it takes a few hours to affect the cave.”

  Before long the trail rose steeply over rocks and crags. Reginald was lithe on his feet, skirting the rocks with ease. He soon went ahead. More than once Cosima nearly slipped and wished Reginald wasn’t setting such a quick pace, but she managed to keep a fairly reasonable distance between them.

  Stuck in between was Peter, who seemed capable but reluctant to follow Reginald’s stride. Instead he slowed when Cosima did, ke
eping an even distance along the way. “Reginald,” he called.

  Cosima looked up to see that the gap had widened embarrassingly between her and Reginald’s lead. She tried to move faster, but between narrow cavities that grabbed at her footing and petticoats in her way on the uphill climb—plus a corset preventing her from breathing as she wished—she simply could not move quicker.

  Instead of backtracking, Reginald waited at the mouth of the cave, shielding his eyes from the sun, evidently to watch Cosima’s approach.

  Peter was closer, having hung back.

  “I’m sorry to delay you,” Cosima said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have interfered today, since you have limited time with the tide on its way back.”

  Without speaking, Peter approached, a familiar smile reshaping his mustache, and reached for her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  With Peter to lean on over the rocky pathway, Cosima made better progress, and in short time they met Reginald at the cave’s black opening. It was a wide, diamond-shaped portal into the earth, high enough in the center to accommodate Cosima’s height without her bending.

  Just inside, Peter pulled a small lantern from his pouch and lit it. The floor of the cave was damp, rocky, or muddy in various spots.

  As they probed farther inside, Cosima sensed a rise in temperature despite the dampness. “It’s warmer in here than outside,” she said, the sound of her voice hollow as it bounced off the encrusted walls.

  “Caves usually stay around the same temperature year-round,” Peter said. “So it feels warmer on a cool day and cool on a hot day.”

  Cosima wanted to ask about the bats and spiders Beryl had mentioned, but guilt at holding them back made her refrain from displaying weakness yet again. She planned to keep an eye out for either of the creatures that must love the dark, isolated confines where humans so rarely visited, yet soon the cave itself cast out any cautions.

  Peter pointed out stalactites from the cave roof, stalagmites from the cave floor, and limestone, which grew like fungi on the walls. He showed them where the floor ascended above the tidemarks, the spot he’d found the most interesting rocks.