The Oak Leaves

by Maureen Lang

  Soon more cousins arrived, and Reginald stayed dutifully by her side, eventually putting a hand to her elbow to draw her forward. Once, when he seemed to be heading Peter’s way, Cosima stood still, and he looked at her questioningly. She merely shook her head, hoping he didn’t ask why she was reluctant to join Peter.

  “I imagine you haven’t seen much of Peter these past few weeks,” Reginald said. “He’s spent more time at my house or Pall Mall than he has at home.”

  Cosima did not need to confirm his words.

  “What happened, when we all started out so friendly?”

  Unsure how to respond, she said nothing.

  “Whatever is rankling my friend must be settled,” Reginald declared, albeit softly. Evidently he wasn’t willing to share his concerns with the entire Escott family.

  “He’s busy and trying to enjoy his evenings, I imagine,” said Cosima.

  Reginald shook his head, his gaze on Peter, who stood across the room, now speaking to Cosima’s uncle, the duke. “No, it’s something else. I asked him to tell me why he’s spent so little time at home lately, but he shrugged off the question.” Reginald now looked at Cosima. “Do you have any idea? Did he have an argument with someone? his father? mother? Beryl, perhaps? Or you?”

  “Me!” Her voice sounded breathless and guilty even to herself. She spared little more than a quick glance Reginald’s way. “Why would you ask? We may reside under one roof, but ’tis a very large roof, Reginald. I barely see him.”

  “Precisely what I want to change,” Reginald said. “I once mentioned you and Peter are important to me. I want the three of us to be as comfortable together as any family, one made by a bond since there is no blood between us.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that before, sir; only I find myself wondering at the sentiment. Marriage is for two parties alone.”

  Reginald’s pale skin deepened in color, and his gaze flew away from her. “If you and I are to wed—” his tone belied anger rather than embarrassment—“Peter will no doubt be like a member of the family, as he’s like a brother to me now.”

  “And I would not seek to change that. Beryl and I are as sisters, and yet I see little reason for you to become so close to her. Why do you think it important that Peter and I become friendly?”

  “Why should anyone be friends? For a richer quality of life, of course. Not to mention that Peter has been instrumental in helping me gain acceptance within the circle of people to whom I wish to belong.”

  “Peter has been a fine friend to you, and I shall never come between you.” She hoped that was enough said, for she dearly wished to move on to another topic. But when she looked up at Reginald’s face again, his eyes were colder than she’d ever seen them before.

  “You will mend whatever rift has occurred between you, Cosima.” The words were so low they resembled a threat.

  Then Cosima’s cousin Rachel greeted her with a kiss, and several other cousins followed suit. Cosima was glad to ignore Reginald as her Escott cousins chatted about mundane things, dresses and the weather and how quickly the summer was winding down. Surely she’d imagined the menace of Reginald’s voice. It made no sense for him to threaten her. He wanted to marry her.

  Rachel told Cosima about the next season ahead. Soon the parliamentary sessions would be over for the year, and the peers and their families would return to their sprawling country estates for other pastimes: weeklong house visits and lavish balls, riding through the countryside, enjoying the gardens, playing outdoor games like tennis or croquet, and, of course, hunting. The way Rachel laid it out, the year seemed as structured as any occupation, except to Cosima it seemed that the aristocracy worked as hard at leisure as others did at more productive pursuits.

  She began to enjoy herself despite the dowager’s scrutiny. The reticule containing her family relic hung from her wrist, and she knew the cross was tangible proof of the Lord above who accepted her even if others did not. The thought eased her nerves as she began to understand perhaps some of the reasons her father might have left England altogether.

  Soon they were called to the dining room, where the long, damask-covered table sparkled with silver and intricately cut glassware. A footman carved a roast at the sideboard, delivered as each guest desired. Other maids and footmen brought lobster and roast fowl, mullet cooked in wine, vegetables, venison, lamb with asparagus, plovers’ eggs in aspic, sweetbread, fruit, and meringues, with wine in between.

  Reginald seemed preoccupied and sullen, despite the fact that he sat at one of the most exclusive tables in London. Cosima had little idea how to ease his mood. What more did he want of her? Wasn’t it enough she did her best to be accepted, thereby laying the path for his acceptance?

  At last the meal ended and the men were excused. Dowager Merit offered no separate respite for the younger cousins as she did last time. Rather, once she finished her tea and the gentlemen returned from the library, the entire party went to the conservatory, where more beverages and a light dessert were laid out.

  The room boasted a high glass ceiling that revealed a lovely evening of moon and stars. The glass walls were supported by a rough stone foundation, in front of which stood plants of every shape and size. Tall palms and flowering hibiscuses dominated one corner. Enameled pots and mosaic urns housed all kinds of flowers, from narcissi to orchids and exotic Roman topiaries. Cosima was sure the room dazzled the eye in daylight, yet at night, with only candlelight revealing its cultivated wonders, the room seemed a jungle, making her feel as if they’d traveled farther than just down the hall.

  Reginald seemed intent upon talking to Peter, so Cosima, keeping true to her intention to avoid him, pulled her arm from Reginald’s and whispered that she wanted to talk to some of her cousins.

  And so she did. Children had appeared again, along with their nursemaids. Ignoring the fact that older cousins seemed to think the young ones invisible, Cosima went to the midst of the toddling youngsters and tickled a chin for a smile. She received and handed out hugs as easily as the older ones exchanged stories of recent sporting events or sailing trips.

  One child, barely walking, took hold of Cosima’s reticule and tossed it to the floor. The sole object it held, the old relic, slipped to the Italian-tiled floor with a ping. Cosima picked it up, and when the infant reached for the cross, she held it in front of him, letting him touch the smooth center.

  One of her young cousins, a boy called James who couldn’t be much older than ten, approached. “Cousin Cosima,” he said, obviously unshaken by the looks he received at his close proximity to the older cousins’ territory, “may I see what you are showing little Chessie? It looks . . . old.”

  Cosima turned. “’Twas my great-grandfather’s—all that’s left of a boat that saved his life.”

  “A boat that saved his life? How so?”

  Cosima handed the relic to the boy, who, like everyone before him, was drawn to caress the center with his thumb.

  “I’ll tell you a tale if you’d like to hear one.” Cosima was glad for the reprieve from having to join the others.

  There was a settee nearby, and she took a seat with young James beside her.

  “’Twas the year of our Lord 1748,” Cosima began, letting her voice take on the lilt of her mother’s and grandmother’s who each told the story so well with their Irish cadence. The conservatory of lilies and ferns seemed to disappear, and Cosima’s home took its place, along with a man she’d never met. Her great-grandfather. “This is the cross of Branduff Kennesey. You see it’s fashioned from wood that’s worn—beaten by years at sea. He told his daughter—my grandmother—this story. She told me, and now I shall tell you the tale of Grandfather Kennesey and the cross he held so dear.

  “Young Branduff Kennesey was alone on his fishing boat—his first venture out by himself—when a tempest rose. Aye, ’twas a wind so fierce nothing could fight it, straight from the ice breath of evil itself. Any other boat but his would have splintered under such a gale, but not his little Sel
ah. She held fast like a warrior in battle. The storm had a life of its own, come to claim victory over his puny form and send him to the bottom of the sea.

  “But Selah held fast, and Branduff clung to her with his spindly arms, at the mercy of where the gale would take him. Many hours he clung to the bow, though it seemed like days. He knew neither hunger nor pain nor weakness, dreamed only of life and seeing his dear ones again.”

  Cosima watched James caress the center of the cross again and knew well what it felt like, for she’d done so herself many times. “Finally even his Selah was beaten as the last bellow of the storm spewed its great torrent and hail. Grandfather heard the splinter and thought surely he would face the Lord God.

  “And yet,” Cosima went on after a deep intake of air, as if she felt the suffocating storm whip the breath from her, “even as Selah broke into pieces, the Lord let the little boat bring young Branduff to safety on the bow—all that was left of her. When the wind calmed and the rainbow came, as is God’s promise, Branduff saw the land at last and Selah carried him there on the hand of God. Aye, ’twas a sweet boat, that one, so it’s said. And here it is—” she motioned to the relic—“all that’s left of her you hold in your hands, fashioned into the cross of the Lord who plucked me great-grandfather from the jowls of death.”

  “Why do you have it and not him?”

  “He died many years ago,” Cosima said.

  “Why didn’t he give it to a son, like a title to the oldest boy?”

  “Nearing the day of his death when he was very old, he gave it to my grandmother. ‘Your brothers need no reminder of the strength in their blood,’ he said. ‘They use their strength ever’ day. But you, my child, you will need the sum of their strength together to live in this land a woman. You will work as hard as any of your servants if you want the work to be right. You will bear children and bury some, weep with other mothers and sisters and daughters when the men go off to war. Life comes with tears, child, because we serve a God who knows suffering.’”

  Cosima took the cross gently from James. “And my grandmother gave the cross to me on her own deathbed. I took it in my hands, just as I do now, without fear but rather awe, because it reminded me of the blood that runs through me, blessed and chosen by God to survive all and whatever comes my way. I remember when I hold it that I have the strength of the Lord on my side, and I can survive just as my grandmother Josephine did, and my grandfather Kennesey before her. All and whatever.”

  “All and whatever,” James repeated softly, staring at the cross Cosima now held.

  “Interesting story,” said her cousin Walter from behind her.

  Cosima looked up, suddenly aware that it wasn’t only James who had listened to her story. Everyone in the room had quieted somewhere along the way.

  “But tell me,” Walter added. “Your Irish family actually works? I mean, alongside the servants, the way you mentioned in the story, or was that just the older generation?”

  Cosima could have listed a great many tasks, from gathering herbs for medicine to cleaning up after Royboy when necessary. But before she opened her mouth she caught sight of Dowager Merit and amended her answer.

  “No, that was for my grandmother’s ears, many years ago. But I believe life comes inevitably with sorrow, sooner or later, no matter one’s station in life.”

  “Something most young sprouts have yet to learn, the way these youngsters are coddled,” said Dowager Merit as she slowly rose to her feet. She approached Cosima, putting a hand to Cosima’s chin and directing her face upward. “You have a fine voice for storytelling, child. You must hear some of the Escott tales so your education of family history is not limited to one side. You’ll come back tomorrow afternoon.”

  Dowager Merit turned to leave the room, pausing to lean on her cane only a few feet from Cosima. “And at the next dinner, Cosima, you will wear white, as is customary. You may miss your Emerald Isle, as the poem calls your Ireland, but you do not need to remind us of such in the color of your dress.”

  Cosima felt her heart sink and looked around the room at all the faces staring at her. So much for stepping outside custom, if only for a family dinner. “Yes, Lady Merit,” she said, eyes downcast.

  “I wish everyone to enjoy the rest of the evening,” said the dowager as she continued her slow progress toward the door. “But I must say good night.”

  Cosima breathed deeply. Would she never be able to please her grandmother?

  Cosima saw the dowager nod toward Lord Hamilton before exiting. He followed Dowager Merit from the room. Cosima found this odd, considering her grandmother’s feelings for Lord Hamilton. Would they have a private meeting?

  Slipping the cross back into her reticule, Cosima watched James wander off, and a moment later Beryl took his place beside her.

  “Don’t let that old hag ruin your mood, Cosima,” Beryl said. “Your gown is the loveliest here tonight.”

  “I shouldn’t have worn it. I don’t know why I did.”

  “Because white is a boring theme! And coal dust is everywhere in this awful city.” Beryl brushed away a black spot on her own snowy skirt. “I much prefer the day events, where we’re free to wear any color we like.”

  “We don’t host many evening parties back home.” Cosima spoke before she could catch the words back. She couldn’t talk about the reason.

  “Oh, because of the blight, you mean?” Beryl said, and with relief Cosima nodded. “Well, don’t worry about it another moment. Your grandmother not only invited you back for tomorrow afternoon; she said at the next dinner you should wear white. There wouldn’t be a next if she didn’t intend having you back.”

  Cosima was instantly soothed by Beryl’s presence and words. Soon she put any discomfort from her mind. The children were taken back to the nursery, and Cousin Walter invited everyone remaining to the billiard room. Cosima was more than a little curious about the room normally reserved for the men. There more beverages were served, and Walter daringly challenged the women to a game. Rachel consented for them with a giggle. The entire room watched as one by one each of the women took a turn.

  Cosima shot carefully during her chance and knocked a ball in, and everyone hooted. But on her next turn she proved her lack of skill, making Rachel smile her way.

  Soon there were more serious games on the table, first between Walter and Reginald. As the winner, Reginald challenged what looked like a reluctant Peter, who was forced to play amid dares to prove a reputation rumoring him to be an expert.

  Cosima had vowed not to watch Peter, but everyone seemed riveted to the game. She tried to talk to Beryl, but she was eager to see if her brother would win and didn’t engage in much conversation.

  Making each shot look easy, Peter won in short time.

  Although the evening hadn’t been perfect, it was an overall success. Surely Reginald could rest easier now. She would have to contend with whatever came with that.

  Cosima should have welcomed the end of the evening but didn’t. It meant the resumption of Peter’s exile from her life.

  27

  “Can you find the duckie? Where’s the duckie?”

  From behind a one-way mirror, Talie and Luke watched the doctor with their son. Ben was on the floor in the middle of a playroom full of colorful toys, mirrors, mats, and balls bigger than he was. Dr. Karen Cooper knelt in front of him. Considered an expert in childhood development, Dr. Cooper had been trying to engage Ben in play for the past five minutes. And having little success.

  Talie had watched three therapists with her son in the past hour, each of them assessing Ben’s developmental level from their own areas of expertise. While they “played” with Ben, they jotted notes or checked boxes, then handed Dr. Cooper a single sheet of paper upon completion of their evaluation. Seeing how little Ben cooperated, Talie was suddenly struck with how odd Ben’s behavior must seem. Obviously they expected him to do far more than Talie would have guessed any child his age capable. Why else would they test him on certain
functions? Each scribble on their papers was a jab to Talie’s maternal spirit.

  Dr. Cooper was the last to spend time with Ben.

  Ben sat with his typical poor posture, looking at everything except the doctor, who had just hidden a small yellow duck beneath a red-and-white bandana.

  “Here’s the duckie!” She pulled the toy from its hiding place and gave it a squeeze. The noise startled Ben and his lower lip quivered, but he didn’t cry, for which Talie was grateful. Sometimes it took a while for Ben to calm once he became upset.

  The doctor put the duck on her head and gave Ben a smile. He looked at her but the eye contact lasted no more than a moment.

  “One . . . two . . . threeee . . .” She stretched out the last number and tipped her head to let the duck sail to the floor in front of Ben. He laughed and reached for the toy.

  Before Ben could touch it, the doctor shrouded the duck with the dotted scarf once again. “Find the duckie, Ben. Where’s the duckie?”

  Ben put his forefinger back in his mouth and looked away, disinterested now that the duck was out of sight.

  Leaning back, the doctor rose from her knees to her feet and motioned toward the glass where Talie and Luke observed from the darkened room.

  Luke was the first to the door, and Talie followed slowly. The pediatrician didn’t look at either Talie or Luke; she just made more notes on her pad.

  All morning Talie had denied what she felt inside. Now her long-held fears would be either confirmed or relieved. Something tightened the pit of her stomach. Cold and hard and unwanted. This doctor thought there was something wrong with Ben, and it wouldn’t be long before Talie must hear what she had to say. Talie’s gaze sought Luke’s again, but he was focused on the doctor.

  Talie reached for Ben.

  “Let’s go into one of the examination rooms, where we can all have a seat.”

  Was Dr. Cooper stalling? Why couldn’t she say what she had to say right here? Talie followed them, her gaze straight ahead, holding Ben close. He squirmed, but she held on tighter. When Ben squealed, Luke took him and put him on his shoulders, where he calmed.